Friday Harbor author Thor Hanson, who spent two years with in a remote village in Africa’s Bwindi National Park from 1993 to 1995, presents a slide program about his work with local trackers to save the dwindling mountain gorilla population at 7 p.m. July 15 at Village Books in Fairhaven.

Hanson’s travelogue-memoir, “The Impenatrable Forest: My Gorilla Years in Uganda,” delves into how he dealt with the building of an eco-tourism infrastructure, how he came to learn about and respect the village customs (including a hilarious rendition about tasting the local hooch) and ultimately, the awe he felt for the incredibly complex history and politics of modern Africa.

Hanson is an award-winning journalist and conservation biologist who’s traveled to Australia, Costa Rica and Tanzania. He also plays double bass with the San Juan Jazz Quintet.

If you are a hoarder of books, you’ve probably rummaged through the boxes of free paperbacks, hardbacks and textbooks on the sidewalk outside Michael’s Books at 109 Grand Ave. But if you’ve never ventured inside, this is the week to do it.

On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday of this week (June 24-26), Michael’s celebrates 25 years of bookselling in Bellingham.

Young readers are the focus of the anniversary event, with a “Books for Kids” donation drive for participating local schools. There’ll be refreshments, a balloon artist (who’ll create a sculpture if you make a donation for the school of your choice, which Michael’s will match, payable in books for the school) and prize drawings from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.

The bookstore, according to its Web site, has evolved into “a labyrinth of shelves” of 5,000 square feet with more than 200,000 volumes. Owner Michael Elmer began serving customers around the world via the Internet in the mid-1990s.

But nothing can beat wandering the aisles, locating that favorite book you read in your youth, that slim volume of poetry that’s perfect for your sweetie or that sci-fi classic that you’ve been hunting for decades.

For more information, call the store at 733-6272 or take a virtual tour of the store by clicking here.

About 280 Whatcom County poets entered the 2008 Sue C. Poetry Contest, now in its third year. The winners of the contest were announced recently at a celebration at the Whatcom Museum of History & Art, and because there are 10 winning poems and 15 merit winners, they’ll be posted here.

Contest judges were Jennifer Bullis, who teaches English at Whatcom Community College; and John Burgess, a Seattle poet and editor of “Snow Monkey,” an online literary journal. They received the poems without the names of the poets, although they did know if the poets were students.

This year, says Sue Erickson, coordinator of the contest, there was no theme, unlike past years. “We just wanted to see what we would get,” she says. Poems were limited to 25 lines and 55 characters, however.

According to the information provided to entrants, Sue C. Boynton came to Whatcom County in 1906. In her later years, with no prior experience or formal training, she began writing poetry. Her poetry reflects her love of family, her community and her faith. There’s one poem of Boynton’s that is posted below.

All the Merit Award and Walk Award winners will be displayed inside the Whatcom Transportation Authority buses for one year, beginning this summer.

The contest is funded through the Whatcom Community Foundation, and Erickson says she hopes that the poems will someday have a permanant home on a Poetry Walk, where visitors can read the poems posted on small placards. The poems will change each year as new winners are announced. To find out more about the contest, contact Erickson at 733-0693, George Drake, at 734-9757, or the Whatcom Community Foundation, 671-6463.

First, a poem by Boynton:

This Business of Growing Old
Bothered Me Once

When I was fifty-five

But now at threescore years and ten
Plus five
All fears concerning age have gone
And I’m just glad to be alive.

To be alive
And find upon the table of each new day
A brimming cup
A challenge to go on.

So, I’ve stopped growing old
Too busy growing up.

—Sue C. Boynton

And now, the winning poems and the merit winners (all punctuation and spelling is by the poets, by the way):

Walk Award Winners

—————————————

Organization

is not the shift of books upon the table
not the tally of unanswered calls
is not the list of tasks done or undone.
It is the recognition of purpose
stepping in to your true stride
larger yet more nimble
than you had hoped.

—Linda Conroy

—————————————

Pedestrian’s Lament

Sandburg saw the sneaking fogs
on little cats, but oh these dogs;
this gravity, this weighty reign
of splays and spurs and spreading pain.
Oh where is swift, and strong and fleet
and “light and graceful on her feet”?
Painted nails for sandaled walks?
No more! Now swathed in shoes and socks.
These hammered toes, collapsing arch
that make a hobble of a march;
little piggie, bruised or broken,
words of running long unspoken.
Prosthetic—orthopedic boot,
skis and skates forbidden fruit;
pathetic now, this sad rendition
of once-a-perfect first position.
Below a former well-turned ankle,
noisome fungus comes to rankle;
plantar’s warts, oh bunion, corn,
the stubbings that these toes have borne!
Aching instep, wounded tarsal,
Achilles’ bane, this damaged parcel.
Feet. But damn, they’re sorry things
for those of us who don’t have wings.

—J.I. Kleinberg

—————————————

untitled

drinking coffee
between us
the ripples

—Stephen A. Peters

—————————————

Your Heart Was Once a Hill

A big hand chiseled wild horses from its side.
Now the horses fill you.
When the rain sweeps over your roof at night,
you hear them sweeping, too.
You are possessed by the strange, proud beauty
of your pulse.
Inside your body, it is always dusk
and Montana.
At night, when you wake up alone,
you’re terrified that one of the horses
is missing.
You look for it in your body, sometimes
in the bodies of others.

Somewhere there’s a bent tree
on the prairie.
A mare stands beside it, her mane and tail
like Arabic.
As you move closer,
you can faintly see
small children dancing around a fire
in her chest.

—Ryler Dustin

—————————————

Spring Cleaning

We turn our heart inside out
and shake it for all it’s worth.
Get the dust out, let it rise in a cloud of grit,
Pin it on the line and give it a good beating,
let it hang in the sun till it’s warm, the valves,
those loosened Chordae tendinae flapping,
the wind whistling through its parts:
A good airing out.

Worry that a storm will come, and what we don’t know
is: the heart hopes it is so and while we sleep
it starts: the murmur in the chest,
the sound the doctor never hears, the knock against
our ribs, the bang of empty cup on the boney bars.

We watch the clouds and wait
until that last moment to take it in; the sky
coming down now in jigsaw sideways pieces
the clothespins tumbling to the ground,
hold it close, bent as we run for the house,
it beats and beats and beats its wish for the feel
of just a little rain, of storm
of hurricane, even.

—Angela Belcaster

—————————————

january foot

is there a better
sound or feeling
under my january foot
than the crunch
of mud-puddle ice?

—David M. Laws

—————————————

Baby

When my
Aunt has
Her
Baby I
Hope hope
The baby
Is not
Like
The other
One.

—Jonathan Zavalza
Third Grade

—————————————

New Year’s Day at Whatcom Creek, Far From the War

Feeling human is a useful form of political subversion.
—Robert Haas

By 3 p.m. I’m no longer struggling to feel
something specific about the ducks’ ease of movement
through their maze of pilings, their bodies’ split-second
Pinball Wizard decisions
to dash this way or that in the too-early evening light
as the creek’s current pushes them always out
toward the railroad bridge that divides us
from the bay.

Not far away a grebe submerges strangely,
its neck convulsing
like a snake in the water. I remember how my father
says the word “grebe,” with a smile
at the edges. How he says “grebe” more often
than necessary, how he must love
the word “grebe.” But I’m no longer certain
that’s the bird I mean. Still, I name it
like we do with most things, when we can.
Like today.

—Rachel Ballard

—————————————

Magnetic North

three beers and I am a poet
riding home in a frozen fog
gravel slick beneath wheels
balance is something I have lost
but do not want to find
and you—
your disorienting gravity
pulling the needle in my compass
towards another north
no degree of declination to subtract
no bearing to follow
just an ever-drifting pole
recorded in rock
and aurora

—Abby Sussman

—————————————

Lightning and Thunder

Lightning is loud!
Bang! Bang!
Red is thunder,
White is lightning.
Bang! Bang!

—Hunter Mumm
First Grade

—————————————

Merit Award Winners

Kivulana
(Boy)

Habari ya asubuhi! The boy says
He’s speaking Swahili or something
I don’t understand, so I just say hello

Jina lako nani? The boy asks
He’s trying to start conversation or something
I don’t understand, so I just introduce myself

Unatoka nchi gani? The boy asks
He probably wants to know me or something
I don’t understand, so I tell him where I’m from

Ni muhimu, the boy says
He’s probably trying to say something important
I don’t understand, but I nod and listen

Ninataka rafiki, the boy says, smiling
He probably wants to be my friend
I think I understand, so I smile back

—Minsun Bishop
Eleventh Grade

—————————————

Life as an adolescent boar

With newly formed tusks I meander the forest
My ruthless power is hidden beneath my thick insulating hide
The hunters often try to catch me but I am always one step ahead
Of course they have left me with scars but they have yet to put me down for good
Smart and aggressive, my companions know how to survive and stay in step
Together we are strong and together we will thrive.

—Jason Darling
Twelfth Grade

—————————————

Our Twenty-Sixth Winter

I love you as you hang the storms against our twenty-sixth winter.

I work nearby…washing each large pane and steadying the ladder
as you climb to second-story bedrooms.

We laugh
when the glass cracks…
not once, but twice…
which means two trips to the hardware store.

I don’t blame you for swearing out loud…
but you laugh too.

Looking upward as I toss a tool
near enough for you to catch it,
I think your white hair and soiled red jacket are beautiful
against the autumn sky.

Our house will be snug and safe
against the elements
and unknown forces
which might interfere with our twenty-sixth winter
of loving each other.

—Nelle McClenahan

—————————————

Too Little

I HATE
To WAIT
Till I’m
Taller cause now
I’m smaller
I hater being
Small
While you’re being
Tall

—Madison Pheifer
Third Grade

—————————————

The Sweet, Sweet Smell of Success

And, there, where I slumped in the trash dumpster’s swill,
I told them they never would find me, still…
The hours bore long
Man, something was wrong
The way a fish flops and chokes air through its gill

The other kid counts at the tree, “Eight, nine, ten!”
He dashes away to find me…to no end
Whether I’m ready
Or not, here he came
At least, there he went…missing me just the same!

But I was in no rush to stop him, no how
Thought “I want to win, that’s what matters right now.”
Pinched my nose, in the air,
Thus fulfilling my duty
Sat straight in the muck, soaking through to my booty

Oh, I’ll put it into perspective, alright!
But heck, no harm done
The game has been won!
I told them I’d win, and, again, had been right

And just for posterity’s sake, that and such
A night dumpster-sitting a little bit much
But take a deep whiff
I’m sure you’ll agree
That sweet, sweet smell of success is all over me!

—Skyler Jones
Eighth grade

—————————————

Love Notes from 3 a.m.

When I watch your chest
Rise and fall
Breathy metronome

Know I’m fond of you

When I feel your form
Pressed tight to mine
Two cogs enmeshed

Know I like you

When I hear you snore
Like a water buffalo
Wearing roller skates
On a gravel road
In a thunderstorm

And at sunrise say nothing but
Have a good day

Know I truly
Truly

Love you

—Bryan Middlebrook

—————————————

Moon

The
Moon floating like a big
Circle
Firework
Waiting for
Someone
To
Light the
Fuse but
It waits and waits

—Zachary Masterson
Third Grade

—————————————

Following Robert Froth

Two paths
sub murged
in a would.

one path i took:
(the one
more dense
that made
less sense
than others
could).

and now

though 50
yrs have passed
a modicum of wisdom
yet
remains
unmassed

and though
those woulds were
dovely, lark, and peep

i raise my voice
in anguished doubt

i’m still
not out.

—Jim Milstead

—————————————

Ode to the Grandview Signal Light

Green is good
Green is glad
Green is great
Green is grand
Green is glorious!

Red isn’t bad.
It redoubles the rejoicing
Remembering the “always” stops
Reminding us how rare they are now.

We no longer dread the red,
But it’s a blast to go breezing by.
Green is great!

—Patricia Alesse

—————————————

Love—

looks like
water color splashed on paper,
just two cows in a field,
cold hands.
sounds like
a dog in the bushes at midnight,
the pop of kelp under-toe
heart beat.
smells like
hollowed out redwood trees,
two kinds of hairspray,
onion breath.

—Kristi Felbinger

—————————————

The Storm

The calm before the Storm, suspense and fright;
A weightless giant creeps ever nearer,
It masks the sky and darkens every light.
The wind begins to howl, trees shake with fear.

The Storm ere long descends on land and sea,
Relentless forces tearing without end.
The things with little grasp will try to flee,
Their roots run thin, they crash, too weak to fend.

The calm draws near, and air lies down in ease,
The dark clouds gone; the blue is at a norm.
And all that is let standing are the trees
Whose roots drive deep to resist the strong Storm.

Though light of day maintains the Storm revealed,
The veil of night will keep it long concealed.

—Rob Macdonald
Ninth Grade

—————————————

Terrorist, I am not

It seems that my home—
Is no longer mine.
Going to America for a better life.
Away from the bombs, poison and screams.
Arriving was difficult and frightening.
This is not the home I expected.
Where are the blonde blue-eyed smiles?
Instead I get shady glares.
It’s pretty lonesome—
In the land of the free.

—Emilie Elizabeth Frisk
Eleventh Grade

—————————————

Home

When I come home from school,
My brother is waiting for me on the steps.
He hugs me tightly.
He tells me that he was looking for me under rocks.
We go inside and watch movies.
He loves me.
I love him too.

—Jazlyn Atwood
First Grade

—————————————

Of Mist and Keramos

No conscious vow apprenticed him
To a potter’s calloused hands
But rather love of virtues lost
In ages e’er he knew these lands.
There’s sadness in this common thought
That ancient art might save a man
From certain urban death.

It’s only hope omnipotent
That sends him to the hallowed broc
To gather up the Tao of clay
From womb of mist and mother rock
By touch he prays a tactile faith,
A work of dreams no age can mock
The elemental heart.

Of earth and water, fire and air
To essences he rests distilled
And meanings within meanings shrine
The potter as the claywork wills.
The chaos of the kiln refines
Both clay and soul, man and skill
With incandescent kiss.

—M. Elaine Eastman

—————————————

to the poet

they may say,
“these are the crayons
you may use—
a yellow,
a red,
a blue.
I would not want to confuse you.
here are the lines for you to follow.
color them in—
you will see a socially uplifting picture.
better than anything
you could make.”

—then just say
“thank you—
this is what I needed
to fold myself a boat,
add a colorful mast,
and sail away
on
a
river
of
dreams”

—Elani Koogle
Twelfth Grade

Children’s Book Week, the longest running literacy event in the country, will be celebrated May 12 through 18 by librarians, teachers, bookstore owners, book club members, parents – and most important of all, by kids.

Locally, Village Books in Fairhaven will host authors whose writings have been hits with young readers – Tony Robles, Liz Gallagher, Amber Kizer and Trudi Trueit.

For kids ages 10 and older who have an interest in writing books themselves, Barnes & Noble Booksellers on Meridian Street hosts a Young Authors’ Club meeting on May 13. And on May 17 at Barnes & Noble, in anticipation of a classic children’s book brought to life through dance, students from the Nancy Whyte School of Ballet will highlight scenes from their June 8 production of “The Wizard of Oz,” which will be staged at Bellingham High School.

For some suggested activites for Children’s Book Week, click here.

Best of all, ask a child in your life to cuddle up with you with a favorite book!

In other book-related news, poet Lucille Clifton will be unable to attend the Skagit River Poetry Festival in La Conner, due to illness. The opening night event on May 15 will instead feature multi-award winning poet Jane Hirshfield. Here’s one of her poems I particularly like, “Tree.”

It is foolish
to let a young redwood
grow next to a house.

Even in this
one lifetime,
you will have to choose.

That great calm being,
this clutter of soup pots and books—

Already the first branch-tips brush at the window.
Softly, calmly, immensity taps at your life.

Tickets are still available for the festival, which include panel discussions, workshops, readings, and even music by Bellingham’s Kristin Allen-Zito and Robert Blake. For more on the festival, call (888) 290-6398 or click here.

Is there a National Essay Month? A National Nonfiction Month? A National Romance Novel Month?

No, but since 1996, there’s been a National Poetry Month (actually, we share it with our neighbo(u)rs to the north, as well.

This joyous celebration was established by the Academy of American Poets as a way to increase attention to the art of poetry, to living poets and to our poetic heritage, in hopes of making poetry more accessible and visible in our lives.

There are many poets coming to our area this month (see Take Five, the Herald’s Thursday arts and entertainment magazine, for details), and in particular, one event that I look forward to every other year (but it’s not until May) — the Skagit River Poetry Festival, taking place May 15 through 17 in La Conner. Click here for details on the festival.

Here are a few more links, rather non-academic, but informative and with some good links to poetic history, contemporary poetry and poetry forums, click here or here .

If you are a teacher of young children, here are a couple of suggestions on how to make poetry come alive for your students. Here’s one
and here’s another .

More than anything, of course, is the pure sensation, the smiles, the tears and the memories that that special poem can bring to you, personally. If you have a favorite poem, why not post it here?