# data[].attributes.body
Student examples of Ekphrastic poetry

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
About the Book

This collection of poems by the first and second grade students in Chelsea Prep Class 344 is the culmination of an interdisciplinary unit that combined geometry, art history, fine art, and poetry. The students applied their geometric knowledge while looking at Kandinsky and Klee's abstract paintings; they learned about the artists' lives and the trajectory of their careers; they created their own paintings in the styles of the artists; they visited the Guggenheim Museum to view original paintings by the artists; they read and analyzed poetry that accompanies famous works of art; and finally, they wrote the poems gathered in this anthology. To create these poems, the students each chose a painting by Kandinsky or Klee that most spoke to them. After closely looking at their chosen paintings, the students had free reign to write poetry inspired by their paintings. The wide range of subjects, the different writing styles, and the varied use of poetic conventions highlight the beautiful diversity of how viewers respond to art.

Features & Details

Primary Category: Education

Project Option: Standard Portrait, 7.75×9.75 in, 20×25 cm
# of Pages: 46

Mar 06, 2011

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
This collection of poems by the first and second grade students in Chelsea Prep Class 344 is the culmination of an interdisciplinary unit that combined geometry, art history, fine art, and poetry.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Matisse: "The Red Studio"

W. D. Snodgrass

There is no one here.
But the objects: they are real. It is not
As if he had stepped out or moved away;
There is no other room and no
Returning. Your foot or finger would pass
Through, as into unreflecting water
Red with clay, or into fire.
Still, the objects: they are real. It is
As if he had stood
Still in the bare center of this floor,
His mind turned in in concentrated fury,
Till he sank
Like a great beast sinking into sands
Slowly, and did not look up.
His own room drank him.
What else could generate this
Terra cotta raging through the floor and walls,
Through chests, chairs, the table and the clock,
Till all environments of living are
Transformed to energy--
Crude, definitive and gay.
And so gave birth to objects that are real.
How slowly they took shape, his children, here, Grew solid and remain:
The crayons; these statues; the clear brandybowl;
The ashtray where a girl sleeps, curling among flowers;
This flask of tall glass, green, where a vine begins
Whose bines circle the other girl brown as a cypress knee.
Then, pictures, emerging on the walls:
Bathers; a landscape; a still life with a vase;
To the left, a golden blonde, lain in magentas with flowers scattering like stars;
Opposite, top right, these terra cotta women, living, in their world of living's colors;
Between, but yearning toward them, the sailor on his red cafe chair, dark blue, self-absorbed.
These stay, exact,
Within the belly of these walls that burn,
That must hum like the domed electric web
Within which, at the carnival, small cars bump and turn,
Toward which, for strength, they reach their iron hands:
Like the heavens' walls of flame that the old magi could see;
Or those ethereal clouds of energy
From which all constellations form,
Within whose love they turn.
They stand here real and ultimate.
But there is no one here.

Henri Matisse, The Red Studio (1911)
Oil on canvas, approximately 71 inches x 86 inches. The Museum of Modern Art, New York City.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Matisse: "The Red Studio" W. D. Snodgrass There is no one here. But the objects: they are real. It is not As if he had stepped out or moved away; There is no other room and no Returning. Your foot or finger would pass Through, as into unreflecting water Red with clay, or into fire.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Early Sunday Morning

John Stone

Somewhere in the next block
someone may be practicing the flute
but not here

where the entrances
to four stores are dark
the awnings rolled in

nothing open for business
Across the second story
ten faceless windows

In the foreground
a barber pole, a fire hydrant
as if there could ever again

be hair to cut
fire to burn
And far off, still low

in the imagined East
the sun that is again
right on time

adding to the Chinese red
of the building
despite which color

I do not believe
the day
is going to be hot

It was I think
on just such a day
it is on just such a morning

that every Edward Hopper
finishes, puts down his brush
as if to say

As important
as what is
happening

is what is not.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Early Sunday Morning John Stone Somewhere in the next block someone may be practicing the flute but not here where the entrances to four stores are dark the awnings rolled in nothing open for business Across the second story ten faceless windows In the foreground a barber pole, a fire

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Not my Best Side

U. A. Fanthorpe

I

Not my best side, I'm afraid.
The artist didn't give me a chance to
Pose properly, and as you can see,
Poor chap, he had this obsession with
Triangles, so he left off two of my
Feet. I didn't comment at the time
(What, after all, are two feet
To a monster?) but afterwards
I was sorry for the bad publicity.
Why, I said to myself, should my conqueror
Be so ostentatiously beardless, and ride
A horse with a deformed neck and square hoofs?
Why should my victim be so
Unattractive as to be inedible,
And why should she have me literally
On a string? I don't mind dying
Ritually, since I always rise again,
But I should have liked a little more blood
To show they were taking me seriously.

II

It's hard for a girl to be sure if
She wants to be rescued. I mean, I quite
Took to the dragon. It's nice to be
Liked, if you know what I mean. He was
So nicely physical, with his claws
And lovely green skin, and that sexy tail,
And the way he looked at me,
He made me feel he was all ready to
Eat me. And any girl enjoys that.
So when this boy turned up, wearing machinery,
On a really dangerous horse, to be honest
I didn't much fancy him. I mean,
What was he like underneath the hardware?
He might have acne, blackheads or even
Bad breath for all I could tell, but the dragon--
Well, you could see all his equipment
At a glance. Still, what could I do?
The dragon got himself beaten by the boy,
And a girl's got to think of her future.

III

I have diplomas in Dragon
Management and Virgin Reclamation.
My horse is the latest model, with
Automatic transmission and built-in
Obsolescence. My spear is custom-built,
And my prototype armour
Still on the secret list. You can't
Do better than me at the moment.
I'm qualified and equipped to the
Eyebrow. So why be difficult?
Don't you want to be killed and/or rescued
In the most contemporary way? Don't
You want to carry out the roles
That sociology and myth have designed for you?
Don't you realize that, by being choosy,
You are endangering job prospects
In the spear- and horse-building industries?
What, in any case, does it matter what
You want? You're in my way.

Paolo Uccello, St. George and the Dragon
Oil on canvas. National Gallery, London.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Not my Best Side U. A. Fanthorpe I Not my best side, I'm afraid. The artist didn't give me a chance to Pose properly, and as you can see, Poor chap, he had this obsession with Triangles, so he left off two of my Feet.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
American Gothic

after the painting by Grant Wood, 1930

John Stone

Just outside the frame
there has to be a dog
chickens, cows and hay

and a smokehouse
where a ham in hickory
is also being preserved

Here for all time
the borders of the Gothic window
anticipate the ribs

of the house
the tines of the pitchfork
repeat the triumph

of his overalls
and front and center
the long faces, the sober lips

above the upright spines
of this couple
arrested in the name of art

These two
by now
the sun this high

ought to be
in mortal time
about their businesses

Instead they linger here
within the patient fabric
of the lives they wove

he asking the artist silently
how much longer
and worrying about the crops

she no less concerned about the crops
but more to the point just now
whether she remembered

to turn off the stove.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
American Gothic after the painting by Grant Wood, 1930 John Stone Just outside the frame there has to be a dog chickens, cows and hay and a smokehouse where a ham in hickory is also being preserved Here for all time the borders of the Gothic window anticipate the ribs

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Three for the Mona Lisa

John Stone

1

It is not what she did
at 10 o'clock
last evening

accounts for the smile

It is
that she plans
to do it again

tonight.

2

Only the mouth
all those years
ever

letting on.

3

It's not the mouth
exactly

it's not the eyes
exactly either

it's not even
exactly a smile

But, whatever,
I second the motion.

Leonardo da Vinci, Mona Lisa (c.1503)
Oil on panel, approximately 30 inches x 21 inches. Louvre, Paris.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Three for the Mona Lisa John Stone 1 It is not what she did at 10 o'clock last evening accounts for the smile It is that she plans to do it again tonight. 2 Only the mouth all those years ever letting on.

# data[].attributes.headline
Background information on Ekphrastic Poetry

# data[].attributes.subject
Background information on Ekphrastic Poetry

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Number 1 by Jackson Pollock (1948)

Nancy Sullivan

No name but a number.
Trickles and valleys of paint
Devise this maze
Into a game of Monopoly
Without any bank. Into
A linoleum on the floor
In a dream. Into
Murals inside of the mind.
No similes here. Nothing
But paint. Such purity
Taxes the poem that speaks
Still of something in a place
Or at a time.
How to realize his question
Let alone his answer?

Jackson Pollack, Number 1 (1948)
Oil on canvas, 68 inches x 104 inches. The Museum of Modern Art, New York City.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Number 1 by Jackson Pollock (1948) Nancy Sullivan No name but a number. Trickles and valleys of paint Devise this maze Into a game of Monopoly Without any bank. Into A linoleum on the floor In a dream. Into Murals inside of the mind. No similes here. Nothing But paint.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Girl at Sewing Machine

(after a painting by Edward Hopper)

Mary Leader

It must be warm in the room, walls the color of over-steeped tea,
the sun high,
coating the yellow brick exterior of the apartment building,
angling in on
the girl, stripped down to camisole and petticoat, sewing.
She's a busty girl,
soft, no doubt perspiring, slippery under her breasts, moisture
trapped on the back
of her neck under all that chestnut hair. She doesn't notice,
though; you can see
she's intent on her seam. She doesn't slump over the machine
but bends from the hip,
her body as attuned as her hands. Her feet, though not shown
in the painting,
are bound to be pudgy, are probably bare, pumping the treadle
ka-chunk ka-chunk ka-chunk

but that's unconscious. Her point of concentration is the needle,
silver, quick,
its chick chick chick chick chick, necessity to keep the material
in perfect position,
position. What is she making? The fabric looks heavy and yet
billowy, like
whipped cream, or cumulus clouds; certain girls, while large, move
with grace (when nobody's
there) but in public, conceal, or try to conceal, their bodies
beneath long clothes.
They favor long hair, feeling it wimples and veils embarrassment.
Yes, I know this girl.
Only in her room, only when unseen, can she relax at all, peel off
a hot blouse,
a brown skirt, like the one heaped on her bed in the background,
take pleasure in

a good hairbrush, the bottle of scent on the dresser, the picture
of her own choosing
on the wall. Whatever she's making--let's go ahead and say it's
a dress for herself--
she is not, as you might think, dreaming of a party, a dance,
or a wedding. No, she's
deciding to flat-fell that seam--time-consuming, but worth it--
stronger, better-looking.
I'm sure she knows by now not to expect much attention from boys.
She's what? twenty?
eighteen? She will, in time, use many words to describe herself,
not all of them bad;
but not once will one of them be "pretty," or "lovely." Those
aren't for a fat girl
though she can take a mass of cloth, and a cast-iron machine,
and make a beautiful shape.

Edward Hopper, Girl at Sewing Machine (c. 1921)
Oil on canvas, 19 inches x 18 inches. Thyssen-Bornemisza Collection.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Girl at Sewing Machine (after a painting by Edward Hopper) Mary Leader It must be warm in the room, walls the color of over-steeped tea, the sun high, coating the yellow brick exterior of the apartment building, angling in on the girl, stripped down to camisole and petticoat, sewing.

# data[].attributes.headline
Kwame Alexander offers a Poetry Challenge

# data[].attributes.subject
Kwame Alexander offers a Poetry Challenge

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
For those who follow poetry challenges on Morning Edition, our new one involves a vocabulary lesson: ekphrastic.

Ekphrastic poems respond to a piece of art.

According to the Poetry Foundation:

Through the imaginative act of narrating and reflecting on the 'action' of a painting or sculpture, the poet may amplify and expand its meaning."

For this challenge, Morning Edition poet-in-residence Kwame Alexander has selected two paintings to inspire you: Heat Wave by Kadir Nelson and Young Woman At A Window by Salvador Dali.

The two paintings are different in time, place and style, but they both show a woman who appears to be deep in thought, looking out onto a part of the world. What do you see when you see these paintings? Can you feel their thoughts or their sense of place in the world? Are there consistencies or differences? If we value the experience of others, what can we draw from these images?

Submit your ekphrastic poem here. It can be a haiku, free verse or a rhyming poem, it doesn't matter - but please cap your poems at 10 lines. ( Click here to read examples of ekphrastic poems - and see the paintings that inspired them.)

Alexander will take lines and excerpts from some of your submissions and create a crowdsourced, community poem. Alexander and Morning Edition host Rachel Martin will read it on air, and NPR will publish it online, where contributors will be credited.

Here are the terms of the callout:
By providing your Submission to us, you agree that you have read, understand and accept the following terms in relation to the content and information (your "Submission") you are providing to National Public Radio ("NPR," "us," or "our"):
You are submitting content pursuant to a call out by Morning Edition related to a segment with Kwame Alexander wherein he creates unique poetry based on listener submissions. You understand that you are submitting content for the purpose of having Kwame use that content to create a new poem or poems ("Poem") with the material you submit. You must be over the age of 18 to submit material.

You will retain copyright in your Submission, but agree that NPR and/or Kwame Alexander may edit, modify, use, excerpt, publish, adapt or otherwise make derivative works from your Submission and use your Submission or derivative works in whole or in part in any media or format and/or use the Submission or Poem for journalistic and/or promotional purposes generally, and may allow others to do so. You understand that the Poem created by Kwame Alexander will be a new creative work and may be distributed through NPR's programs (or other media), and the Poem and programs can be separately subject to copyright protection. Your Submission does not plagiarize or otherwise infringe any third party copyright, moral rights, or any other intellectual property rights or similar rights. You have not copied any part of your Submission from another source. If your Submission is selected for inclusion in the Poem, you will be acknowledged in a list of contributors on NPR's website or otherwise receive appropriate credit, but failure to do so shall not be deemed a breach of your rights.

Your submission will be governed by our general Terms of Use and Privacy Policy. As the Privacy Policy says, we want you to be aware that there may be circumstances in which the exemptions provided under law for journalistic activities or freedom of expression may override privacy rights you might otherwise have.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Poetry Challenge: Paint A Picture With Words

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
For those who follow poetry challenges on Morning Edition, our new one involves a vocabulary lesson: ekphrastic. Ekphrastic poems respond to a piece of art. According to the Poetry Foundation: Through the imaginative act of narrating and reflecting on the 'action' of a painting or sculpture, the poet may amplify and expand its meaning."

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Now more than ever we are looking for ways to feel less alone - and poetry can be one way to bring people together.

Last month NPR asked listeners to respond to art with a poem - a style of poetry called ekphrastic. For inspiration, Kwame Alexander, NPR's poet in residence, selected two paintings: Kadir Nelson's Heatwave and Salvador Dali's Young Woman At A Window. Both show women inside looking longingly out into the world.

The paintings struck a chord with those experiencing the global coronavirus pandemic quarantined inside. We received more than 1,300 submissions.

Alexander took lines and excerpts from some of the submissions and created a crowdsourced, community poem of hope. Contributors are credited at the bottom.
Social Distance
Summer bears down on the city
like granny's old quilt

The Fantastical Queen
Her Crown of wrapped locks
The jewels in her melanin Sparkle
her body slick in Brooklyn's summer
oiled mahogany

From her window she holds court
She reigns where dogs interact with rainbows
For her, plants bow their head down low.
Hottest Thang In Town
Stuck inside all day.

She opens all the windows,
her imagination of freedom
something to hold onto.

Only half there
her mind is far off
Across the world.

kayaking quietly
gazing at glaciers
watching waves dance
a boat out to sea

The sea breeze blowing
against her loneliness
Perched up in the hills
Overlooking a world of fraud
Soul ready to sail away

You see, smart women bend
like stems grabbing at the light
muscles coat limbs
as eyelids stalk the horizon
to calculate what comes next
drought or a wall of water
high cheekbones not afraid to climb out
or crawl up.

It is the same horizon no matter the color.
The same sun.

Shouting streets stilled
people's voices wilted like plants.
no dinner with friends.

The sea is forever capricious
A mercurial creature with fickle temperament
The gentle blue of harbor water hides
its ferocity Like a wolf in sheepskin

But, she will not wilt.

She sees herself
in the sky.
in the muddied turquoise of the curtain
In the warm turquoise of the window frame
in the gentle peace that shall not last.

She is not thinking about the next time
they will see each other
She is not thinking about the last time
they saw each other
She is not thinking about the empty grocery shelves
She is not thinking about the furrowed frowning eyebrows
She is not thinking about the word quarantine
and why it sounds so social
She is not thinking about the way her lungs
hold onto air like making love to molecules
She is not thinking about the grandmother
and grandfather in Apt 2c
She is not thinking about whether clouds are aware
of their silly shapes and feel self-conscious
She is not thinking about whether the butter will last

At the window, she considers that
She is not who she was,
and she is not who she will be.
She is transforming.
She will be strong and resilient.
She will be honest with herself and those she loves.
She will have stories to tell And when she does
They will no longer shake her voice.

This community poem was created using submissions by:

Becky Boling, Northfield, Minn.

Thu Nguyen, Washington, D.C.

Tehmina Khan, San Francisco

Daniela Larsson, Litchfield, Ct.

Myer Schmitz, Champlin, Minn.

Katrina Kiss, Oswego, Ill.

Lisa Sarasohn, Asheville, N.C.

Deborah Meltvedt, Sacramento, Calif.

Danielle Evennou, Washington, D.C.

Maggie Chism, Mich.

Katherine Shafer, Ypsilanti, Mich.

Kevin Cheb, Ellicott City, Md.

Sheba Montserrat, London

Lorian Tompkins, Clinton Township, Mich.

Keyan Kaplan, East Setauket, N.Y.

Abel Koury, Columbus, Ohio

Charles Sharpe, Bainbridge Island, Wash.

Josh Lawrence, Portland, Ore.

Rachael Vella-Garrido, Buffalo, N.Y.

Sarah Teague, Carbondale, Colo.

Jeevika Verma and Reena Advani produced and edited this story for broadcast. Casey Noenickx adapted it for the Web.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
'Social Distance': A Community-Style Poem To Help You Feel Less Isolated

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Now more than ever we are looking for ways to feel less alone - and poetry can be one way to bring people together. Last month NPR asked listeners to respond to art with a poem - a style of poetry called ekphrastic.

# data[].attributes.headline
Ekphrastic poem by William Carlos Williams

# data[].attributes.subject
Ekphrastic poem by William Carlos Williams

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Children's Games

William Carlos Williams

I

This is a schoolyard
crowded
with children

of all ages near a village
on a small stream
meandering by

where some boys
are swimming
bare-ass

or climbing a tree in leaf
everything
is motion

elder women are looking
after the small
fry

a play wedding a
christening
nearby one leans

hollering
into
an empty hogshead

II

Little girls
whirling their skirts about
until they stand out flat

tops pinwheels
to run in the wind with
or a toy in 3 tiers to spin

with a piece
of twine to make it go
blindman's-buff follow the

leader stilts
high and low tipcat jacks
bowls hanging by the knees

standing on your head
run the gauntlet
a dozen on their backs

feet together kicking
through which a boy must pass
roll the hoop or a

construction
made of bricks
some mason has abandoned

III

The desperate toys
of children
their

imagination equilibrium
and rocks
which are to be

found
everywhere
and games to drag

the other down
blindfold
to make use of

a swinging
weight
with which

at random
to bash in the
heads about

them
Brueghel saw it all
and with his grim

humor faithfully
recorded
it

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Children's Games William Carlos Williams I This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream meandering by where some boys are swimming bare-ass or climbing a tree in leaf everything is motion elder women are looking after the small fry a play