Poem of the Week, by Ross Gay

How many times have I been driving in my city and glanced over at the face of a pulled-over-by-an-officer driver? Hundreds. How many of those times has the driver been a person of color? Most of the time.

 

Pulled Over in Short Hills, NJ, 8:00 AM, by Ross Gay

It’s the shivering. When rage grows
hot as an army of red ants and forces
the mind to quiet the body, the quakes
emerge, sometimes just the knees,
but, at worst, through the hips, chest, neck
until, like a virus, slipping inside the lungs
and pulse, every ounce of strength tapped
to squeeze words from my taut lips,
his eyes scanning my car’s insides, my eyes,
my license, and as I answer the questions
3, 4, 5 times, my jaw tight as a vice,
his hand massaging the gun butt, I
imagine things I don’t want to
and inside beg this to end
before the shiver catches my
hands, and he sees,
and something happens.

 

For more information on Ross Gay, please click here.

 

One-day Picture Book Writing Workshop!

51ZARDXBHJL._SY453_BO1,204,203,200_Do you love picture books? Have you ever wanted to write one? Are you curious how to go about it? Welcome to my one-day picture book writing workshop!

In this intensive, fun class, we’ll deconstruct some classic picture books, talk about ideas for new ones, and go through all the nuts and bolts, such as how long can a picture book be? What’s the relationship between writer and artist? How do you write a picture book that children will love and adults won’t mind reading ten thousand times in a row? We’ll come up with ideas, draft a basic outline for one or more picture books, read aloud some favorite passages, and provide instant feedback on anything you come up with.

Street cred: I’ve written many picture books, including several New York Times bestsellers. All told, they’ve been translated into more than 20 languages and won dozens of awards. They still bedevil me, fiendish little things that they are, but when they work –when one lifts off the ground and soars into the sky– it’s magical.  

Date and time: Saturday, May 6, 12-4 pm
Place: Uptown Community Room, 3554 Bryant Ave. S., Minneapolis, MN 55408
Cost: $100, payable via Paypal or personal check. (10% of proceeds donated to Small Sums, a non-profit whose sole mission is to provide homeless individuals with the tools needed to accept the jobs they have been offered. Items include things like bus passes, work boots, trade tools and licensing fees.)

Class is limited to 15 participants. To reserve a spot, please email me at alison_mcghee@hotmail.com or click on this Paypal link

Poem of the Week, by T.S. Eliot

Photos 223Sometimes all I want is a poem that’s rhythm and rhyme, words placed and spaced so they turn into a song inside my head. Langston Hughes does that. So does Dylan Thomas. And so does Mr. Eliot, below. I memorized this poem so that it will always be with me. Poem, you are a voice shaken from the yew-tree, and here I am, replying.

Excerpt from Ash-Wednesday, by T.S. Eliot

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth
This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

For more information on T.S. Eliot, please click here.
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More Dogs of Destiny!

Screen Shot 2017-03-21 at 3.56.23 PMIn celebration of my new picture book, Percy, Dog of Destiny, just published last week, I asked you to send me photos of your dogs, with or without some of their favorite toys.

This has been the most fun project. Thank you for your beautiful photos. They make me love dogs even more than I already did.  Enjoy.

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This is Rosie. She started a dog advice column a few years back. One of her most popular posts is about the delicious sunflower seed, notoriously difficult to catch in the wild. Her advice is to lie motionless beneath the bird feeder and be ready to leap when the moment comes. Thanks for the pro tip, Rosie.

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Bones are Stella’s favorite toys, and Stella is Cairo’s favorite toy. In their personal opinion? Balls are highly overrated.

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Please meet Barkley. He enjoyed playing with many toys in the course of his long and dignified life, but his favorite toy of all was his boy Ian, who is a firm believer in the “shame shared is shame halved” school of coning.

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This is Daisy. She has twelve loofah dogs but this one is her favorite. She is tired of defending herself against onlookers who speculate that her loofah dogs are longer than she is. Please. They aren’t.

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This is Jo and her favorite pink ball. Jo is in dog heaven now, but she left this photo behind to remind one and all that no one could fly through the front door the way she could. She would also like you to know that she always stuck her landing.

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This is Widget, who would like it known that he is a good dog. Most of the time.

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This is Widget again. Sometimes he gets a little cold, and that worries him. He has quite a bit on his mind, really. One of the things he wonders about is his humans. Do they know how much he loves them? Do they?

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This is Boomer. He’s an Australian shepherd. Boomer will be 14 in May. He spends a fair bit of time these days reflecting. Did you know that in his youth he was a mainstay on the Frisbee Dog circuit? Oh the glory days of yore.

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Meet Aku and Yumi. They are pictured here in their  element of snow and cold. During their time on earth they had the power to hypnotize humans with their unearthly husky beauty and mesmerizing eyes. Please gaze upon this photo with caution.

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This is Arthur. He lives on an island and rides the ferry back and forth to the mainland. He also has his own Instagram account and is working at a high-end dog collar start-up. Talented beyond measure, Arthur could be spending his spare time clubbing with supermodels, but he remains humble and sets aside time each morning for meditation and reflection.

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This is Rafa. He’s an academic dog best known for his work on the famous longitudinal study “Socks vs. Toys.” He will neither confirm nor deny rumors that he engages in rabbit poop eating. @therealrafa: “Enough with the poop innuendoes. Fake news! @mainstreammedia get your mind off turds! SAD!”

IMG_6565This is Callie. She’s in dog heaven now, but in her glory days she excelled at searching out and gobbling down poop of indiscriminate sources. She also had a lovely, elegant habit of lying on the floor with her paws crossed in front of her. Rest in peace, sweet girl.

Poem of the Week, by Kathy Fagan

img_6107This poem haunts me. Not because it’s sad –or maybe it is; I don’t really know what this poem is about– but because when I read it, it brings back times of internal struggle. Like when I was young and trying desperately to work my solo way out of a secret, six-year eating disorder. Partway through this struggle, for reasons I no longer remember, I sat down and made a list of all the people dearest to me. One way to translate “eating disorder,” maybe, is “self-hatred,” but I clearly remember that when I finished the list, all their faces came swimming up in my mind, and every face was smiling at me with love. It came to me in that moment that clothes, size, money, age, looks, where a person went to college– none of it mattered. The one thing that would matter about me to the world, if only I could remember it, was my own spirit. That moment was a turning point in my struggle. And somehow it relates to this beautiful, mysterious poem, because when I read How we looked / didn’t matter for once / because we were flying, I feel as if I’m flying.

 

How We Looked, by Kathy Fagan

          didn’t matter for once 
because we were flying. 

          The crows we were 
clothed in took a running 

          start for the gothic 
and that was all: 

          tooled doors opened 
and waxy air 

          lifted us on its current. 
And though the jeweled 

          light was dim we could tell 
the faces we were 

          seeing were beautiful, 
each with a mouth 

          and voice, and there was 
no doubt then, 

          as our chins and our rib cages, 
our wrists and our knees 

          rose, that what mattered 
was that we obey 

          for once, and when 
the voices said, 

          Look up, Look up, 
though rain fell 

in our eyes, we did.     

 

Click here for more information about Kathy Fagan.

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Dogs of Destiny

Screen Shot 2017-03-21 at 3.56.23 PMTo celebrate the release of Percy, Dog of Destiny, written by me and illustrated by the wonderful Jennifer K. Mann, I sent out a call for photos of your dogs.

Please meet some of them, with more to come, pictured below in all their glory.

(I did not tell my own dog, Petey, about this blog post, as he would be jealous that I was looking at other dogs.)
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This very fine fellow is named Percy, just like the dog in the book. He’s a political activist. We need more public servants of his ilk.

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This little scragglepuff is Sarah Moochie. She loves hanging out in the ballet studio and chewing up ballet slippers if she can get her paws on one.

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This is Piper. This is also Piper’s ball. Do not try to take it away from her, please.

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Meet Mo. He doesn’t really play with toys, but he does love his bone.

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This fine fellow is Jackson. He’s a one of a kind Schnauzer-Schipperke mix. Currently retired from his gig as a bookstore greeter and looking to pick up some part-time work if you hear of anything.

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This is Yoda. She likes bones. Chewing is only one of her many passions, along with barking. She was feeling demure when this photo was taken.

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This is Wrigley with his kong. He grew up to be a highly trained American VetDog. He rides in helicopters, wears goggles to protect his eyes from the sun and desert sand overseas, and brings love and comfort to veterans in need. (This is all true! Google him.)

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This is Khaki with her squeaky pink dog. She might look slumberish but she’s got her eyes on you, so keep your paws to yourself.

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This is Miss Chloe. She’s two years old and she’s trained to go into nursing homes and work with folks who suffer from depression, but in her spare time she loves destroying squeaker toys. In the background is one she hasn’t yet found the key to destroy. Don’t give up, Miss Chloe. We’re rooting for you.

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This is Charlie, taking a nap with Piglet, his favourite* toy. (*Please note that Charlie spells favourite with a u. That’s because he is Canadian.)

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This is the beloved Mr. Pickles with his favourite toy watermelon. Pug sibling Pancake, also pictured, cares not for toys. (Please note that Mr. Pickles, like Charlie above, is also Canadian.)

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According to one of their humans, this is Wolf-butt and Bark-face. According to their other human, this is Finn and Daisy. According to both humans, Wolf-butt/Finn and Bark-face/Daisy are each other’s favorite toys.

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Blackie relaxing with her Lambie, which she has been known to parade back and forth before guests in an “I know you want this but guess what, you can’t have it” sort of way.

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This is Guinness (he’s an Irish terrier) happily guarding Jello, his favorite toy.

Poem of the Week, by Naomi Shihab Nye

Naomi NyePeople who have been reading the poem of the week on this blog for years now must think, seeing this week’s selection, Wow, does this woman love Naomi Shihab Nye. And they would be right. Sometimes, walking down the street, I recite lines from her poems, maybe because they’re beautiful, maybe because they make me feel less alone, maybe because they remind me, always, that kindness is all that matters. At a restaurant a couple of weeks ago, a friend said to me, “I read a poem today that I think you would love. It’s by a woman named Naomi something”–and I said, “Naomi Shihab Nye!” Once, a couple of years ago, I saw a tiny notice in the paper that she was giving a talk that very night at a school near me –she lives in Texas and this was in Minneapolis– so I zipped right over. The talk was in a high school classroom and I sat in a chair in the front row. And afterward I asked if she minded a photo. So that’s me, with Naomi my hero, and this concludes my Naomi Shihab Nye story in favor of her beautiful poem, of which I love this line most of all: Each carries a tender spot: Something our lives forgot to give us. 

 

Jerusalem, by Naomi Shihab Nye

“Lets be the same wound if we must bleed.
         Lets fight side by side, even if the enemy
is ourselves: I am yours, you are mine.”
                                    —Tommy Olofsson, Sweden

I’m not interested in
who suffered the most.
I’m interested in
people getting over it.
Once when my father was a boy
a stone hit him on the head.
Hair would never grow there.
Our fingers found the tender spot
and its riddle: the boy who has fallen
stands up. A bucket of pears
in his mother’s doorway welcomes him home.
The pears are not crying.
Later his friend who threw the stone
says he was aiming at a bird.
And my father starts growing wings.

Each carries a tender spot:
something our lives forgot to give us.
A man builds a house and says,
“I am native now.”
A woman speaks to a tree in place
of her son. And olives come.
A child’s poem says,
“I don’t like wars,
they end up with monuments.”
He’s painting a bird with wings
wide enough to cover two roofs at once.

Why are we so monumentally slow?
Soldiers stalk a pharmacy:
big guns, little pills.
If you tilt your head just slightly
it’s ridiculous.

There’s a place in my brain
where hate won’t grow.
I touch its riddle: wind, and seeds.
Something pokes us as we sleep.

It’s late but everything comes next.

 

For more information on Naomi Shihab Nye, please click here.

The dedication behind the dedication

I dedicated my brand-neScreen Shot 2017-03-21 at 3.56.23 PMw picture book, Percy, Dog of Destiny, to my dear friend Judy Osborn. Why? Take a look at that handsome dog below. His name is Wrigley, and he’s one of the astonishing American Vet Dogs, trained to provide moral support to our troops and veterans. (See the goggles and weights on Wrigley’s back? That’s part of his training as a helicopter dog. Check out this video if you don’t believe me.) A dog of destiny if ever there was one.


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I’ve had the honor of watching Wrigley grow from a tender puppy (last photo below) into the soulful, beautiful dog he is now. Not in person, but through my friend Judy’s photographs. Judy, who is a civil servant by day and a dog whisperer the rest of the time, worked with Wrigley almost every weekend for a year. During the week, Wrigley was loved and trained by Sam, an inmate at the Maryland Correctional Training Center in Hagerstown, MD., and each weekend, Judy picked him up and took him with her everywhere, so that he would be as used to the enormous outside world as he was to the confines of the prison. 

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Q. Judy, what drew you personally to the Vet Dog program?

A. I’ve always loved dogs and I’ve always been interested in how dogs can help all kinds of people — kids learning to read; people recovering in hospitals; veterans dealing with PTSD or physical disabilities; prisoners who need unconditional love; senior citizens who need connection.  I became more conscious of veterans because I live near Walter Reed National Military Medical Center and I see veterans in Bethesda who are amputees.

After the recent deaths of three dear friends, I decided life was too short to wait until retirement to do what I loved. I had done some volunteering with Warrior Canine Connection (puppy petting!) but wanted to do something on a regular basis that involved dogs and vets and inmates. America’s Vet Dogs was perfect because the dogs are trained during the week by inmates and the prison was relatively close (in DC terms, anyway – an hour and a half drive). And since my commitment was only on weekends, I didn’t think I would get attached to the dog (ha ha!).

Q. You worked in tandem with an inmate to train Wrigley. What was that like?

A. “My” inmate — Sam — is an inmate at the Maryland Correctional Training Center in Hagerstown, MD. Sam was the main trainer of Wrigley, who was his first dog, and he worked with Wrigley 24/7. My commitment was at least three weekends a month, two nights each weekend, to practice the commands in the “real” world and to socialize Wrigley, i.e., expose him to all sorts of situations, places, people, noises and smells.  Doorbells!  Garbage trucks!  Leaf blowers!  Construction sites!  People who walk funny!  Skateboarders!  Drunk people!  Clowns!  Squirrels and cats!  Bowling alleys!  Hospitals!  Libraries!  Buses!  Boats!  Subways! I even did things with Wrigley that I failed to do with my own son when he was little (a pontoon boat at a local lake). 

The list they gave us is quite extensive. We had a training book that gave us “field trips” that were appropriate for the age of the dog. Each weekend we were supposed to repeat two field trips we’d done before, and add two new ones. Sam and I made a great team. We gave each other lots of detailed information from week to week, and Sam would work on things that I found Wrigley hadn’t yet mastered in the outside world. 

Q. What was the most rewarding aspect of working with Wrigley?

A. The most rewarding thing is knowing that I helped bring the joy (and boundless energy) of Wrigley to the many veterans he will meet. He will be deployed for a while (though it’s unclear if it’s with the Army, the Air Force, or the Mass National Guard) and he will bring great comfort to our soldiers who are under so much stress. He is then on track to be a “facility dog” who will be assigned to a military base or VA hospital and get to hang out with all the veterans who are there for therapy.

Q. What was the hardest aspect of this work?

A. Saying goodbye.  Worrying about him — knowing that he doesn’t like being in a kennel; wondering how it will be for him overseas; hoping he is with people who love him and treat him well.  I miss his goofiness and his beautiful face.

And it was also tough never getting to meet Sam to talk about our boy together, since the rules prohibit any interaction. Towards the end, we both could really appreciate and understand how far we — and Wrigley — had come. We were able to share that through notes, but it wasn’t the same.  I did get permission to write Sam a goodbye letter.

Q. Do you have insight or advice for the general public with regard to vets and their dogs, or service dogs in general?

A. DO NOT PET THE DOG. Service dogs are working and having a stranger pet the dog (or even talk to the dog) could endanger the handler’s life. It’s best not to even ask to pet the dog since sometimes that can cause stress for the handler.

I did meet some wonderful people who would come up and speak to me. Lots of people wanted to know about the Vet Dog program, lots of people offered a ton of support to us and to him. Children could always pet him provided they asked first and stayed calm; I tried to make these teaching moments. One of the last weekends I met an eight year old boy at the farmer’s market. Wrigley and this little boy just fell in love with each other. So very sweet.

Q. What have your dog experiences in life thus far taught you, either about yourself or about human relationships?

A. People need connection, unconditional love, and acceptance; dogs provide all of the above. Dogs also make you live in the moment — there’s no way I can hurry through my morning to get to work without first rubbing my dog Khaki’s belly. (She goes downstairs first and lies on her back so her belly is the first thing I see when I come downstairs.)  And, as hungry as she is when I come home, she demands — and I give  — a belly rub and cuddle then too. 

For more information about America’s Vet Dogs, or to support the wonderful work they do, please click here.

Send me photos of your dogs and their toys!

img_6168That dapper little gentleman to the left is our dog, Petey. Petey is almost fourteen, and every day he wears a bandanna from his large collection. He loves pig ears. He will wade with great caution into the lake if he can a) see the bottom clearly and b) only up to his chest, at which point he will c) bow his head so that he can take a few sips before d) retreating. When his hair gets too Rasta we take him to Royal Pet and get him a puppy cut, which a) makes him look as if he’s lost ten pounds and b) prompts our neighbor Kathie to look askance and say, “I see you got him that rat cut again.”

Petey is indifferent to most dog food but he loves our cat Hobbes’ food and was known, up until a year or so ago, to leap in a catlike manner onto the counter in search of it. He is very fond of fresh-baked goods and once a) snatched an entire pound cake off its cooling rack and gobbled half of it before I ran screeching into the kitchen and b) another time somehow managed to paw two cooling racks full of oatmeal scotchies from the very back of the counter onto the kitchen floor and gobble them all down. Screen Shot 2017-03-21 at 3.56.23 PM

In his early years I took him to the dog park once or twice a day, where he used to meet up with his buddies, including the fabulous Oatmeal Raisin Cookie, a basset hound who had spent her first five years living in hell, trapped in a crate so small her tail broke, and whose rescue human used to paint her toenails and lavish her with love and affection in an attempt to make up for those lost years. 

Petey’s great love, back in the dog park days, was his tennis ball. He loved to play catch with me, a game which involved me throwing the ball for him, him racing to retrieve it, and then him spending the next half hour refusing to drop the ball. Petey’s obsessive love/addiction/compulsive hoarding of tennis balls, and the zealotry with which he would guard any that came his way, was the inspiration for Percy, Dog of Destiny, a new picture book that comes out this month, illustrated by the wonderful Jennifer K. Mann. What ho!

In celebration of Percy, Dog of Destiny, I’d love to feature photos of your dogs and their favorite toys. Please send them to me! And spread the word – there can never be too many photos of dogs and their beloveds. 

 

Poem of the Week, by Miguel M. Morales

img_3440I wanted to write about why I love this poem so much, but it grabbed me by the throat and told me that it could speak for itself, thanks.

This Is a Migrant Poem, by Miguel M. Morales


This is a migrant poem 
a farmworking poem, a poem that covers itself 
in long sleeves to avoid the burning sun. 

That drinks enough water to avoid 
dehydration but not enough to get water sickness. 

This poem carries a machete, a hoe, a spade, 
a knife, shears, and a file for filo. 

This poem walks irrigated rows collecting mud 
on its boots that add five pounds to each foot. 

This poem guards the cornfield where his sister, 
his mother, and his cousins, squat to pee. 

This poem ducks down hitting the dirt to avoid the 
echoing crop duster spraying anti-poem toxins that 
burn our eyes and throats. 

This poem is egg and chorizo burritos in aluminum foil, 
steamed shut by the heat waiting for you at lunch 
in a foam cooler in the trunk at the end of rows of soybean. This poem. 
This poem smells of blood—and meat. 

This poem flows from carcasses into open drains 
of slaughter houses, on kill floors, in chilled freezers 
with knives cutting, cutting, cutting, cutting—always cutting. 

They duct tape knives into this poem’s hands 
to cut even when its cut hands can cut no longer. 

This poem is a gift of a strong back, of sturdy legs,
of silence, of patience. 

And a never-ending work ethic 
          a never ending work ethic 
                      a never ending work of ethics. 

This poem shows you the bigger picture. 
This poem is pragmatic, strategic, and erratic. 

This poem reaches as it climbs ladders, as it stoops over, 
as it pulls from branches, vines, as it unearths other poems 
and tosses them into buckets and sacks slung across its stanzas. 

This poem is paid by the word, by the piece, 
by the hour, by the day, by the acre. 

This poem has no benefits, no days off, 
no health insurance, no childcare. 

This poem is child labor. This poem is sexual assault. 
This poem is deportation. This poem is missing wages,
broken vehicles, sunstroke. 

This poem avoids irrigation ditches where 
La Llorona hopes to drown it. 

This poem knows she commands water and sends waves 
of humidity and tempting mirages of cool rippling lakes. 

This poem wears a rosary and a scapular and prays to St. Francis of Assisi 
to protect them from snakes and rats that live in the fields 
and to St. Michael the archangel to protect them from the farmer’s son 

who watches his sisters 
          who follows his sisters  
                     who pulls at his sisters. 

This poem wakes up early, works all damn day, sweats all damn day. 
This poem always needs a shower to wash off the dirt, to wash out the dirt, 
to wash away the dirt. 

This poem goes to bed early to do it all again 
                                                                        tomorrow. 

This Poem is a Migrant Poem. 
A. Farm. Working. Poem.

For more information on Miguel M. Morales, please click here.