I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

So begins Song of Myself, arguably Walt Whitman's most famous poem. Whitman was an American poet who believed in nature, body, soul, and the entire universe contained within every single thing, within a blade of grass.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

Song of Myself, although quite a long poem in and of itself (what you see here in green is only the first section of the 52 part poem), is just one poem in Whitman's exceptional collection Leaves of Grass. In his lifetime, Whitman wrote nine different editions of Leaves of Grass. He was constantly working on it, improving it, becoming a part of it. In the preface of his very first edition, Whitman wrote, "Here are the roughs and beards and space and ruggedness and nonchalance that the soul loves." Even on his first effort, he knew that his poetry was to be a continuous work of art. He also knew the truth behind the beautiful words he had written, and how the reader's soul would soar.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Whitman's style had little to do with rhyming or form. He was a free flowing poet to the core. One who wrote with reckless abandon while at the same time a perfectionist, poring over his lines with such intricate detail, to find the perfect center. The spaces between his words are as charged as the words themselves.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

I admit it. I'm not a poetry guy. I appreciate good poetry when I read it. I strive to feel poetry when I hear it. But in the end, I usually opt to read a novel. Not with Uncle Walt though. You don't read Whitman's work. You become a part of it. He reminds you about everything that exists and has existed and he brings the universe to its knees before you. Check him out. Dig in. Breathe along.

He's my boy.

Walt Whitman was born on May 31, 1819. He lived a long and full life until March 26, 1892.

His words live on forever.

- Poem by Brittany Heavner

Whoever you are, I have seen your shadow next to me.
Nobody else has ever seen it, I'm afraid it's only me.
I see you everywhere I go, but only your shadow.
I have never seen your face, just the outline of your body.
I have seen the way your dress blows in the breeze,
and it reminds me of my past and what lies ahead.

Whoever you are, you are quiet and shy.
You keep some distance, but always pretty close by.
You may speak you mind, but in a soft-spoken tone.
You are not outgoing, but rather hidden in darkness.
As you walk next to me I shiver.
I never know if you mean good or bad.

Whoever you are, you are my inspiration to go the extra step.
When I see your shadow, I want to try harder.
I want to try and please you the best I can.
You escape into my mind, and take it away.
You take my mind to places it's never been--places of triumph and places of sadness.

Whoever you are, I want to meet you.
Your shadow defines you as a work of God.
I want to get to know you and talk to you.
I want to see for myself who you really are.
Whoever you are, you help me discover myself.

Are you a word unscrambler? Can you out scrabble the scrabble masters?
Can you face down a word wizard wearing sunglasses? 

Do you have the guts?

Answer the Word call all you word masters.
Someone from this blog needs to get in
the top 10 for this game.

It's called Word Spell, and it haunts my waking dreams.
I know someone out there can be the Word champion.
Do it!

And after you do it, post a comment saying so. That way we will all know how awesome you are.

As I was driving to work this morning, I saw a bumper sticker that said,

 

Remember what you wanted to be.

 

It made me smile. 

 

What do YOU want to BE when you grow up? If you're a kid, you are always being asked that question, right? By adults, of course. I used to hate that question, and I’m betting you do, too. For one thing, the question implies that you are nothing right now. You will only BE something once you grow up.

 

Let's face it. Adults who don't know what to say to young people use this question as a fall-back conversation starter. I've probably done it myself. But it's a dud. Sure, we all know a kid who decided at age 3 to become a hedge fund manager (whatever that is), who has geared his entire life to making that happen, and who will, in fact, become a hedge fund manager. (That's not a gardener, by the way ... it's some kind of financial investment career which is totally beyond my comprehension. Seems to pay well, though.) But most kids don't know, and I would say can't know what they will BE when they grow up until they get there.

Ahhh, sweet summertime! School for me ended last week, and with homework, final exams, and term papers blissfully out of my life for the next two months and seventeen days, I arrived back home and prepared to write up a storm! However, between visiting friends, sleeping in, and whittling away hours on the Internet and running errands, I soon found that I was putting a lot less time into my writing than I had originally planned to. This became all-too-clear yesterday afternoon, when I logged online to send my friends from college my "Weekly Update" about my life (it's our way of staying in touch over the summer.)

Hmmm ... what have I done this week? I thought. Watched a couple movies, cleaned my room, voted for American Idol ... But not much on the writing front. I realized that sometimes having "all the time in the world" to do something that really matters to you (which, for me, is writing) causes you to procrastinate or push your passion aside because you can always "get to it later." The past week, in fact, I got less writing done than I had accomplished the week before, when I was busy studying for final exams -- because last week, working on my short story for half an hour had been a blessed release. Now, even though I have all day free to write, I still need to schedule a specific block of time, to make sure I actually get around to writing!

Click here for a few tips I learned the hard way about beating summer procrastination.

The following story was received as part of Writing's Take Five Contest. Although it did not win, we enjoyed it very much and wanted to share it with you. Check back throughout the rest of May to read more excellent poems and stories from Take Five.

Fairies and Dragons

- Story by Emily Christian, Grade 8

 

The wind howled outside of the house like a wounded animal, longing for comfort. Oak branches were tossed to and fro. Tomorrow morning, the snow would be two feet deep, blanketing the broken tree limbs.

   

Inside the warm house, I burrowed further under my warm covers. A wide smile crept across my face because I knew that tomorrow the old kitchen radio would announce that school would be canceled. I would spend the day talking to friends on the phone, reading in front of the fire, and sipping chicken noodle soup. 

   

My sister's loud snoring interrupted my warm fantasies. Last year, things would have been different.  Kate, my sister, would not be able to sleep at all on a night like this. She would be telling me about her made-up magical world.  Laying right next to me, she'd enthusiastically be explaining that what we were hearing outside was not a late fall storm, but a battle between the fairy Queen and the evil goblins of the north. Her stories would have flown out of her like water out of a fountain. Last year, she would be jumping all over the room because her make-believe friend, "Dewy-Dragon", would have foretold this battle and that is why she had to put up the Fairy Fort.

   

Dewy Dragon no longer existed, and fairies, in her opinion, belonged only in Fairy Tales. Invisible people no longer hid in the shadows behind doors. And staying up late at night retelling her adventures to her older sister was no longer a priority.

 

Click the dress-up dragon to finish the story.

Click here to read my review.

I'm going to see The Da Vinci Code today. My anticipation for this film does not match the rest of the world's. In fact, it's not even close. But I can't not see it so I might as well get it over with.



Tom Hanks looks very unenthusiastic in all the previews. I get the feeling he understands that the story is bigger than anything he could bring to the table. It's actually quite a good story. Have you read the book? If not, you're the only one. All right. I didn't really want to get into it but it looks like I'm here now and I have no choice. So here we go...

There's some wild percentage that says that 75% of people do not read books. I just pulled that number out of my "made-up drawer" so don't quote me on it. But I have heard something along those lines before. I could look it up but I'm feeling lazy. At any rate, only a small portion of the population reads regularly. (Don't ask me how Barnes & Noble is so big.) Out of all the non-readers out there, I guarantee you that many many MANY of them HAVE read The Da Vinci Code. Why? Because when someone asks you if you've read The Da Vinci Code and you say "No", you feel like an idiot.

"Really? Wow. How could you have not read it? It's sooooo good! Oh my God, you absolutely have to read it! I can't believe you haven't read it! What's wrong with you? Why haven't you read it?"

"I don't know. I just haven't."

"I'll tell you what. I'll lend you MY copy. It's a little bent and worn because I've leant it out to soooo many people... but I'll let you read it if you want to. No, even if you don't want to, I'll lend it to you anyway. You just have to read it. OK?"

"OK."

That's how it is. That's how people are about this book. Calling it a phenomenon would not do this phenomenon justice. It's like some kind of literary plague.

- Poem by Eric Chacko, Grade 9

My teacher doesn't speak English well
And reading isn't her forte
I don't like her that much,
Because she gave me a C- minus on my report

My report was great
It could even be considered spectacular
But she gave me a C- minus
Because she doesn't understand the vernacular

Even this poem
She won't be able to comprehend
Because she doesn't speak English
Which is why she'll never be my friend

I have Jury Duty today. What does this mean exactly? Well, for starters it means that I can't go to work. It also means that I can't talk about it. First rule of Fight Club: Don't talk about Fight Club. Sigh. Fine, I won't talk about it.

However, I will say that I'm hoping to get some reading done today. I've been called for Jury Duty before and when I went, it took them all day to bring me into a little room and ask me their questions. ALL DAY. You better believe I'm bringing a book! Which one though? I just finished a book called Me and Orson Wells (see future post). And now it's time to pick a new one from the shelf. I'm thinking The Time Traveler's Wife might be pretty cool. I just picked that one up the other day. OK, it's settled. That's the book I'm bringing to court. Yay! Oh, I've also been reading a book that my friend out in California is writing. We exchange pages every once in awhile and comment on each other's work. Of course... I've had his Chapter 2 and Chapter 3 for about a month now and haven't gotten a chance to read 'em yet. BAD WRITING BUDDY! BAD FRIEND! Sorry Owen. Will try today. :)

So anyway, have a good day. Try to bring justice to the world by reading... Ha!

WORD
The Blog That Makes Vigilante Readers Out Of Students

I can see right through

Beyond that face of his

He has on a smile

But what really lies beneath is what he hopes no one can see

He puts on that fake smile because of his friends' party

But on the inside anyone can see that he is in disbelief

His friend was accepted into Harvard

Everyone was happy

Except for his face that stood out like a daisy coming up from the sidewalk

The agony and pain

All anyone can see beyond his face

Beyond the truth

Everything that has happened

Comes to this moment

The world freezes

Everything that has happened

Anyone can see in this one moment

He was the one that was supposed to go to Harvard.

 

Andrew Kim is a freshman in high school.

Driving home from work, I sometimes take a country road through rolling hills. The trip takes a few minutes longer than my usual route, but the scenery is worth the time. On the way, I pass a barn which was recently painted a light blue--an odd color for a barn, but it seems to work. In the fading light at the end of the day, that blue seems to shine as if lit by an otherworldly light, and the color is pure periwinkle.

 

It's a magical color, a pale violet-blue of a mysterious quality that neither violet nor blue possess. The word itself, periwinkle, has a sort of nursery rhyme sound to it, as if the word originated in fairyland.

 

I've always loved that word, periwinkle. I think I first discovered it on a Crayola crayon. The periwinkle crayon itself didn't color all that well, I seem to remember, it came out a bit splotchy. But, ah, the name was heavenly. The Crayola box was the source of wonderful color words--burnt sienna, raw umber, bittersweet, and maize. Pink wasn't pink; it was carnation. A purply pink was orchid. Thistle--I can't even remember what color that was, only that I loved the name.

 

The point is, those old crayon boxes left me with a love of color and words. I became an art teacher when I grew up. Then I became a writer. Blame it on Crayolas.

 

I still love the word periwinkle.

 

Tell us which words you love.

Do you see a lot of plays? Maybe not, but if you subscribe to READ magazine, you sure do read them! Even if you aren't a theatergoer in the Broadway sense of the term, you are familiar with the stage in some sense or other. Surely your school puts on a play at least once a year? Does it not? Have you ever attended one? There's something magical about a play that you cannot get from a movie or (dare I say it) even a book! When you are sitting in front of a live performance, you can feel as if you are actually a participant in the different scenes and characters' lives on stage... even if it is only as a silent observer, a good play can push away the reality of the audience and allow you to dive right in!

And then you can write about it.

A great way to extend that dizzy feeling you get from living in someone else's drama (or comedy) is to leave the theater feeling good and go home feeling good and go to sleep feeling good and wake up feeling... like you just have to write about it. How did you respond to the characters? Were the actors believable in the roles they played or did they fall short of making the most of the fantasy? Was the ride you experienced smooth and flawlesss or was it bumpy and agonizing? You are the writer! Tell it how it is!

Emotion is something that should come second though. First and foremost, you have to make sure to get all your facts straight. Bring the program home and spell everybody's name right in your review. There's nothing an actor hates more than seeing his name butchered in the paper. Write down the basic plot of the play without giving anything too important away. If a main character dies in the play, DO NOT mention that in your review! I cannot stress this enough! How would you like it if someone told you the ending to a movie you were just about to see? Right, you'd probably punch him in the face! (See Disclaimer below.) Don't be that guy who ruins the play for everyone else. Just write the basic BASIC beginning of play plot points and then get out.

Now you can talk about how individual actors portrayed their parts. Did an actor or actress have certain or subtle quirks about them that you think would be interesting to your reader? How well did the play come together as a whole... and NOW... how did it make you feel? You know what? You don't even need that part, really. I just tend to put that stuff in because I'm a shamltzy writer.

You can see a review I wrote for a play that is currently running at The Wilton Playshop in Wilton, CT called Over The River and Through the Woods by clicking here.

(Disclaimer: Weekly Reader Publishing does not condone any acts of physical violence. If it were up to us, the whole world would be full of happy people singing happy songs and holding hands... well... maybe not to that extreme.)

 

OK, so not that anyone cares but here are just a few pictures from our Chicago trip last week.

Here is Jives working his Weekly Reader MoJo on some unsuspecting visitor to our oh so impressive booth. "Check out all these cool features in our magazines! Don't you soooo want to subscribe?"

Here are our magazines. They're much more impressive in person.

Here is Sandhya in Millennium Park about to be eaten by a grinning giant.

Here we are. Last day in Chicago. Exhausted. Counting the minutes til our last deep dish pizza arrives so we can catch our flight home. Yes, we look like Pizza Hut employees.
I know. Gather 'round the good stuff.

The following story was received as part of Writing's Take Five Contest. Although it did not win, we enjoyed it very much and wanted to share it with you. Check back throughout the rest of May to read more excellent poems and stories from Take Five.

In My Pockets
- Poem by Brianna Segars, Grade 6

What's this in my pockets?
A frog, a pencil,
two shells, one stone,
a wadded up newspaper,
a chicken bone, half of
a blue jay feather and a piece
of string, three crayons, and a
ladybug wing, some pink gum,
a couple of cookie crumbs,
a plastic elephant I have a 
couple of these, hey look
assorted keys, a melted candy
bar, and a picture of a place not
too far away, my sister's mini-umbrella,
some noodles from my chicken
noodle soup, and what's this? a
Cinderella doll, a plastic red
bicycle, a wheel from a tricycle,
some rubber rockets ... that's
What's in my pockets!

- Poem by Zach Dionise, Grade 7

Once solid and strong, now thrown off balance.
Broken on the shore, unstable evermore,
Steady and undivided, now riffs gaping large.
Undecided, hesitant, loyalties destroyed.
In an instant, an endless, timeless, compassionate instant,
Everything thrown carelessly in disarray ... Dismay.
Dismay for precious moments lost,
Lost in the endless, timeless, compassionate instant.

Restore.
Restore what seemed to be lost for evermore.
Throw back lies, and return strong ties,
Growing slowly as long lost summer's heat.
With moving words and gentle words, may this life be revived?
Yet with each small step, of trust and truth,
Troubles won and lost each way,
Each show equally victories and failures,
Only with this will the life be restored.

However, is it strong, is it of merit worth?
Will this broken shell's restore survive for evermore?
Time will tell, and time will kill,
Nevertheless, time will help all to grow.
Grow to the sky, up and up,
Or down to Satan's halls.
Only time will tell,
If the endless, timeless, compassionate instant will prove fatal after all!

Does Zach's poem remind you of another famous poem? Click on comments to make your guess.

Hint: "chamber door"

The first person to answer correctly will receive a whole lot of thunderous applause here in the comments section.

(Zach, Zach's friends, Zach's family, and Zach's pet armadillo are ineligible for this mind-numbing prize... As is everyone on staff here at Weekly Reader... Walk away, Jives... just walk away.)

A good name has to fit a character like a glove. If a character's name doesn't make sense, it can cause problems and send an otherwise good story off the rails. Just look at every movie where Austrian-born (and thick accented) Arnold Schwarzenegger had a regular-American-joe name like John Marshall: "Hahlo, ah aam fraam Chicaagau. Mah Nahm is Jaahn Maaasall." Ouch. It's important for names to enhance your audience's understanding of the character ... not confuse it.

 

Here's a fun practice activity that will hone your naming skills. Make a top five list of band names. Come up with the coolest band names you can think of, and then read through them and describe the kind of music they play. See for yourself how the name changes the way you think of a band's style and substance.

 

Click "Read More" to read my top five band names. Then, you are REQUIRED to post your own top five band names by clicking "Post Comment." If you read this blog and leave without posting your top five list, you will be cursed to a lifetime of giving your poor characters names that don't work ... and we don't think you want that on your conscience.

 

 

Our trip to Chicago for the annual International Reading Association convention was not without its fair share of culture and good times. Some of us went to the art museum, some of us ventured to the top of the Hancock building, and on Wednesday evening, some of us drenched ourselves in soul, rhythm, and blues at the world famous Kingston Mines Blues Club.

As we sat there listening to Jimmy Burns and Andre Taylor & the Blues Alley Cats, Jeff Ives (known to one and all as "Jives") came up with the brilliant idea that we should let the music inspire us to write. So that's what we did.

You can read the story we came up with by clicking below. And when you're through, you know you can always try one on your own. It doesn't necessarily have to be a story inspired by the blues. You can use any kind of music to move you... even the sound of silence.

Our strange, sad story, Dancing Aloud, was written in turns by Jeff Ives, Sandhya Nankani, Julie Alissi (One L, Two Ss, Two Is, One A) and myself. If it feels jumpy or if the flow is uneven at some points, that's just because it was written by four different folks with four different visions of what lay inside the sultry baseline of the classic downtown sound that was hittin' us from all angles.

You can read the words that the blues man inspired by clicking here. Enjoy.

Hello from Chicago!

This week, we're at the International Reading Association conference. When I say "we", I mean a bunch of us Weekly Reader folks. I arrived on Saturday, went to an all day seminar yesterday (does that sound boring? 'cuz it wasn't), and today I "worked the booth".

The booth is just that. It's a booth. Heh. Booth. That's a funny word. Let's see what Dictionary.com has to say about it:

booth  Pronunciation Key  (bth)
n. pl. booths (bthz, bths)

1. 1. A small, often enclosed compartment, usually accommodating only one person: a voting booth.
   2. A small enclosed compartment with a window, used to separate the occupant from others: a ticket booth.
2. A seating area in a restaurant with a table and seats whose high backs serve as partitions.
3. A small stall for the display and sale of goods.

Hmm... I guess our Weekly Reader booth is somewhat of a mix of numbers 1 and 3... except it doesn't have a window... and it accomodates many more than one person... and it's not really a stall. Um. I don't know, it's a booth. Moving on...

There are sooooooooo many teachers here. I'm having a great time talking to them and finding out what their students (you) love about READ and WRITING, what you like, and even some things you aren't so crazy about. All the information gets filed away in my noggin and, will, in the future, help to shape our magazines to better serve you. Yay!

Of course, you can always tell us what you think directly. You can leave a comment on any blog entry or send us an email anytime at word@weeklyreader.com.

Hope to hear from you soon!