Poems of Perspective

Welcome to Day 4 of the August Open Write. If you have written with us before, welcome back. If you are joining us for the first time, you are in the kind, capable hands of today’s host, so just read prompt below and then, when you are ready, write in the comment section below. We do ask that if you write, in the spirit of reciprocity, you respond to three or more writers. To learn more about the Open Write, click here.

Ann Burg lives in Rhinebeck, New York, about two hours from New York City. She taught for ten years before leaving the field to take care of her children and to devote any leftover time (!) to pursue her love of writing. During her hiatus, she was lucky enough to get published. Though she never returned to teaching full time, she still engages with readers by visiting  classrooms in person and remotely. 

Inspiration

My inspiration has always been the voiceless, the unseen or long-forgotten. A while ago, I read about a fig tree lovingly cared for by an Italian man in Pennsylvania. The article itself  was about the man’s dedication— every fall he would wrap her in burlap and bury her until spring. I found myself curious about the tree. What did she think of all this fussing? If trees could talk, I wondered, what would they say? This lead me to a series of poems; the poem included here was my mother’s favorite, the Japanese Maple which grew in our front yard.

Process

The only rule for today’s poem is to change your Perspective. Think of a moment in time— an historical moment or a personal one. Place yourself outside yourself — as a favorite tree, a flower, even an inanimate object who has witnessed this moment. You are free from meter and rhyme and need only to listen with an open heart! What secrets does a change in perspective reveal? 

Ann’s Poem

The Japanese Maple
Township of Washington, NJ

I was her favorite,
herself a transplant
from city to suburb,
and me
from tree farm
to front yard,
Such an adjustment,
this empty, silent place,
so solitary, so strange.

But we grew home together,
she and I.

By the time my fibrous roots
took hold
and the darling, daring,
green-eyed toddler
climbed my sturdy boughs,
each of us had learned

home is where love sprouts;
we carry our roots inside us.

Your Turn

Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.