Sold by Patricia McCormick

Where I Live by Eileen Spinelli

Triangles by Ellen Hopkins

The Princess Saves Herself in This One by Amanda Lovelace

Solo by Kwame Alexander

The Crossover by Kwame Alexander

Inside Out and Back Again by Thanhha Lai

Beauty Was the Case That They Gave Me

Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

Heartbeat by Sharon Creech

Wowza. The last half of 2011 wasn't an awesome stretch of reading and writing time for me. While the documentation of titles and book covers was on track with my reading, I never quite got around to summarizing or reviewing. You know what they say about good intentions. They say that Jill is a procrastinator. Instead of living under the delusion that I'll "eventually" come back to write on those titles, I'm simply posting what I have saved in my drafts. If there's something you want to ask about, let me know....AND if you're looking to read anything, shoot me an email. When I moved in February, I packed up 5 boxes of books for donations. I've been on a hot streak of reading these past few weeks (mostly young adult lit), and am hoping to continue it, as well as follow suite with my writing. A girl can dream.




I've now read this book 4 times, made copies of appropriate pages for my students, posted poems on bulletin boards and profusely gushed about Sharon Creech for the past 3 years or so.

This is a story about a 13 year old girl who loves to run. Annie is just now figuring out how to run because she loves it, and whether or not it's possible to express and share that kind of passion with other people.

Annie runs with her friend Max, and talks a bit about running with her Grandpa. Told in story verse, we also see Annie connect with her community and explore her other talents. Her year-long art project of 100 drawings of the same apple is a thread that ties many lessons together for the reader, just as young Annie unfolds these truths herself.

Where I Live by Eileen Spinelli

I was at the library for story hour with the little ladies that I nanny, and this was on the shelf. The sticker covered the author's first name, but the last jumped out at me....SPINELLI. Jerry Spinelli is one of my favorite authors, and this is told in verse-ish story poem....sold. Then I opened the book and saw that the author is actually his wife, Eileen.

Diana loves writing and astronomy, has a cozy little life (much as we all do in third grade) that revolves around her family, her best friend, and her house. Then her dad loses his job and they have to move. With phenomenal pencil drawings by Matt Phelan to accompany this gem of a succinct little story, I'm sure I'll return to read it again and revel in it's message.



"She tells us:
be brave,
be messy,
write what we feel,
tell the truth,
love who we are,
share,
keep a notebook,
take it everywhere,
open our eyes
and our hearts."

And Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

Like Williams and Eliot earlier this season, I'm cheating by going to Angelou. Or rather, I'm cheating you by posting a "review" here. Maya Angelou doesn't pop up early on my list of favorites, or sometimes even at all. Which is ridiculous, as I was reminded one night as I grabbed this from the living room.

Whether swallowed whole and digested in one sitting or taken in slowly and ruminated upon for days, this volume has a profound effect on me. Angelou's words point out who I once was, who I am now....and how those two people have grown together and apart over the years. These words quickly revive the brazen fire of my youth, applaud the confidence of my character and encourage the quiet strength that I've let lie dormant for too long.

Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot

The Four Quartets were actually published separately initially, all during the 1940s as Eliot was spending time in England. Facing both the air raids of World War II and declining health, Eliot addressed matters of time and man's universal search for a place within it.

I've long reached to Eliot's plays for comfort, but never really his poems. I find that it's difficult to analyze poetry when I'm simply reading to read. I prefer to let the words and rhythm speak to me in the moment. Especially when contemplating such big issues, as we all bring our own pictures of redemption to a text.

Eliot has a voice that speaks what it believes and what it questions quite directly. My appreciation comes in that his voice also allows for the reader to have their own.

Things Left Unsaid by Stephanie Hemphill

When I finished this book, I was sitting on the steps at a park. After closing the book, I simply sat. I feared getting up, scared that my motion would somehow cement the fact that it was over.

Sarah snuck up on me, and I wasn't prepared for her character to mark me with such an impact. Drawn into the starkness of her story, I was wrapped up in this 16 year-olds' story for one reason...

This is the story of Sarah.

The story of a "normal" 16-year-old girl.

A story of change.

A story of acceptance.

A story of struggle.

A story of friendship.

An everyman story, if you will.

It sounds so trite. The story is ordinary, really. It couldn't be more cliche, actually-these complexities mired in simplicity. Or is it the other way around? Are our pedestrian everyday interactions so easy that we forget how profound they can be?

This book didn't grab me from the outset, but it crept up on me in the quickest of ways. Seemingly an angsty young adult book (told in verse, which adds to the effect), I stopped dead at page 47, as I realized the obvious. This story is much bigger than that of a high school girl navigating the pitfalls and victories of figuring out one's self.

Frighteningly familiar, these exchanges are seen with an unfortunate regularity- along with those moments of relief veiled in effrontery. Weather it's my 4th grade students in the hallways, the senior girls I mentor confessing over lunch, or my own friends casually assaulting one another in a joking manner, females are given (and give in) to this tension.

This book made me both think critically and feel intensely. That's all I hope for when I pick up a book. Given that it was my first official read of the "summer," it set the bar high, and still may qualify as my favorite of the season.

Harvest Poems 1910-1960 by Carl Sandburg

(Just under the wire to close out National Poetry Month)

Let's be honest. I've spent the majority of my life not "getting" poetry, and therefore not loving poetry. If we're examining that honesty, I most likely wasn't taught poetry well or widely enough. Realizing that poetry is actually a giant love of mine, and always has been in non-traditional forms (when was poetry ever traditional, anyways? geez.a.lou.), has only fully sunk in recently. All that to say...for the first 20-odd years I was a poser when it came to Sandburg. Growing up in the shadow of this man's legacy, I thought I was familiar with him. Although his profile and Alfalfaesque haircut where prevalent and recognizable, his work (beyond "Fog" or references to the "City of Big Shoulders") was not.

Tucked in between the copyright and contents pages of this paragon is a faded receipt dated 04-15-04. It's not quite dog-eared, but close. The title on the cover is partially encircled by a coffee stain. Over the years, I've read it with mixed thoughts and responses. As of late, I've actually perused it for digestion. Guess what? "I lock it a lot." I'll include some stanzas that resonate below, but do yourself a favor and educate yourself first. Check this out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Sandburg


Every time I journey to the 61401, I walk the 3 blocks down the street and past the Hi-Lo grocery (holler.) to Remembrance Rock and Sandburg's birthplace. If I'm lucky, the museum is open and I can go read my handsdown favorite: the original typewritten version of his unpublished "Definitions of Poetry", which you can read a bit about here: http://www.litkicks.com/PoetryIs/

"It is something to face the sun and know you are free.
To hold your head in the shafts of daylight slanting the earth
And know your heart has kept a promise and the blood runs clean:
It is something." -Clean Hands

"Freedom is a habit
and a coat worn
some born to wear it
some never to know it."

"Maybe he believes me, maybe not.
Maybe I can marry him, maybe not.

Maybe the wind on the prairie,
The wind on the sea, maybe,
Somebody, somewhere, maybe can tell.

I will lay my head on his shoulder
And when he asks me I will say yes,
Maybe."


"Be a brother, if so can be,
to those beyond battle fatigue
each in his own corner of earth...
each with a personal dream and doorway
and over them now the long endless winds
with the low healing song of time,
the hush and sleep murmur of time.

Make your wit a guard and cover.
Sing low, sing high, sing wide.
Let your laughter come free
remembering looking toward peace:
'We must disenthrall ourselves.'

Be sad, be kind, be cool.
Weep if you must
And open and shameless
before these altars."
-The Long Shadow of Lincoln: A Litany

"I am the grass. Let me work." -Grass

*Apologies for the links not being embedded. Blogger apparently doesn't want them to, and the formatting buttons are gone. Grrr. HTML is not my friend.

Love That Dog (and) Hate That Cat by Sharon Creech

Free verse. Story poems. Whatever you call them, they're good. I first read Love That Dog years ago, and have used some of it in my 5th grade groups. Guud stuff. I just read Hate That Cat. More of the same.

The story of a boy named Jack, learning about poetry, hating poetry, frustrated by poetry, discovering poetry and the poet inside himself. Inspired by Walter Dean Myers, stuck on Tennyson and getting William Carlos Williams, Jack writes a beautiful story. It doesn't hurt that I, too, love those dogs and hate those cats. (And references to T.S. Eliot, to boot....what's not to savor?)




"I liked when you said
we could try
turning the metaphors
upside down or inside out
and I liked when you used
my chair poem as an example
so
instead of saying
the chair is like a pleasingly plump momma
we could try
my momma is like a pleasingly plump chair

except that now
everyone thinks
my mother is very plump
and looks like a chair"