POEM: Rockhoppers

This is my second poem for David L. Harrison's monthly poem contest. November's word is "thanks."



ROCKHOPPERS
By Steven Withrow

Under the right whale bones
breaching the blue ceiling
of the New England Aquarium,
a waddle of rockhopper penguins,
tufted punks from the South Pole,
skrawks in a raucous chorus
as a feeder wades in wetsuited,
floating a bucket of tiny fish
for their lunch. And Marin,
who is four, watches them
through the low glass partition
with an aquarist’s rigor,
her mirrored mouth mimicking each grab
and gulp of open orange beak. She
presses against me, daughter
of my grateful heart, and asks,
“Why don’t they say thank you?”
I tell her, “I don’t know.
Penguins can’t speak like we do.”
But inside I think of how
they drop from rock to rock,
clumsy on their bird-feet,
until one, and then another, slips
without a splash into the cool pool
that passes here for home,
their cold and southern sea.
I name them Water-glider,
Tidal-feather, Torpedo,
and Swims-as-peregrine-falcons-fly.
We trace their loops and interlaces
and laugh as a pudgy male
pops his bottle-body up
onto the lip of a slick stone slab,
upending an unsuspecting hen,
before barging in line
for a chance at seconds.
After, Marin tugs my hand,
her patience for penguins at its end,
and we wander toward tanks
that hold cuttlefish, anemones,
lampreys, leafy sea dragons
practicing camouflage
among the fluorescent fronds.
Behind us, the hoppers chatter on,
clap their wings against their sides.
I want to turn and applaud,
but Marin has spied some mollusk shells,
and we give thanks to them.







© 2009 by Steven Withrow

FLASH FICTION: The Spiral Staircase

As a writing exercise, I challenged myself to tell a complete story in under 300 words. The piece below is 298 words including the title. Happy Halloween!


THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE
© 2009 by Steven Withrow


How he'd found himself there, at the foot of the narrow nautilus of stairs, he couldn't say. He only knew it was important that he climb and keep climbing.

One corkscrew section became another, and another. White light emanated from everywhere. He fixed his eyes on his shoes, too dressy and thin-soled for a strenuous ascent. He looked like a man made up for an interview at a bank or brokerage. A briefcase would have completed the picture, but his hands and pockets were empty. No wallet or identification.

He had no other purpose besides this raw business of clambering upward, of raising his body in tight circles toward some landing he could not yet see, wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever reach.

Still he climbed.

He counted a thousand revolutions before forcing himself to pause. He was no longer breathing well. Muscles hurt, arches cramped, neck ached. He considered resting there. No harm, he thought, his brain too tired to resist.

A pounding echo from below juddered him into motion.

Climbing, he tried to place the source and how far down it began. Stairs absorbed and distorted every sound. Coiled space deceived.

At first it was a pulse, steady like a heart’s throb. Then a more erratic pattern, a barrage of heavy footfalls. A gargantuan something stomping closer, closer.

He ran.

Up.

And around.

Up.

Around.

Until a wingtipped toe clipped a stair’s edge and he stumbled and pitched to his hands.

THUD.

A hundred yards.

THUD.

A dozen quick turns.

THUD.

Just at his heels.

THUD.

Clubbing his ears.

He kicked at the air behind and beneath, connecting with nothing.

He twisted onto his back, stairs stabbing his spine, and glared up.

Into his own fierce face.

CLIMB, he said.

Climb he did.





© 2009 by Steven Withrow

Illustrating Children's Picture Books Arrives!

Lesley and I received our first advance copy of Illustrating Children's Picture Books from RotoVision in the UK today. We're both really happy with how the book came out -- an inviting, solid production in every way. It has a smaller trim size than my other books, which makes it very easy to hold and suits its subject matter well. We can't wait to share copies with the contributors and hear back from all of you!

Listening to Tuck Everlasting

I'm listening to the audiobook of Natalie Babbitt's Tuck Everlasting, read by Peter Thomas. I've read the book several times, but I'm really enjoying hearing it, especially after meeting Natalie and her husband in Providence last week. Beautiful, beautiful book!

Sketch from Life: Lefty Scissors

Far, far back in a high, dark cubbyhole, under a drab and unused stack of construction paper, lived a lonely pair of lefty scissors.

Each school day, when the children made crafts out of paper and glue, they always selected—from a much lower and brighter cubbyhole—the red-handled righty scissors.

But no one ever chose the green-handled pair.

Left out,
Left alone,
Left over,
Lefty scissors.

The righty scissors helped the children build sunflowers, monster masks, rocket ships, dragonflies, heart shapes, snowflakes, Christmas trees. Those scissors could do anything. They could cut out a whole world in the palm of a hand, and some of them did.

But the lefty scissors had nothing to do but wait.

Left back,
Left behind,
Left for scraps,
Lefty scissors.

Then one day, after a very long time, someone new came to the classroom. His name was Stevie. He looked lonely too.

When the teacher passed out paper and glue, the other children grabbed their righty scissors as usual. They returned to their spaces and began to create.

But not Stevie.

Stevie stretched up on his toes, reached deep into the high, dark cubbyhole, shifted the stack of old construction paper, and clutched in his left hand...the lefty scissors!

Lifted up,
Lost then found,
Loved at last,
Lefty scissors!

Stevie sat down with a smile on his face. He and the lefty scissors set out together to make a small, bright world all their own.

And so they did.




© 2009 by Steven Withrow

POEM: Song for Leaf Season

Mother rakes leaves,
Daughter on the grass,
Sky wears evening best.
Mother takes orange steps,
Beastly, dry-grass steps,
Golden, crunching steps.

Mother tugs sleeves
Of thick wool pullover
Higher, higher,
Red sun lowers,
End-of-year sky.
Mother rakes whirlwinds!

Lawn-litter, leaf-scatter,
Tree-clutter, wind-flutter,
Mossy stones, mushroom caps,
Coat hanging from a branch,
Mother rakes leaves,
Daughter on the grass.

© 2009 by Steven Withrow

Two Poems for Halloween

All Hallows' Eve has always been my favorite holiday. Here are a couple of night poems of mine to celebrate this time of year.


NIGHT SONG

I sing of night, of hunting cats and stars,
Night-dark fences, rimed birch branches,
Blacktopped roads, headlights, cars.

I sing of night, of campfires and owls,
Silk-spun spider traps, dripping water taps,
Moonlit mushroom caps, hound howls.

I sing of night, of hoarfrost and dreams,
Goblin haunts and graveyard stones,
What is, and is not what it seems.




MEETING THE WOLF

We walk the woods, near midnight.

Stop, sense, turn.
Through trees

White eyes, hollow as half-moons,
Rise, sink like suns; air changes.

Night wind rearranges clouds
Like rows of silver coffee spoons.

Eyes close, are gone.

We breathe again,
And run home.

© 2009 by Steven Withrow