Self-Portrait as Don Quixote

 Hello and Happy Poetry Friday! Be sure to visit Ruth at there is no such thing as a  godforsaken town for Roundup.

Charles and I are excited to be traveling to Chicago to deliver the keynote (Monday!) at the NCTE-NCTM Joint Conference! Educators, we look forward to sharing this time with you!

This week's ArtSpeak: PICASSO features Don Quixote. I've always felt a certain kinship with Don Quixote, and perhaps Picasso did, too! Yes, I've read the book...and one of my favorite musicals from childhood was Man of La Mancha. 

And—fitting for the Poetry Friday before Father's Day AND this month's 9 year anniversary of my father's death—I shall never think of Don Quixote without thinking of my father. He was a DQ fan for sure! Papa was a dreamer, an adventurer, a lover of freedom, and a firm believer in helping those in need. He gave all those things to me, and I remain deeply grateful.

Self-Portrait as Don Quixote

by Irene Latham

Days bleed
into dream—
I cannot discern
what is real,
   what is not.
I charge forward
alone
    and not alone.
What you call
madness,
I call
    freedom!
Never before
have I kissed
such winds.

Picasso Speaks of Poetry

 Hello and Happy Poetry Friday! Be sure to visit Buffy Silverman for Roundup.

It was my honor to contribute again to David Harrison's "Poetry From Daily Life" column. This time I wrote about things I've learned about life from reading poems. Maybe you will recognize some of the lines I selected to share!

Today's ArtSpeak: PICASSO is (again!) in Picasso's voice. For some reason, he started talking about math...and poetry! 

Does it make sense? Do the metaphors hold up? Does it have anything to do with the art? 

Maybe, maybe not! And that's okay. So often I write what I most need to hear, so perhaps my subconscious is encouraging me to loosen up, follow the wild threads, let the poem be what it wants to be. Thanks so much for reading!

Picasso Speaks of Poetry

A poem is at least half geometry,
the rest is quantum physics.

If we are made of starstuff,
then a poem is a black hole.

For every flower I paint,
a galaxy crashes into a windowpane,
lost.

What kills a poem?
Algebra, calculus.

So stop counting.
Stop thinking.

Hurl yourself into a summer sky.
A poem is nothing
if not infinity.

- Irene Latham