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http://www.ilovelibraries.org/lovemylibrarian/home.cfm
Librarians in our nation’s 123,000 libraries make a difference in the lives of millions of Americans every day. Now is your chance to tell us why we should shine the spotlight on a librarian at your public, school, college, community college or university library. Nominate your librarian for the Carnegie Corporation of New York/New York Times I Love My Librarian Award!
Up to ten librarians will be honored. Each will receive $5,000 and be recognized at an awards ceremony hosted by The New York Times at TheTimesCenter in December 2009.
Nominate a librarian in one of three categories: public librarians; school library media specialists; or college, community college, or university librarians.
Nominations close Oct. 9, 2009.
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Fisher Poets
partial text:
Entrants in the gathering’s “on-site” poetry contest on Saturday night were told barely 24 hours earlier that submissions had to be at least eight lines, take less than a minute to read and include the phrase “you might be missing fish.”
Rob Seitz, who cycles nearly year round through cod, whiting and Dungeness crab seasons on his 80-foot steel boat, placed third with these verses:
If your son is not intimidating
On the line of scrimmage,
If your daughter’s report card
Is not the brightest image,
If your children are not turning out
As healthy as you’d wished,
Perhaps on your dinner table
You might be missing fish.
Mr. Seitz, 42, said he wrote only once a year, on gathering weekend in Astoria. But he does prepare.
“On the boat, I don’t have a TV,” he said. “We just read.”
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Chatelaine
She started with fairy tales,
reading along over her mother's finger
as the golden apple was snatched from
atop the glass mountain
and the giant's heart broke because
the three iron bands that held his chest
closed were breached, though that
chest was atop another mountain, and
his heart was not in his own care
at all.
Learning to read took all her time. She
loitered in the dictionary, following from one
word to another across the continents and down
the centuries, aching to hear Sanskrit
and dreaming with the monks of
books recopied by candlelight lighting
learning anew in some year yet to come.
She'd've lived in the library if they let you.
There are stories everywhere. Baseball
games, heard across the hall from the
janitor's closet, in third grade:
epic poems of struggle, defeat, victory.
Too old to be read to
by someone else she drifted from
place to place: now an adult, now a
gypsy child, now responsibly paying bills,
now spinning a tall tale just to see
where it led, confusing her friends,
annoying her co-workers.
It took forever to finish school.
She was thorough, and easily distracted.
One sentence led to another page, to another book,
to another subject and another story
and every paper was due the next morning,
with references cited, and a cover sheet.
She learned MLA and APA and Chicago this way
and pocketed them like the keys to treasure
maps.
She wears the keys at the waist of her skirt
hidden away in her pocket as she walks
the halls of her life, learning her trade,
seeking permission to be silent, to go
on about her business without hindrance
or regret.
Her gift is to appreciate both key and lock
and the moment of unlocking.
Not to know what treasure is behind the door,
or under the lid, or hidden in the code, but
to believe that it is there, that precious
gift that, unique unto itself, answers
some need perhaps as yet unstated, unheard
by anyone but her and the story told
by an unfinished storyteller.
No wonder it was broken, she thought,
when she reread the giant's tale so many years after,
seeking solace for her own pain,
absolution for the pain she'd caused
to others. If he'd kept it with him
instead of being so afraid of it,
maybe he would have learned to live with it,
like I'm going to have to.
[a/n title thanks to itstonedme at lj]
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