Inspiration
Memory poem. It’s time to get personal. Our own memories can inspire our current selves, and sometimes remembering what it was like to be the student sitting in class can bridge the gap between adult and child or teen.
Process
Dive into your own memories and choose a moment from your own career as a student—it could be one from a class you loved or with a teacher you admired, or it might even be one from a subject that didn’t interest you in the slightest.
I chose to go in this latter direction myself just for fun, even though I certainly had my share of classes and subjects I adored, as well as teachers who inspired me to learn more!
Kip’s Poem
Algebra II and Trig
Last class of the day
and of course
it’s the one I can’t stand.
Equations dance
before my eyes, wanting
to transform
themselves into
words
pictures
sounds.
Numbers swim
before my eyes, hanging
on the clock on the wall,
hands held
down
by invisible weights
that keep
them from budging.
Freedom surges
in my chest as the last
minutes tick-tock by, tasting
like the spring air wafting
over me through the
window and I
close my eyes
drink it in
breathe this moment
until
the bell rings.
Kip Wilson is the author of White Rose, a YA novel-in-verse about anti-Nazi political activist Sophie Scholl. White Rose won the 2017 PEN New England Susan P. Bloom Children’s Book Discovery Award and is a 2019 Winter/Spring Indies Introduce and Spring Indies Next title. It ‘s debut was April 2, 2019 with HMH’s Versify imprint. Kip holds a Ph.D. in German Literature, is the poetry editor at YARN (Young Adult Review Network), and wrote her doctoral dissertation about the poet Rainer Maria Rilke. She’s lived in Germany, Austria, and Spain, and currently calls Boston home.
Junior year
At a Big 10 school-
I finally caught my stride
I was feeling confident
Ready to rock Advanced Rhetoric
I was close to becoming the teacher’s pet,
Which may have been a secret ambition of mine,
Until the day
I
Handed
In
A
Paper
With
A
Comma
Splice!
“You cannot be a teacher of English and write like this”
You wrote on the paper
Which,
Due to the aforementioned C/S,
Received an automatic F
You almost had me believing you for a bit
I was shaken, I’ll admit
But the switch flipped
And instead of wallowing in self-doubt,
Your harsh criticism
Encouraged me to write even more,
To practice my craft
While learning
To be a compassionate and patient teacher
Which, in retrospect,
May have been your goal all along
Wow that’s harsh but glad it motivated and didn’t deter you!
Mo – I missed your poem from the other day…already asleep. Sorry. This is such an important poem, and that indelible reminder that our writing is about so much more than the “comma splice.” I might be wrong, but I’m pretty sure the big gurus of grammar have relaxed the splice rule! So, I feel like the compassionate teacher wins… more importantly, you are an able writer, a poet, and that junior year Big 10 teacher is, by contrast, dust in the corner. Susie
Speculating about Miss B.
Petite figure
Pencil skirts and tall heels
Coiffed white hair
Ruling
American government
with an iron fist
Energetic pacing
Passionate politics
No nonsense
Nothing more notable, however,
than the dozen red roses
appearing on your desk
each Valentine’s Day.
A secret romance?
Self-gratification?
The class periods spent
contemplating the mystery!
Gail – such a neat little twist that there were roses. Our teachers did seem mysterious! Fun memory! Susie
Gail, the mystery that once enveloped our teachers seems so long ago. “Passionate politics” is wonderful alliteration. The idea of “ruling American government with an iron fist” is ironic in light of our form of government. Very cool image.
The ruler with the iron fist……with coiffed hair and so well-put-together: she skillfully left enough of her life a mystery that made you all wonder about her. Who sent those roses? What’s true about the life beyond school? I love the speculation on self-gratification! Maybe she was enough for herself.
This is awesome. What a great memory. Love the twist with the roses. I could just picture her before that and then, boom! Teachers are human beings!
The Making of a Poet
Number four of five are odds
I’d crave my Ma’s attention;
she hoed the rows of beans and squash,
gave no complaint nor mention
of what it meant to raise all five,
to plant and tend and can
each bite we ate she cooked, then cleaned;
no me-time, ne’er her plan;
so sacred, days of blister hot,
she’d to the outhouse wend
with book in hand, privacy sought,
her quiet I’d upend;
from sumac there along the path
I grabbed her hand and babbled on,
oh, Mama this and Mama that,
she nodded, shared a yawn;
perhaps a half an hour we perched,
the two-holer was my dais
for rhyming words and crafting songs,
we giggled phrase to phrase;
to lazy buzz of paper wasps,
she read, looked up, I cooed our words,
my poet world, just she and I
was born atop the turds.
by Susie Morice 😉
Ha! I could totally see this whole scene and really enjoyed it and then (I have to share) when I got to it, the last line made me laugh out loud. Well done!
Susie– I love learning about your life through verse. This is such a vivid memory that uncovers the place an person who nurtured the poet within. I love the “half an hour we perched” and “we giggled phrase to phrase” like birds making music with the “buzz of paper wasps.” Thank you.
Susie, Such a great memory! I enjoyed reading this poem because it seemed so colorful and genuine. Of course, your closing line clinched it!
Susie, Ha! Ha! Ha! I love this so much. Girl, we had an outhouse, too, as did my grandma, so I totally get the idea mom must have been desperate for privacy to seek refuge in an outhouse. The juxtaposition of gardening w/ producing turds is so clever. The plants rise and the crapper fills up. That image of a “two-joker was my dais” sure resonates in my mind as I think about crap speeed from certain podiums. So clever.
*spewed and not *speeed!
An amazing ending! I love the unexpected slang there – – after all of the poetic language (ne’er), we get “atop” and “turds” in the same line. I’m laughing at the fertilizer that grew such a wonderful poet!
Thanks, dear poets. I had fun and laughed out loud myself when I capped this little ditty. We sure are having fun, aren’t we?! Really, thanks so much! Susie
WRECKED
Wondrous whiffs of wisteria
Waft through windows
Wonder awaits!
Who’s wary?
Wordsmiths work in a worriless island wilderness
Watching watercraft and wherries
Whispers of waves
Whirlpools of wisdom
Warm-hearted wicks
Wonderful weather!
WRINKLES!
Wretched world of warfare
Withers away welfare
Wild-eyed awakening!
Who wins?
Wards worry in windowless war-zone walls
Wielding white flags and wishes
Writing of wounded
Whirlwinds of woe
Wayward whelks
Williwaw!
WHY?
-Kim Johnson
Whew! WOW! Incredible talent to be find this many words that begin with the same letter arranged to make sense in a poem! This poem could reflect so many real, imagined, or metaphorical experiences. I see slaves on ships and prisoners of war in these lines
“Wards worry in windowless war-zone walls
Wielding white flags and wishes”
I imagine other readers will be able to see different, but equally valid situations.
Kim — WhooWhoo, I’m wowed by the words! Phrases that rang loudly for me included “whirlwinds of woe,” (woe does feel like a whirlwind at times) “wretched world of warfare withers away welfare,” (boy, is that ever true) “wondrous whiffs of wisteria” (I love that purple flower) “wielding white flags and wishes” (every white flag comes with wishes…what a good combination). This would be fun wordplay with kids…I think they too would come up with wonderful phrasings and provocative notions. Fun! Susie
Love it! I can totally see kids eating up a challenge to outdo each other with an alliteration challenge like this. And the sounds you have here! Just lovely.
Kim, This is so fun and so difficult to recite. As the other poets here, I can see you just handing this to students for recitation — walking away to listen and grin as they play. But alas, as a grown up, WRINKLES! hit me for the literal wrinkles on my face but also the wrinkles in life where we make mistakes. I am trying to figure out when to wield “White flags and wishes” and allow things to welk (had to look up that word, not sure how to use it) .
Kim, Playing w/ time by putting “wrinkles” on a separate line emphasizes the war metaphor in the second half. Yes, we war against age and life’s struggles, but the idea of “wards” and the gunfire cadence of the /w/ sound suggests literal warfare, too. As others have said, the sounds in this poem are provocative, and if I were to read this out loud, I’d be out of breath and feeling exasperated, which is the point, at least in part, isn’t it?
I discovered my stage fright in eighth grade. Speech was not a required class in my high school, but I took it anyway. I’ve taught speech most of my 38 year career. My teacher, Nydia May Jenkins, did not accept failure. This is my first attempt at writing a villanelle.
“Stage Fright”
Frozen by fright I struggle to find words.
Down my cheeks the tears begin to trail.
Forced will propels me through speech class
Get acquainted then demonstration talks and
Still I start and stall and miss my marks.
Frozen by fright I struggle to find words.
Hidden on outlines ideas cling to blue lines
Refusing to rise and crawl into my mouth.
Sheer will propels me through speech class.
I am no orator nor masked actor facing front.
My fear takes center stage for peers to see.
Frozen by fright I struggle to find words.
By year’s end still clumsy in this class
Not yet master of my words and thoughts.
Sheer will propels me through speech class.
Performance anxiety will not conquer me
Learned refrains will obey my will, still…
Frozen by fright I struggle to find words
Sheer will propels me through speech class.
Glenda – Holy cow, we really have walked in each other’s shoes! My speech class, just like yours, was an act of sheer will on my part. It was not required, and it scared the bejeezus out of me. I’m blond and fair and that crimson would inch up my neck and flush my face so so so badly that I thought I’d pass out. But persevere! How cool an image: “no orator nor masked actor facing front./My fear takes center stage…” Oooo, nice! Word “refusing to rise and crawl…” I sure feel that. I’m getting sort of edgy right here in my chair just remembering this emotion. I have to give it to you for tackling a villanelle. I’m inspired…maybe I need to give that a whirl. I haven’t written anything like that is quite a long time. Good for you, girl! Susie
A villanelle is so perfect for this! It certainly feels like it’s recurring when you’re prone to stage fright and have to (self-motivated or not) face it again. Sheer will!
Glenda, thanks for showing how powerfully one can use another pattern structure so elegantly to tell a frightening story.
Performance anxiety will not conquer me
Learned refrains will obey my will, still…
I hope this is the mantra of the middle and high school students this evening. I’m serving as a judge at our Kent District Library Poetry Slam! I get to listen and don’t have to write anything but names of winners. What fun!
Glenda! Love this villanelle because the repeated lines keep it in present tense; you bring us right into this experience to sit alongside you and bear witness. We are here for your younger self cheering you on! I didn’t know that my doctorate would require me to present at conferences. I spent a year listening to public speaking seminars and reading books. Still, I white knuckle my way through each one; the only way I get through it by remembering who most benefits when we use our voices for good (same logic for publishing/sharing our writing)!
Glenda, I had never heard of a villanelle before joining this group, and the repeating lines are impressive. Think how strong you became because of your struggle in speech class. Thanks for sharing this memory!
My favorite part of your poem – besides all of it – is:
I am no orator nor masked actor facing front.
My fear takes center stage for peers to see.
Frozen by fright I struggle to find words.
The fear taking center stage when your words could not is something that all of us can certainly identify with! I love your form, the words you chose for repetition, and the tenacity you had in getting through this class. This brings back memories of being center stage and trying to find the words……and not finding them, either.
Fighting with Fists Won’t Do It
She had quite a temper, that Anna.
Classmates and teachers couldn’t stand’a.
When she got angry, she’d swing and hit ya.
Big or small, short or tall, she’d just draw back and hit ya.
“Do not fight. It is not right.
Just turn the other check!”
“But Grammama, they’ll tease me.
I don’t want to look meek.”
“It’s not right to fight. You can run away!
Meekness is strength under control,” she’d say.
“Run away from a fight. I’ll look like a fool!
Flight from a fight is not cool at school!”
“Control yourself. It’s more pleasing
Even if they keep on teasing.”
“But Grammama, I have got to fight!
Every day they tease and taunt me
Saying I’m black, but talk so white!”
So I fought and was caught and expelled from school
The day before graduation.
Depressed, in total desperation, realized I’d not been cool.
Fighting that guy created a total mess
I cried, looking in the mirror in my new dress.
I’d failed to stand up and failed to be strong.
Grammama was right all along
It was not right to fight with fists.
I fought with my fists and look what I missed.
Turn the other cheek; it’s okay to be meek.
Meekness is strength under control.
You’ll have more peace within your soul.
You’’ll stand out as strong in the throng.
Yes, Grammama was right all along.
Anna — The rhyming carries this right along. What a good idea to have these two positions battle it out and present Grammama as a wise one. This resonates with every kid on the playground… what to do, what to do?! It’s a tough world out there, and this kiddo is not struggling alone. Susie
Wow. There’s just so much here. This is incredibly moving. I’ve certainly made my share of mistakes (especially as a teenager) and have learned things along the way, but I don’t know if I could express it so eloquently. Amazing.
Oh, Anna, thank you for sharing this memory. I love how you use dialogue in your poetry. We are brought right into the scene. “Fighting that guy created a total mess” makes me want to hear more of that story. The final lines express a valuable reminder “meekness is strength under control” and “more peace within your soul.” I am always striving for that.
Anna, Holy cow! I cannot imagine you fighting. You impress me as strong and controlled. I can envision you as a strong, firm teacher who is always under control. Love the rhythm of this poem, which the rhyme reinforces. Love the dialogue w/ gams advice and your retort. That first line in past tense “had a bad temper” offers a nice reflective moment from the present to the past. So fun getting to know you better through this poem.
Glenda, I used to tell my students I had to deal what for years with every “attitudes” they brought to class because I was getting what I gave for some any years! Thank the Lord, I accepted my Grammama’s advice to seek strength from our Faithful One. It is that relationship that has strengthened me over the years and to give me to courage to share my stories here in this community.
Trust me, these poems have been more memoir than I’d probably admit anywhere else! 🙂
Please correct as you read! I hit the send by accident this time. What your head reads is probably what I meant to write.
What I might love most: you fought a guy! That’s super awesome and bad@$$, and I wasn’t expecting Anna to fight a guy – I was expecting this other fighter to be a girl. What I also love is that I hear a slight flavoring of Gwendolyn Brooks “We Real Cool” in these lines: “Run away from a fight. I’ll look like a fool!
Flight from a fight is not cool at school!”
Thank you for the images – – I do love the message of turning the other cheek and rising above the fights!
My 7th grade students just finished interviewing people as research for their historical short stories, and I was reminded of when, junior year of high school, I was advised to use my heritage for scholarship money.
Coming from a family of eleven, we knew
that if we were to go to college,
we’d have to pay our own way.
So we all got jobs, some since fourteen,
and worked the scholarship scene.
The Lion’s Club and the Knights of Columbus
offered money for our nationality.
My grandfather came to Chicago from Italy in 1920, just nineteen
from Collodi, greeted by Lady Liberty, married Esther Betti
brought three boys, two girls, and a rosary to Chicago for school;
the boys were princes and the girls were out of graces.
Though my mother’s upbringing was tough,
she was proud of her heritage.
One year, for Christmas, she bought each of us
an Italian jacket. You know — track style,
white with a shiny sheen,
and red, white and green
on the collar and sleeves.
She had our first names
embroidered on the front,
and on the back,
on the back was
Aikman.
No, that’s not Italian,
but Baiocchi was, is
the name Grandpa brought
from Collodi and stayed
with the princes.
At seventeen, I wore that jacket with pride though
I did not speak Italian. I had never been to Italy.
I did not cook lasagna, though I could make spaghetti.
So I wrote a nice essay about my heritage,
sent in a picture of me in my jacket.
The Lions and Knights were not impressed.
Sarah — I just really enjoyed this history of your background in this poem. And I adore that 17-year old wearing that jacket! I think it’d be cool to have a whole class or all of us play with that “where I’m from” concept. My grandfather came somewhere around 1890 (I probably have that wrong…but way back then sometime) from Vienna. And those stories of coming here from somewhere else, that also carries huge importance, is a wonderful sharing of our common ground. Loving our heritage and loving who we become as we blend our sense of place is big stuff. And your final line gave me a giggle. Addio Amica! Susie
Oh YES! Focusing on “where I’m from” would be a great thing to play with in class.
Love this personal story here, and that last line–ha!
Sarah, WOW! A family of eleven. I enjoyed learning your family history, and seeing names that give such a personal flavor to the poem. Free verse is so appropriate for an immigrant story. The jacket is so symbolic, too. I can see it in my mind’s eye. Isn’t it interesting how clothes attach us to stories.
Sarah, I chuckled at the image of your Italian jacket with Aikman on the back. Diversity is so narrowly defined! It’s nice that the poem captures some of your family history too. This was a fun read.
What a splendid memory to share with us! I am thoroughly entertained with the story leading up to the essay and the picture and then it’s like a pinprick in a balloon that we were hoping would rise up and soar to the skies.
Pop!
Plop.
Fantastic!