Gayle Sands started teaching middle school English as a second career at 42. She taught ELA for 25 years, and is now enjoying a a stint as reading specialist. She had a very “interesting” (aka challenging) household with a messy husband, three (now grown) children, too many cats and dogs, and a large overdue library bill. She is a horrible housekeeper, and has become dangerously honest in her later years.
Inspiration
An ekphrastic poem is a poem written in response to a scene or work of art. The name comes from the Greek, meaning “description”. In an introduction to his book Breathing Room (2000), Peter Davison, discusses the connection between poetry and photographs. He refers to ekphrastic poems as audiographs, “since, like photographs…each is intended to evoke a mood, a scene, an enigma, the unfolding of a metaphor, the entrapment of an idea, in a space or shape that will contain it without killing it.” (http://www.scrippscollege.edu/news/features/ensnaring-the-moment-thoughts-on-the-intersection-of-photography-and-poetry)
Process
Write a sensory poem based on one of the historic photographs provided below. Enter into the photo. Be present in the photograph in some way—as a bystander, as one of the individuals in the photo, or as someone coming upon the scene. Use the photo as your starting point and open your senses. What do you see and/or hear? Is there something you can taste or smell? What sensations do you feel? Is there any movement? What thoughts come to your mind as you participate in the scene?
For this exercise, we will use vintage photographs. I have provided links to a selection of photos. You can post the link with your poem or not, your choice.
- For an example of an Ekphrastic poem based on a photograph, go to https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/58870/a-chingona-plays-miss-dinah-brand
- Girls’ playground, Harriet Island, St. Paul, MN (1905): http://loc.gov/pictures/resource/det.4a12326/
- Washington, DC public schoolroom (1899) https://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/cph.3a30671/
- Group of African American children playing (1900?) https://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/hec.30313/
- Emigrants coming to the “Land of Promise” (1902) http://loc.gov/pictures/resource/cph.3a09957/
- Beaumont, Texas. Mammie Fairchild and Dorothy Mason working on a bus at the city transit company (1943) http://loc.gov/pictures/resource/fsa.8d19840/
- Young boys harassing the first African American family to move into the all-white neighborhood (1963) https://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/cph.3c22636/
- Negro going in colored entrance of movie house on Saturday afternoon,https://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/cph.3c15416/
- Alice Paul at the Seward-Belmont House: http://feminist.org/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/10703760_10203183024680010_2207000059778354452_n.jpg
https://modernfarmer.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/8a03304r.jpg
Gayle’s Poem
Mrs. Foster Hanging Up her Husband’s Overalls, 1938
This was not what I bargained for, Mr. Foster,
when I said I would grow old with you.
We were young. You were handsome,
strong, gleaming, laughing.
Mine.
We danced and talked in the lamplight.
You said you were a farmer, but
I was a city girl. I could not understand
the weight of that word.
Farmer.
Miles from everyone
Building our new lives
Lonely in our new love.
My dance partners here are damp overalls.
They slouch, slovenly, suspended from clothespins
patched, worn through, faded.
They do handstands on the line
Form handsome shadow dancers on the ground,
enticing me to dance along with them.
I sing to the endless fields
“Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey?”
The crickets provide the percussion
Chickens chuckle the chorus.
The plough horse whickers in harmony.
They are my only companions.
Even the breeze stayed home today.
This was not what I bargained for, Mr. Foster.
Write
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may 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.
You brilliantly captured that perfect picture with an equally perfect story…
“My dance partners here are damp overalls.
They slouch, slovenly, suspended from clothespins
patched, worn through, faded.
They do handstands on the line
Form handsome shadow dancers on the ground,
enticing me to dance along with them.”
I came back to this one, because none of the pictures inspired me, yesterday. But the monkeys just threw me a crumb, today!
Two Monkeys Chained
I see two monkeys chained together
One looks annoyed at being tethered
To one so somber and unassuming
They both are hindered in their coming and going
By the other who may just sit, not knowing
That the other one wants, the world, to explore
So, the annoyed one jerks and jingles the chain
To try to make the other one to get up and move, again
But, to no avail; he just sits still, nodding
I feel the pain of the annoyed one chained
To one so unassuming; docile and tamed
Life’s too short to just sit and stare
But, for as long as they are chained together
One will be annoyed at being tethered
To one so, somber and unassuming
How like these monkeys we are during this quarantine! I enjoyed your poems dual perspectives!
They always told me I was never scared of you
Apparently you scared all of the other kids
I’m wearing one of my favorite shirts
and you’re wearing a black muscle shirt
We’re sitting on Mami’s couch
and my tia Hilda and Tio Sergio are in the background
my tia Yoli is sitting next to you and Juanito is on her lap
I don’t know how many years ago this was
Was this a year before you died?
I just know that you were my favorite
and I think I was one of yours
I wonder how life would be with you here
I remember feeling safe when you were around
I want it back
*I wrote this about a picture of my tio Elias, who passes away when I was younger
I never stopped climbing
My life is made of stairs
Some go short ways, sliding
Some are just made of stares.
But tonight, I feel loose
Hat on, jacket pressed
Spit-shined shoes
My Saturday night best
One day, I’ll go in the front
My tired knees will relax
A turn from hate to love
I keep my chin up, climbing past
‘Til there’s one entrance only.
Ashley,
the beginning drew me in! “A turn from hate to love”, I loved that line! “Til there’s one entrance only”, are you referring to an afterlife? Thanks for your piece!
Thank you! I actually have been researching and reading about the Tulsa Race Massacre with my students, so is more a literal interpretation of one entrance for everyone. I love your idea though! I wish I would have thought of that!
Ekphrastic poem: Responding to Washington, D.C. Public Schools – classroom scenes and school activities
It was the teacher’s to assign
Who sat in each row and line.
Hung so proudly on display
Was students work from yesterday.
Words and drawings illustrate
What the teacher would relate.
Teachers brought something to show.
Students came up row by row.
Cursive lost the writing race
Technology’s now in its place.
Dressing up is not the style
We wear jeans once in a while.
Austerity we don’t embrace.
We put up posters in its place.
Things have changed so very much
Are we any more in touch?
Beaumont, Texas. Mammie Fairchild and Dorothy Mason working on a bus at the city transit company
What do you say we get on this bus
And leave
The way Texas left us here
In the middle of a parking lot state
Where we fix up busses that go
From one woman’s nowhere to another
What do you say we get on this bus
And move to Canada
The opposite of Texas
Live in Niagara Falls in one of the casino hotels
Make a living at the slots and at the card tables
No? Well, you can always get a job at one of the wax museums
What do you say we get on this bus
And find the color of this country
Get a forwarding address out of Black&White, TX
Out of Joni’s paved over paradise
I’ll buy you a drink when we pull over to gas up
You look like you need one
(And I look like I need one)
Group of African American Children Playing (1900)
Innocence
No knowledge
Of the deception
of our skin
Our color
Betrayed us
Condemn us
Denied us
Of our rights
Our rights to freedom of speech
Our rights to freedom of expression
Our rights to freedom of choice
Simply existing
Is a threat
More to us
Than to them
Why this segregation
Why
the silencing of
Our very being
Can’t they see
How happy we are
Playing with no
Worries
For that is left for
Tomorrow
But Today
We play
This stanza was especially moving to me:
Simply existing
Is a threat
More to us
Than to them
I FELT you entering this photograph.
the other door
In response to Negro going in colored entrance of movie house on Saturday
As I stare at the photo
lines stand out in the image –
a Dr. Pepper sign
shadows, a stair rail
so prominent it’s easy
to miss the letters spelling
COLORED ADM
For years I walked into the door
on the left side of Dr. Green’s office
I never thought about why
we walked in the door on the left –
we just did
Before I started my eighth grade year of school
a federal judge came to Waynesboro
to oversee public school integration
our two schools became one
children I never knew in Waynesboro
were now my classmates
one was Adolfus Dent
I’d never looked in the doorway where the nurses worked
until that year when I saw Adolfus Dent’s mom working
in Dr. Green’s office
that’s when I discovered the reason
for the door on the right side
Oh, wow, Jamie. I just read your poem three times. I appreciate how you moved from the photo into your own memory/experience. Your specificity of Waynesboro, Adolfus Dent, and Dr. Green pull me right in. Powerful.
Jamie,
ignorance and bliss is nice as a child. Realization is such a hard thing to come to terms with, you express it greatly in your piece. Thank you.
“A house that she built”
Like our mothers’ stance when we’ve done wrong: tender, disappointed, loving, firm, right.
Like the marble busts and statues, elegant and deadly under the right circumstances.
Like the house itself: we’ve been here, we’ve withstood the weather, we’ve rebuilt in the wake of destruction.
Like Ullman and Andersson in a black and white Bergman–is there any other?
We are individuals. We are one. We are not to be fucked with.
Laura, the power of your “mothers’ stance” let me know immediately I was sinking into a poem. Your contrasts (tender/disappointed, elegant/deadly) made my nerves come alive. Your Ullman and Andersson allusion then sent me on a lengthy Google rabbit hole!
Your final line? Mic drop.
Wow.
1963
It’s the teeth I see
werewolf fangs
lips curled back
ready to rip my throat
It’s the belt I see
a slithering eel
writhing electricity
ready to strike me cold
It’s the fist I see
as if pounding a gavel
declaring the verdict:
hate thrives here
Young boys harassing the first African American family to move into the all-white neighborhood (1963) https://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/cph.3c22636/
Allison—your words feel like the hate in the photo.—the werewolf fangs, the slithering eel of a belt, the fist. You have drawn that picture with the alphabet…
Stabbing truths! I love the succinct lines because they’re carrying the weight of a thousand words.
?
Allison– You gave the visuals a very lethal and apt image — wwwwoooof! The “fangs.” the “lips curled back,” “the belt,” “the fist,”… you brought this to an incredibly lethal reality. WOW! Painful image….the image of hate. Hugs, Susie
The first line of every stanza is so gut punching! Your lines are so full of fantastic imagery. That final line really completes the poem — “hate thrives here”.
Allison, Wow, I am so impressed with your word choice. The last line says it all! I considered writing about this photo, but I found it too disturbing. I cannot imagine being so hated because of my skin color and the hate in that photograph was captured so well, just as you capture the message so well in this poem.
We CAN do it (by Jenny Sykes): Beaumont, Texas. Mammie Fairchild and Dorothy Mason working on a bus at the city transit company (1943) http://loc.gov/pictures/resource/fsa.8d19840/
Here I am
Leaflet in hand
Answering the call
Ready to contribute
Oil, grease, lubricate
Keep these busses running
Wonder if I’ll be recognized
Hose falls to the ground
Here I am
engaging in ‘men’s work’
Whistling away the squeaks and creaks
Anointing these nuts and bolts
With the nourishment necessary
To stay in shape
Necessary for travel and transport
Necessary to the war effort
Here I am
Doing the job better than any
Man ever could
Yet my weekly pay equals
half as much as his
I’ll do my part
I’ll fight this war too.
Except my war will continue
They say this work is only temporary
But it won’t be over when the soldiers return
When headlines read “The War is Over!”
This work will evolve
It will become momentous
Tighten that screw
Replace that broken bolt.
Here I am
Hair pinned perfectly
White overalls
Fresh grease stain patches
Extra flair as I contribute
To my personal war effort.
Here I am—the repetition strengthens the story you tell. My favorite lines fall at the end—I love “the extra flair as I contribute.” That little bit of vanity makes the speaker’s story human…
Mammie Fairchild and Dorothy Mason working on a bus at the city transit company (1943)
Mammie & Dorothy After the Boys Leave
The boys were gone,
high school sweethearts, left their varsity jackets
slung over their girls, and husbands left with fierce embraces —
off to fight
With an vast ocean between us, our lives were in flux,
we followed our fiery bandana-clad Rosie
to the factories, to train stations
and bus transit yards.
We left behind our pantyhose
and skirts, pulled on our big girl pants,
crisp and white, rolled up our sleeves,
got grease on our elbows, under our nails,
came home with half a paycheck
But there was that vast
ocean between us and our
boys were gone…
So we laced up work boots,
refashioned ourselves,
did the work needed fixing up
boats, buses, airplanes …
Until the boys came home,
shoved us out
back to the kitchen,
back to the kids,
back to one bread winner
No!
We won’t settle for lying on our backs.
We followed our brains and hearts to universities,
and medical labs, to big business and government
around the world, to space, and we didn’t look back …
Your history lesson is wonderful! I especially like the repetition at the end—the indignation is clear. “Back to the kitchen/back to the kids/back to one bread winner/No!” And that is exactly how it happened. We never turned back.
I love the narrative being told here. I have a clear picture of this Rosie the Riveter-like woman standing strong in her dirty work clothes. “And we didn’t look back” — wonderful tone to end on.
Beaumont, Texas. Mammie Fairchild and Dorothy Mason working on a bus at the city transit company (1943) http://loc.gov/pictures/resource/fsa.8d19840/
Scorching Texas heat
Dry hill-country air
Calloused, tired hands
Two ladies – oh, so fair
White bright coveralls
So easy to mistake
Their capacity and competence
The difference they make
Riveting and drilling
Focused on the mission
Strengthening the Labor Force
What a smart decision
Donnetta Norris 4-7-2020
I love how inspirational this poem feels. Especially love your first stanza: “Scorchin Texas heat/Dry hill country air/Calloused , tired hands … Great imagery. I feel like I’m there.
I love this. You set the stage in the first stanza. I especially like the last stanza-Riveting and drilling…Strengthening the Labor Force. What a smart decision.”
http://loc.gov/pictures/resource/fsa.8d19840/
Women Working at the Bus Depot by Seana
Mamie saw a bus broken down.
and knew it needed to be fixed.
It sat by the road five days
and no one attempted to fix it
Someone towed it to the yard
and it sat there another two days
Meanwhile women going to work
were cramped on buses while
ten sat broken at the bus yard.
After a week, Dorothy mentioned it to
Mamie and told her she’d fixed her son’s
broken desk the night before and
also her brother’s toaster last week.
Mamie told her she had access to the bus
yard and had ideas about how to fix them.
The next day they went into the yard
and looked under the hood of both buses.
One only needed the transmission serviced
and the other just needed
brakes and a fuel pump.
Within the week, both buses were repaired
along with two others.
Three needed new tires and they
were on their way from Dallas.
The women stopped waitressing
at the restaurant and worked at
the bus depot full time.
Eventually the city of Beaumont
thanked them and gave them
two young men to assist them.
They continued working there
for many years after the war was over.
Three Generations
Sitting in the big brown chair
Three generations together
We smile, we are happy
First generation . . . my mother
Her short platinum hair
Her face marked by the signs of time
Her beautiful blue eyes
Tearing up as she embraces my three-year-old
A granddaughter, her granddaughter that she’s only now meeting
Third generation… my daughter
A granddaughter smiling at her granny
Happy to meet the family she was told she had
But couldn’t feel she had
Now she does and she smiles
Hair in pigtails and chubby cheeks
She’s young and life is full of hope
Second generation . . . a daughter, a mother, me
I look at them trying to memorize
every detail about this moment
I smile happy that unlike me
They have met
*I wrote about a photo taken the first time my mother and my daughter met. I moved to the U.S. and they did not get to meet until my daughter was three. My mother was German and passed away fifteen years ago. Unlike my daughter, I never had a chance to meet my grandparents. The photo sits next to my bed and it is the first thing I see every morning. I smile at it every day.
Monica,
Thank you for this poem. I love that you used your own poem and put yourself at the end. My favorite lines: “trying to memorize.” It makes me think of how often our memories and experiences are based on photos and they become wrapped into our storytelling.
This is a beautiful memory. There is something special when you can give words to a photo of people you know and love. “I look at hem trying to memorize”—what an important time to own…
Girls’ playground, Harriet Island, St, Paul, MN 1905
I stand and watch my pupils
It is time to go back inside to continue our schoolwork
Eleanor, ever rambunctious, stays on the rope
Though I’ve asked all the girls to stop playing
Ruthie also remains hanging on the bars
I stand stern
The others wait
Michelle,
I appreciate the short, prompt experience of this poem. I like how we get an idea of the personalities of the two “pupils” in the space.
I love that you thought about this from the perspective of the teacher – and you call the students by name, showing how much teachers always know about their students. Great final lines – I stand stern/The others wait.
Great change in perspective—I had not noticed the woman in the background—sharp eye! I love the reference to the two rebellious souls, and the teacher standing stern.
Emigrants coming to the “Land of Promise” (1902)
“Land of Promised”, not “Promised Land”
No room to breathe, no room to stand
We huddle closer, hand in hand
And pray for promise soon
We bid familiar coasts farewell
‘Cross unforgiving waves we sail
We watch the whitecaps soar and swell
Over the waters strewn
The floor is cold, the air is still
This damp cloth can not fight the chill
But fear can not our vision kill
When fortune changes tune.
Ann—I love the shift in the first line. Land of Promised, not Promised Land. The nuance changes the meaning completely. It is the people that hold the promise, not the land. And isn’t that true? It is the promise of the people that makes it work. Thank you for this different view of immigration.
Ann,
I like your rhythm and patter here. The first and fourth lines are my favorite and the idea of “pray for promise” holds such varied interpretation.
This poem starts off describing fear and uncertainty, but hopefulness. It ends with determination. I love it.
Ann,
I love the ebb and flow of this poem. The rhythm and rhyme reminds me of the back and forth motion as you drift along the water, and it is so beautiful. I love the line, “But fear can not our vision kill”. That is so great!
https://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/cph.3a30671/
Spring Fever
Outside the day is clear
My mind gallops
Across lilac, gold, spring-green curls
Breathing deeply nature’s wonder
Wheeling like a Golden Hawk
To screech uninhibited
Restless as this rabbit
I stretch to see
The world outside
Wanting to warm my face
In its balmy embrace
Yearning to explore the best fishing holes
A beckoning wildwood–where
Lessons are learned
Under a sun-kissed sky
Free and unfiltered
To escape the endless
Battery of books
Desks like jail cells
Chalk dust that
Strangles my fiercest desires
Barb Edler
April 7, 2020
Barb—I went back to the photo—I know exactly who the speaker is! The one light-haired boy looking out. That is so cool! So many strong images here—spring-green curls, screech uninhibited, where lessons are learned under a sun kissed sky. And then the desks like jail cells, strangling…
a very different view from the throne of learning in another poem today! I will be back to re-read this one tonight!
Barb,
I really feel the longing for escape here. Love Desks like jail cells/Chalk dust that/
Strangles my fiercest desires. Feel the chalk and empathize with the students in this poem.
Alice Paul at the Seaward-Belmont House
“There will never be a new world order
Until women are a part of it”
Alice Paul looks like my great-grandmother –
Or more accurately, Mamaw looked like her.
The white home-perm curls and flared nostrils
Lips always pursed, ready to comment on
Your posture or how one of the boys better
Take her fishing or she was going to switch
Their asses, like when they were children.
Eyes that dealt discipline on a silent platter,
Alice probably avoided photographs if she could.
She probably laughed with a wide-open mouth,
Her head tossed backwards. She never missed the
Chance to tell you her opinion. Mamaw, though,
Was a different kind of feminist. The kind that
Leaves her husband when he hit her, pregnant and
Full of a life. I imagine her sailor mouth chattering
Under her breath as she walked, belly and all, to
The doorstep of her mother’s home. She would
Drink her red beer, and cut her friends hair until
She had a beauty-parlor to call home – and there,
She’d drink water. She raised four boys that weren’t
Hers – and it should have been five – because it was
The right thing to do. She always made sure everyone
Was fed and had a place to sleep. She slept in a bed
On her own and married a man because he took pictures
Of her instead of the mountain cascading around her.
Alice Paul looks like my great-grandmother –
Or more accurately, Mamaw looked like her.
Abigail, your poem is so powerful. I love the strength of character you develop of Mamaw in this narrative. Your careful selection of details to reveal her personality, attitude, actions, and difficult decisions are magnificent. I am sure I would have enjoyed knowing Mamaw as much as I would have enjoyed meeting Alice Paul.
Oh, Abigail. So many wonderful moments here. The frame offered by your first and last lines, the feeling of really KNOWING your Mamaw. My favorite lines——“ Eyes that dealt discipline on a silent platter” wow. I am writing that in my lines to love notebook. I know those eyes.. “ The kind that/Leaves her husband when he hit her, pregnant and/Full of a life.” A different kind of feminist, indeed. One I would have liked to know.
Abigail,
This poem is so beautiful. I love what a fierce character Mamaw is ! My favorite lines: On her own and married a man because he took pictures/Of her instead of the mountain cascading around her. I think these lines really capture how magnetic her personality was. Seems like she lit up the room.
Gayle, your poem sets us right down with Mrs. Foster hanging those stubborn overalls. I love the dance metaphor and the singing with the chickens. A bit of humor, but the weight of the reality is evident, too. Thanks for this prompt.
Back at the beginning of March, I shared a poem about Alice Paul, a leader in the suffragist movement 100 years ago, with my students. (I subscribe to Teach this Poem from The Academy of American Poets poets.org) The picture here http://feminist.org/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/10703760_10203183024680010_2207000059778354452_n.jpg was taken later as she was an old woman. I imagine she was a contemporary of my great grandmother who lived to just shy of her 100th birthday.
Alice Paul
Small but fierce
they’d say
about this woman
who wouldn’t be dared.
Hands on hips, Head held
high as a carved marble statue
on a pedestal.
Like my great grandmother,
Alice Paul stood in white eyelet
eyes set straight, focused
on the photographer’s lens
like a beam of light daring
him to say,
“Smile!”
Margaret, “this woman who wouldn’t be dared” —love that phrase. And the description of Alice in the picture is spot on. Wonderful!
Love it! You won’t be surprised that I responded to this prompt too. “high as a carved marble statue/on a pedestal.” Great line! And, what a great dare at the end.
Margaret, as I read your poem, I pictured a dear friend. The first stanza describes her so vividly. Thank you for that. We haven’t talked in a while, but as soon as I finish typing this, I’m calling her.
She looks like a woman who should not be messed with….Small, but fierce and who wouldn’t be dared…say it all.
Margaret, the more I look at this picture, the more I love this strong woman in eyelet, “Hands on hips, Head held high as a carved marble statue on a pedestal.” She is like “a beam of light”! Nice simile there.
I’m so happy to get more information about Alice Paul. When I wrote my poem I had her talking to Lucretia Mott, but I thought in the middle of having a contemporary voice could talk to her about today, but I couldn’t figure out when this picture was taken or how to do it so she just crossed time and was the only voice talking to Lucretia. Maybe I’ll work on another draft of it. Thanks for the inspiration!
I love the lines “daring / him to smile”! They are so powerful, and the portray the character so profoundly! Wonderful!
DC Public Schoolroom, 1899
OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!
It’s happening again!
One minute I am relaxing in some straw, chewing on a bit of carrot,
Then WHOOSH! I’m flying through the air thanks to these MONSTERS!
Now this one has me in his filthy grabbers!
I have to admit, it does feel kind of soothing…
But that’s beside the point!
I see Uncle Cotton in another monster’s grasp.
Psst! Can you hear me Uncle? Are you okay?
It looks like he’s getting the same treatment.
I’ll never forget the last time this happened.
The big one in the white dress kept spouting propaganda
About a ne’er-do-well named Peter who, quite frankly,
Gives rabbits a bad name!
I wish she’d let me set the record straight.
Oooh…that’s the spot…my sciatica always acts up when it’s about to rain.
Shaun, your perspective here is absolutely delightful. I enjoyed the connection to Uncle Cotton and Peter as well as the action words. Filthy grabbers sounds appropriate for the time period of the photograph. Such a fun perspective and poem and cleverly delivered.
“Filthy grabbers”.—another one. To add to my list of phrases to remember. Love the fact that you moved into one of the books in the room to speak. Love your poem!
Your first line with the all caps and the second line immediately drew me in.
Gayle, these lines stand out for me because they speak for me.
Miles from everyone
Building our new lives
Lonely in our new love.
I married a man from another state for for 40 years we lived in four different states, never the one from which either of us was born! It was tough moving, moving, moving and started anew each time. We were military, so we didn’t have that bridge. Thankfully, I found teaching jobs in each and found family….eventually. You had a song. Mine was “Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Chile, a long way from home.”
So different from my life—one home, next door to my grandmother. There were times that I yearned for something else. The grass is always greener…
I chose this photo from the selection you offered: Girls’ playground, Harriet Island, St. Paul, MN (1905): http://loc.gov/pictures/resource/det.4a12326/
Girls’ Play
Grab the rings, soar in the sky,
Together, sisters, we play.
Waste no moment here outside,
My favorite time of day.
Dress and tights won’t hold me back,
With each swing, I feel the breeze.
Simply nothing that I lack,
Like a bird, I am so free.
I find it so confusing,
It doesn’t make sense to me.
You stopped running and doing,
Simply to goggle and preen?
Hold on tight, big swing, repeat,
My muscles will see me through.
Move the step stool when I leap,
Then, I’ll do the same for you.
Grab the rings, soar in the sky,
Together, sisters, we play.
Waste no moment here outside,
My favorite time of day.
I love the brackets of echoing stanzas here inviting me to play along.
Hold on tight, big swing, repeat—love the image. And I like the speaker in your poem for her physicality and spunk.
I loved the line “Waste no moment here outside” because it reminded me of the freedom of children at play and of being outside which is not always an option in the current conditions of our world. I also found this perspective interesting ad I chose the same poem and write form the perspective of the teacher t=rather than the girls.
Maureen,
I enjoyed playing and soaring on the swing through your poem. The rhyme, repetition, and rhythm soars and makes me feel a little lighter, at least in my memories. Also, love the carpe diem theme in “Waste no moment here outside.” Thank you.
—glenda
https://publicdelivery.org/fernando-botero-mona-lisa/
I love Fernando Botero’s version of the 12-year-old Mona Lisa. Spoiler alert- if don’t want to know what this little girl is thinking, don’t read the end of my poem.
OMG! I can’t believe it!
This Leo something or other guy
stopped my mom on the street
and asked if he could paint my portrait!
Like, I was blown away!
My friends keep saying they don’t know
why he’d want to paint me,
but whatever. I don’t care.
He’s even giving me a dress to wear!
I heard that some people pay Leo
to sketch or paint them,
but he is paying my mom!
We will have bread and vegetables for months!
The only thing I’m worried about is getting bored.
Leo says it will take weeks
or even months to finish the portrait.
If I have to sit still for that long,
I’ll die.
I have to find something to do,
something to think about.
Ooohhh! Wait!
There’s that really cute boy, Lorenzo,
who lives across the river!
I wonder…
LOL! Mo, you are so playful… this is just way too fun. I love that voice…that sounds so much like the kids I had in my classes… 13 years old and the quick distraction with “cute boy, Lorenzo…” at the end. HAHAHAHA! You waltzed right into that painting and gave it a terrific voice. I just love the story…”…he is paying my mom…” LOL! Terrific! Susie
Very fun poem! I enjoyed the young girl’s voice – “whatever,” “I’ll die,” “Like, I was blown away,” and more. It is a great way to build her character, to give us a sense of her personality.
This poem is playful and full of voice. OMG!
Mo—the speaker’s very modern voice juxtaposes delightfully with the circumstance and appearance of your Mona Lisa! What fun!
Mo,
This is so fun! Love the voice in this piece! Sounds sooo teen like! Your line “This Leo something or other guy” made me laugh.
I am so tickled by your poem! And I LOVED the images of teen Mona Lisa!
This line made me laugh out loud:
“We will have bread and vegetables for months!”
https://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/cph.3c22636/
“Hate”
I see hatred
Not a hatred they were born with
A hatred that was taught
Slurrs yelled by these young boys
Little do they know the meaning behind them
I see boys lost
They do and say what they heard thinking its right
But they couldn’t be more wrong
Their words like thrown knives
Meant to hurt and harm
We are called to end this
This senseless hate
Instead of hatred
We must teach love
Kole, I really like how you point out that this is hatred that was taught and that the boys don’t know the meaning behind their words. Unfortunately, we see this in school all the time. The good news is that there are so many of us guiding the children along the best path.
That photo is so troubling and your poem puts a ‘searchlight’ on it, trying to make sense…These lines “I see boys lost/They do and say what they heard think its right.” It is a “senseless hate” that goes on still. I have chills from the third line, “A hatred that was taught.” We must do better, as a society. Thank you for this!
Amen to that, Kole! You said it! Clear, loud voice and such a strong sense of conviction (we must teach…). “…hatred that was taught” is the tragedy of the image for sure… ugly coming from the mouths of youth is so so so painful to witness. Teachers are so critical in changing “their words like thrown knives.” I appreciate the work you do! Susie
Beautiful! It’s so very sad to see this still happening today. But your final line is what it is all about. We must teach LOVE!
Kole, I also chose to write about this photo.
Your opening lines: “I see hatred
Not a hatred they were born with
A hatred that was taught” captured something I, too, thought about as I examined the photo. How could these young children be contaminated with hatred at such a young age? Your “lost” and “what they heard thinking it is right” helped me process this disturbing photograph. Thank you.
Ok, Gayle, that is fun! Mrs. Foster is definitely thinking those thoughts. Her only companions–the musical chickens, crickets and plough horse. “Even the breeze stayed home today.” You really examined that photo carefully. And the damp overall dance partners “slouch, slovenly, suspended from clothespins” — such skill in taking that photograph and putting it into words with emotion attached. Lovely read this evening.
I’m going to try my hand at this photograph http://feminist.org/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/10703760_10203183024680010_2207000059778354452_n.jpg
Fibonacci 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21,13, 8, 5, 3, 2, 1, 1 – and reverse because I didn’t want to keep writing long lines.
Bust
Break
Me too,
Lucretia,
You wouldn’t believe
What we done made of this country
Slavery gone, racism stayed to our core, women vote,
But Hillary, Kamela, and Elizabeth are all shut down by 2020
You don’t want to know about 46-1
I won’t even go there, my friend
It is not pretty
Glad I don’t
Have to
Live
It
Denise,
This is very clever. You matched the old lady’s tone with hands on her hips perfectly. Love reversing the Fib, too. I can hear this woman’s voice so perfectly. “Me too” has a clever subtext. Love the subtext in minus from “46-1.” The more I read this poem, the more I love it. Thank you.
—glenda
Denise, this is a sassy poem and these closing lines make me think the lady will just turn her back, walk out the door and slam it!
It is not pretty
Glad I don’t
Have to
Live
It
This is a fabulous take on this photo, I feel her speaking right to me. Chilling coupling of phrases: “Slavery gone/racism stayed to our core” – you’ve imagined her straight-talking approach and shared it beautifully through these words. Thank you for this!
Denise, I just love this picture – – and what a great strategy you used to reverse the fib after 21. Superb message, as always, but I am taken today with the shapes our poems are creating. This is like a jet to show the change. It also looks pointed, like the realizations occurring.
Clever use of the Fib poem form. I chose this strong woman, too. She’s looking down on us and shaking her finger for sure.
Denise—(that’s my middle name! My husband always says it should be “de-nephew”. But, I digress). There are so many things to love here.—the list of accomplishments in that perfect voice, and the sad turn-around in the second half. “Glad I don’t have to live it.” Yeah…
Emigrants coming to the “Land of Promise” (1902) http://loc.gov/pictures/resource/cph.3a09957/
Breathe Free, Wretched Refuse
*with respect to Emma Lazarus
I see the huddled masses,
the tired, the poor.
Tears stain my copper cheeks
as I gaze upon
exhausted faces
filled with uncertainty.
Bundled in blankets
buffering from the cold
and wind,
wary of what is ahead
but confident it’s better
than what’s left behind.
Singles
Couples
Friends
Generations
Young
Old
Families indistinguishable.
Eyes fixated on myriad visions.
Do I look like a mirage
after months at sea?
Have they even seen me before?
Unkempt
Unshowered
Fetid smell
Lice?
Disease?
Dead bodies aboard?
I welcome them in
to our land of the free,
offering them a new life,
a life that won’t be void
of struggle, but will
offer opportunity.
Leaving behind family
Leaving behind familiar
Leaving behind famine
Full of hope
Full of fear
Full of anticipation
Come on in
through the golden door.
Susan,
Your title is perfect. That was a very clever idea to tell the story of that photo through Lady Liberty. I can see the tear now.
This alliteration is very powerful
“Leaving behind family
Leaving behind familiar
Leaving behind famine”
The closing stanza is perfect. She’s resigned that it won’t be perfect, but there is a place here for them.
Nicely done.
Susan, your poem is so lyrical to me. You have a great ear for words. You’ve done an excellent job of storytelling, too. I feel the hope, fear, angst, everything!
Susan, I love this key word in this part: opportunity.
I welcome them in
to our land of the free,
offering them a new life,
a life that won’t be void
of struggle, but will
offer opportunity.
Opportunity plus hard work and struggle is gratifying when families realize success. It’s not appreciated without the struggle.
Washington, DC public schoolroom (1899)
Chalky fingers adorn my hands
Little white flecks fall
As perfect cursive is practiced
Students sit in simple rows
Girls with long braids
Boys with buzzed hair
Minds expanding
Lightbulbs above their head
Despite the lack thereof in the room
Eager hearts beat
A love of learning
Unites us all
Oh, yes! Chalky fingers, white flecks falling, perfect cursive. This are the things that jumped out at me when I looked at the photo. I really liked the lines “Lightbulbs above their heads/despite the lack thereof in the room”. I had to read it twice, then smiled as I got the metaphor. Nice! (I seriously do not miss the chalk dust, though!)
This made me feel good to read. It reminded me of those days when I looked forward to going to school. Maybe in a class like this one, where we could pet rabbits. The voice of the narrator (teacher?) sounds happy and a bit less stressed out than we are today.
“Minds expanding
Lightbulbs above their head
Despite the lack thereof in the room”
I had to read this a couple times to understand the metaphorical lightbulbs. 🙂
I like how you really studied this photo and thought of small details like this and the flecks of chalk dust falling. Well done.
The hairstyles you describe make the group seem even more homogeneous.
Dragon eyes close slowly,
Jaws clench tightly
Dishes washed, drying on rack
“These racks are always so full.”
Laundry washed
“You didn’t flip the jeans inside out?”
Let the dog out
“His paws will dirty the floor if you don’t wipe them.”
Soaked the used spatula in a dirty pot
“But that’s nonstick, it’ll scratch.”
Laundry folded
“The collars on the polo shirts should be turned out.”
Set aside recycling
“Did you rinse out the beer cans?”
He’s always got something to say
But I’ve got my dragon eyes he fell in love with
They say soundlessly
Oh, I heard you just fine
I
Just
Don’t
Care.
“Mrs. Foster hanging up her husband’s overalls, ca. 1938”
These lines:
He’s always got something to say
But I’ve got my dragon eyes he fell in love with
They say soundlessly
Oh, I heard you just fine
I
Just
Don’t
Care.
Yes! The dragon eyes he fell In love with is a lyrical image! And the reason she is comfortable not caring!! What starts out at a low point ends in victory with those lines.
“I just don’t care” 🙂 That’s a beautiful ending in this case – – when folks have particulars that are different from ours and we’re the ones working our fingers to the bone. High five!
Emily — Your tone is slicing and sharp, and I love that. The mocking of “her husband’s” litany of must-dos is palpable, and I LOVE LOVE LOVE that those eyes speak “soundlessly/Oh, I heard you just fine/I/Just/Don’t/Care. That’s a hammer-down ending! Love it! Thanks, Susie
Ahhh, so relatable, so infuriating, so fun! Love those last single-word lines! Almost makes me wonder if you’ve overheard conversations from my household though…the action followed by the commentary turns familiar exchanges into poetry. Thanks for sharing!
Oh, my Emily. This is so powerful and real-life. Mr. Foster is never pleased. And Mrs. Foster passive-aggressively responds. The dragon eyes
“…say soundlessly
Oh, I heard you just fine
I
Just
Don’t
Care.”
Powerful description of this relationship. My husband and I have had similar conversations about how to do chores. Unlike, Mrs. Foster, though, I’m not so soundless!
In response to “Group of African American Children Playing” This poem was written in African American Home Language.
They Haven’t Yet
By Stacey L. Joy © April 7, 2020
They haven’t yet heard their mamas wailin’
When their daddies got caged no chance for bailin’
“Don’t understand, ain’t done nothing wrong!”
But skin too black and mind too strong
They haven’t yet gone to the Negro schools
Where white folks be callin’ them nasty fools
Young church ladies try their hands at teachin’
On Sunday evening after pastors done preachin’
They haven’t yet been beaten or kicked in the streets
But they seen Hatred ridin’ behind white sheets
White men breedin’ their power and hate
In a country where nothin’ ain’t never been great
They haven’t yet stood in line to vote
Rights and equality ain’t even been wrote
Their own children haven’t yet been born
In a nation where they’ll forever be scorned
They haven’t yet died while trying to live
They had only one smile and laugh to give
They had only one hand and hope to hold
They had only each other to love and behold.
The final stanza was a wonderful way to sum up this imagery of the kids. I love the repetition of the lines. I can imagine many of my students using it as a mentor text to write their own stories. Though the inspiration photo is from over a hundred years ago, it’s also relevant and more than true now. Thank you for sharing!
Stacey… a home run! This could be set to music. The title, “They Haven’t Yet” belongs with the joy in the picture. They haven’t yet faced the cruelty to come. And the least stanza is heartbreaking—They hadn’t yet died while trying to live…only each other to love and behold. A stark reality for too many.
This is powerful. I see such hope and happiness in the photo, and, yet, I am painfully aware of what the children have yet to learn. You captured this bitter, sad truth in rhyme…it sounds like a ballad. Love the poignant final line, “They had only each other to love and behold.” Imagine where that laughter, joy, creativity, imagination, and playfulness should lead ….
Stacey, Stacey, Stacey…. your voice and the reality of what a mess this country has been on so many levels is incredible here. The ugly history and the continued “forever be scorned” is so damned painful. The rhythms is this poem carry a strength that lets us feel the cadence of continued wrongs. The lines that nailed this for me …. “a country where nothin’ ain’t never been great” and “equality ain’t even been wrote” and “skin too black and mind too strong” and “Hatred ridin’ behind white sheets.” This history is so real and so godawful, and keeping these images alive and real in this way gives me hope that someday, through these intelligent words and images, surely we can find change. It will be with writers/teachers like you that things will shift. I only wish I could live long enough to see it. I had such high hopes five years ago… and here we sit with this angry, sick, screwed up nation. But you are the hope…and I love you for that. Susie
Wow. Stacey, I’m struggling to form the “right” words to respond. Your use of anaphora creates weight. Your scope from mamas, to schools, to violence, to voting, to living and dying creates weight. And then I tab over to the photo that, on the surface, seems so light: children playing on a child-sized, spindly-wheeled vehicle. The juxtaposition and inevitability are so heartbreaking and honest. Thank you for sharing your words.
Stacey, I hear you! Your poem gives voice to our vulnerable children of every diverse group
I hear so many of our young people who lose their joy once they start school, once they pick up on the real reason a parent is missing, once they begin to n the difference between they are being taught and what they see being lived out around them.
Yet, your use of “yet” gives me hope. Hope there be may yet be opportunities to change the trajectory of their lives. Where there is yet, there is hope.
,
This, right here:
“White men breedin’ their power and hate
In a country where nothin’ ain’t never been great”
I am writing through my tears, Stacey.
After reading your poem, it brought me back to the first time I watched the SNL 2016 election night skit with Dave Chappelle and Chris Rock. The truth in this skit speaks volumes. Sadly, it has taken me too many decades to recognize the truth in that skit and in your words. Did it take the 2016 election to slap more of us in the face with Truth? God forgive us and give us a makeover. We can’t ask for healing, because what would we want to be healed from? It’s in our bones, our blood, our roots. You are right. We have not been great. Yet.
Stacey.
This is perfect. They Haven’t Yet. What a perfect title and the way you use it in anaphor . . . wow.
“But they seen Hatred ridin’ behind white sheets”
I don’t even have the adjectives for how good this is. Wow.
“They haven’t yet died while trying to live
They had only one smile and laugh to give
They had only one hand and hope to hold
They had only each other to love and behold.”
I live this, I laugh this, I hold this, I love this!
Sis, MIC DROP!!!
In response to Emigrants coming to the “Land of Promise”
The Promise
For the man hunched over, weary
head hung down and tense hands clasped
family, friends, vocation left behind
questioning his choice
not quite risking to breathe.
For the woman sitting alone
boldly staring
daring anyone to tell her she
shouldn’t be here
anyone to forbid her
from seeking her dream.
For the boys
huddled together whispering
itching to run out
and take in
new sights, sounds, smells
will it be so different from what they left behind?
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
This promise rang for them
and I pray it still rings today
for the men, women and children
inside and out
secluded and scared
huddled, sheltered in homes
pining for a life they’ve lost
aching to stretch and connect
craving freedom.
Rachel, yes what does this mean today:
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
Your poem pulls me to wondering how children must be feeling today.
“secluded and scared
huddled, sheltered in homes
pining for a life they’ve lost
aching to stretch and connect
craving freedom.”
Praying for us all. Thank you.
Rachel — It is so good to read the tone that asks the kinds of questions that deserve better answers than we have been seeing of late. Even back in this history of “huddled masses” the promise was a scary aspiration…but your voice here is a voice that feels the depth of what that promise means… it “rang for them/and I pray it still rings today.” Me too. Thank you! Susie
Rachel,
I love the way you connect our country’s tradition of immigration for freedom to our current yearning for a new flavor of freedom. A good reminder that if they had the strength then, so too will we now and going forward.
The lines “For the woman sitting alone/boldly staring/daring anyone to tell her she shouldn’t be here” struck me because it made me see the bravery. Often we associate fear with immigration but these lines especially with use of “boldly staring” mad me acknowledge and respect the bravery in taking the risk to move elsewhere. thank you for sharing!
As much as I love reading the poems, I love the responses. This quote from Peter Elbow captures what we are doing here:
http://www.ethicalela.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/04/movie-comments.png
This is one of my favorite places to visit these days! Thanks for the meeting space!
Isn’t this the truth! What a community this is that you have created!
Gayle, you really made me want to WRITE today. Oh, the possibilities! Thank you, thank you! Your poem brilliantly captures the voice of the woman in the photo. I just love the dancing metaphors and the disappointment expressed through the chuckling chickens and singing to the empty fields. This poem is simply a WOW!
I clicked through all the photos…but my heart beat faster with the photo of Alice Paul in 1968. The post about the proposed bill to raze the National Women’s Party Headquarters. Forgive the caps–the formatting might get messed up. I want to emphasize the end words as her quote.
I always feel the movement is a sort of mosaic.
~Alice Paul to Woodrow Wilson May 2019
The gentlemen from Illinois and Texas, I
am certain, have lost their minds. Women have ALWAYS
made way for men. It’s 1968. I FEEL
strength in Sewall-Belmont House. THE
National Women’s Party MOVEMENT
headquarters is a landmark, it IS
not simply ground to lay gravel for A
new Senate driveway on Capital Hill. What SORT
of message does that send to the daughters OF
our work? It would destroy the heart of our MOSAIC
© Linda Mitchell4/7/20 #verselove
Linda, this is incredible, powerful, and so very creative. I love the format of using the end lines to give us the quote. It flows as if you had this written many moons ago. Sometimes I marvel at the beauty of one of my first drafts. So if this is a first draft, I am in awe.
This is #verselove on high for me!
Isn’t that photo great!? She was a force to be reckoned with. Your history lesson is embedded with such grace here, Linda. Her voice sounds out loud and clear, with a tone of disbelief and anger at those who would destroy the Headquarters. Hard to choose which bit is my favorite–I think I like the scorn in the first two lines (setting the stage)–The gentlemen from Illinois and Texas, I am certain, have lost their minds.”
Hands on hips, glaring out at them. Yes.
Linda, How fun that we chose the same photo. I, however, did not do any research on it. Just responded from what I already knew. I can always count on you to teach me something new. Love the golden shovel form for this prompt.
Linda, I am learning so much about Alice Paul today and NWP history, the Sewall-Belmont House, and more. I chose the same photo, and I was clueless when I wrote.
Thank you for this poem. It was a great idea. Does this format for poems have a name? I feel like trying it! It must have taken some time to sort out. Good job sticking with it, and I’m glad you used the caps and pointed it out, so we wouldn’t miss it. This line makes me laugh, albeit sardonically.
“I am certain, [they] have lost their minds. Women have always made way for men. It’s 1968.”
He sat alone
Left his country
His friends
His family behind
To make a life for himself
In the land of promise
With a foreign language
From a foreign country
And nothing but the clothes on his back
He traveled long and far
At 14 years young
All for this so called promise
That was not guaranteed
Maybe what he seeked at first
Was not what he found later
Maybe the promise and purpose he was looking for
Changed as he lived through it
Maybe his new promise was to meet someone
Fall in love
Have a family with
Have a future with
And possibly pass down to later generations
To possibly have his great-granddaughter
Look at his journey so many years later,
See it as unbelievable courage
And take that new promise he made,
Live through it,
And write a poem about it
Yessss, Paige! Wow, the ending says it all. Is this what we must do now?
“Live through it,
And write a poem about it.” I believe with all my heart that is what we must do.
Thank you for speaking to my heart through your poem. I know the picture, it speaks to me as well.
Paige, It is interesting how looking back makes us look around,. Your lines,
To possibly have his great-granddaughter
Look at his journey so many years later,
See it as unbelievable courage
And take that new promise he made,
Live through it,
And write a poem about it.
suggest that the ancestor would be proud that you have grown, gotten and education, and are inspired to write that it was worth it grandfather. I’m living a version of your dream.
In Response to Young boys harassing the first African American family to move into the all-white neighborhood (1963)
Perseverance
Burning, Blazing, Flaming
Red-hot and deep-seeded is their hatred.
Hatred of our skin.
Hatred of our race.
Hatred of me.
Why they hate me so, I will never know.
I followed their laws, worshiped their God, cared for their kin, and yet,
I am treated like a sin.
But I will not be cast out any longer.
I will show them that I am stronger,
Stronger than any building,
Stronger than Iron, Steel, and Chrome.
And I will start, by making this house my home.
Malachi,
The gerunds in the first line, the “ing” repeating bring movement, urgency in real time to this place, and then you bring in color — red, but then implied in skin, race. It becomes personal with the “me” pronoun, and then I want to know the speaker. The rhetorical questions of “why” echo without an answer. And then there is the shift, “but.” I love this part because the speaker is being brave in this burning, blazing as “iron, steel, Chrome.” Wow!
Peace,
Sarah
Malachi, thank you for this beautiful, beautiful response to the hateful photo. The speaker in this poem gives me strength, gives me hope in our neighborhoods and world becoming a better home. And, this poem is written without one word of hate in response. That indeed, is real strength. Bravo!
Your words “I followed their laws, worshipped their god, cared for their kin, and yet, I am treated like a sin.” really moved me because it’s true that all the supposed “good things” that came from. colonization were all just a way to strip others of their cultural identity and weaken them as a people.
Malachi, this gave me chills. First, I read the anger, the passion. Then I noticed the repetition and the strength it lends to the message. Then the rhyme scheme snuck in to my consciousness from the side. But the part that resounds is the end–“Stronger than Iron, Steel and Chrome (love the caps) And I will start by making this house my home.” What power this poem carries, and how beautifully you “read” the photo.
I thought I had missed commenting on your poem–gotta remember to hit refresh next time! (At least I didn;t say exactly the same thing twice!)
Malachi–what a strong poem this is! You move from hurt and anger to a challenge–“Stronger than any building/Stronger than Iron, Steel, and Chrome (love the emphasis of the caps!)/And I will start by making this house my home.” The subtle, powerful difference between house and home is amazing–you will defend your home with all your ability–homes are forever.
Malachi,
This is a very powerful and heartfelt poem. The lines “I followed their laws, worshipped their God, cared for their kin, and yet, I am treated like a sin” are so disheartening, but unfortunately come from painful truth. It hurts my heart, but your poem brought light to that situation with your powerful words of resilience. Great job!
Welcome, Malachi!
Glad to have more male voices joining the chorus in this community of aspiring poets and passionate educators. These lines show we better watch out! Malachi is here with a prophetic word.
But I will not be cast out any longer.
I will show them that I am stronger,
Stronger than any building,
Stronger than Iron, Steel, and Chrome.
And I will start, by making this house my home.
Malachi — I so love the strength in the voice that proclaims “I will not be cast out… I am stronger..stronger…stronger…I will start by making this house my home.” It’s an AMEN moment here. The contrast between the ugly hatred, hatred, hatred and the beautiful strength in the last half is that message of hope… “perseverance” is a remarkable strength. Wonderful poem. Thanks, Susie
In Response to Washington, D.C. Public Schools – Classroom Scene, 1899
It is odd to see
a classroom in black and white
with desks holding students and
a teacher sharing ideas.
But, should it be
in the time of COVID-19
we come to grips with
a new version (vision) of school.
One that invites without
judgment, penalty, or blame.
On screens,
students and teachers
find themselves learning.
Not because they have to,
but because they want to.
I am grateful for this moment
to learn, write, and share
for the love of learning.
Together.
I now see online learning in a new way after reading your poem because I now realize that even though the school systems haven’t given us any word on how we’re going to finish out education, the teachers are still doing their best to deliver a learning environment to their students.
I love your positive take on online learning! Thank you 🙂 It really does seem to make learning more of a choice than it sometimes is in the traditional school environment. This also makes me think – what would the people in the 1899 picture think if they saw a picture of school in April 2020?
You know, many classrooms look very similar to this one in the basic ways—desks in a row, teachers in charge—minus the chalk dust. Your poem makes me think about what has not changed, what should be kept, adn what might be left behind when all this craziness is over.What will education look like when we are finished. “the love of learning”–that really is what it all SHOULD be about, isn’t it? Beautiful thoughts here.
Andy,
I also wrote about this photo and I love your take on it. Crazy how much can change with the education system and what we can do with technology now to stay updated in school. I like your ideas about how school today is a lot less judgemental compared to back in the day. Really great poem! Thanks for sharing.
Andy, your positive stance will help many see us through these times. Your willing to see this as a time of “learning” not just “telling” will see you through, too.
I am grateful for this moment
to learn, write, and share
for the love of learning.
Together.
Andy, you raise a great point. I hadn’t thought of the WANT TO versus the HAVE TO. While this is not the way we’ve envisioned learning, it is a disruptive change that will up-end many commonly held perceptions and perhaps improve our attitudes and work ethics about learning. I am grateful for this moment, too.
Hey Andy! Good to see you here, writing and sharing. “Because they want to” is a vivid statement that makes me wonder about what will we learn from all of this.
Andy thank you for sharing! The lines “One that invites without judgment, penalty, or blame” stuck me and really changed my perspective on this world on online learning and teaching. For so much of it, I have felt is a change but this made me reflect on using it as a tool for connection and trying new things with my students.
Wow! This is so timely. Way to connect these moments of the past with those of the present. So much has truly become black and white these past few weeks of quarantine. I especially love the lines “One that invites without/judgment, penalty, or blame.” It’s just so relatable and true. While this time is so very difficult, I am grateful too for these opportunities to teach and to learn. “Together!” Yes!
Andy,
Your poem and the subsequent comments really have my brain churning. I love the concept of students learning because they WANT to.
We are finding in our school corporation that these days of eLearning are truly revealing the haves versus have nots. The homes without reliable or any internet. The homes without parents even asking if they’ve done their homework.
That is one of the things that is SO wonderful about our little community here . . . we all WANT to be here.
What’s interesting too is that there are two world wars between the subjects of this picture and us, the viewers, yet we still gather to learn with a teacher using desks and boards. I wonder what learning will look like in another 120 years?
(DC Schoolroom)
I fall into a distant memory
One I cannot call my own
Of a world that seemed much smaller then
Where our desks seemed more like thrones
Remember when your only worry
Was how hard your mother would pull your hair
Or whether a rabbit would hop off your desk?
Maybe not
But someone does
Nikola,
The first line brings me alongside the speaker, watching them reflect on a shared time. I wonder about the desks and how old the memory is, how old the speaker is, and who sat in the those desks beside the speaker. And then the speaker talks to someone, the intended audience. The “you” is so familiar. Only a friend would know about the hair pulling and the rabbit. The speaker is the someone who remembers when others do not. And then I know the speaker of the poem is asking me, the reader, to remember, too.
I am moved,
Sarah
This poem took me to a very different place. There is a peace and sense of contentment in your words. Our world was so much smaller then, wasn’t it? I love the line, our desks seemed more like thrones” That encapsulates what a good learning experience is. (Some thrones were lovelier than others for me…) Thank you for the moment of zen in today’s world.
Nikola,
I love hearing your thoughts on this photograph. I think it is so true that although neither of us were living back then. I can almost feel exactly how it would be to sit in those chairs in that classroom. Something about that is comforting, but also a bit odd. I really enjoy your line “Where our desks seemed more like thrones” because it evokes a feeling of privilege that was implemented back then. I like our system of education a lot more now. Thanks for your thoughts!
I love the touchstones to a simpler time with fewer worries – the hair braids or the rabbit getting away.
Your brief poem is a window into a much more complex situation – nice work!
Washington, DC public schoolroom (1899).
We used to be here
We learned and laughed together
Soon we will again
Wow, Adam! That first line we “used” to be here. The past tense is haunting, and I want to know what happened and who the “we” is. All the past tense in this poem, makes me feel some grief, loss until the last line that has “will,” which means hope. But I wonder when and if the speaker is optimistic or fooling themselves?
Peace,
Sarah
Adam,
I love your use of haiku! What a perfect fit with an ekphrastic poem, because it captures the image and the emotion of the moment. I look forward to the last line. Indeed, “Soon we will again” learn side-by-side. =)
Your poem made me smile. Thank you for sharing it! I love this haiku because in a few syllables, you have brought inspiration and life back into my day. Looking forward – onward and upward.
The simplicity of your Haiku shows past and future and gives us all hope that we will indeed return to the land of laughter and learning alongside one another.
What a pithy pleasant reminder that “this too shall pass.”
I am just curious, teachers. In your state standards for English language arts, how many times does the word “poetry” come up — across all grade levels?
In this podcast, two pre-service teachers talk about poetry curriculum and why in thirteen grades of English language arts standards, the word “poetry” is found only once, and it is in the appendix, not in a standard.
I am also now curious. Our standards are printed in a binder at school so I have no access to them currently (private school). But I do believe poetry is part of ours.
For California, Common Core ELA for grade 4 says “Read grade-level prose and poetry orally with accuracy, appropriate rate, and expression on successive readings.” But it starts with reading and comprehending stories and poetry as early as 2nd grade, stops after 5th grade. Then picks back up in 11th grade where it says “analyze multiple interpretations…”
I could look it up, but I’m too lazy right now. I think poetry falls under the “literature” umbrella, but I don’t believe it has the honor of an actual mention. (which allows those of us t love it to use it, adn for others to pretend it doesn’t matter)
Sarah,
Idaho no longer has standards. The legislature voted to abolish them this session. I wish I were kidding. I know many teachers bash on AP classes, but AP Lit is one third poetry, and although creative writing isn’t part of that curriculum, many of us teach (taught) students to write poetry. The student who emailed me requesting books last week also asked for poetry, do I included three collections in the bag of books I delivered to him. I also taught poetry in speech as part of our speech curriculum, and I know many students studied more poetry in our speech classes than in their English. classes.
—glenda
In Nevada, I am pleasantly surprised that the actual word “poetry” is stated explicitly 9 times for ELA grades 1-12 as a type of “literature” appropriate for each grade level.
I just did a control F for “poem” and “poetry” on the webpage for the Indiana Academic Standards. Zero. Nothing. Nada. Yet another reason why I don’t give much if any attention to revolving my instruction around those standards. Sad, sad, sad.
“The Playground”
We never had a choice,
forced.
Punishment was the alternative,
pain.
We lived in fear
Only in these moments,
scared.
They told us to have fun,
fun?
Being terrified to do wrong,
is our fun?
The Phrase “Being terrified to do wrong, is our fun?” got me thinking about the flaws in our school system because we as students are so frequently told that there are only right or wrong answers, and that punishment awaits those who consistently get the wrong ones.
Jodie,
I am so intrigued by the “we” and who was threatening them with punishment. I want to know how they were so brave. It feels like the “we” was complying in the body but not the mind. The tone of the speaker feels defiant like the punishers had access to their bodies and space but could not take their minds.
Sarah
Whoa! I am so fascinated at your interpretation of the photo, which went a very different direction than mine…which shows you how great and diverse this world is, the power of perception. I can see your truth! “We never had a choice, force.” I see that now! I like the rhythm of your words, the long phrase followed by a blunt, singular word. Thank you for this!
A Poem of Emigration
Crowded,
Loud,
And Filthy
A hundred voices to drown out my own.
A hundred pairs of feet
Shuffling around on the deck
Just like me.
They left a place of squalor
That was Crowded,
Loud,
And Filthy.
Where there was no chance of success,
No chance of safety,
No chance.
We walk off the boat at last,
A single mass floating towards its destiny.
And I realized that destiny, too, was Crowded,
Loud,
And Filthy.
And yet,
I’ve never felt more free.
This is great, Robin! The repetition of “Loud, / And Filthy” was a wonderful juxtaposition to the last two lines, “And yet, / I’ve never felt more free.” The phrase started me thinking about that although things may seem chaotic, there are also opportunities. In this case, freedom. =)
I LOVE how you position yourself in this poem, just a single voice speaking out from the mass, imagining how one individual might be feeling. I also love the line near the end: “And I realized that destiny, too, was Crowded.” So much captured in a few words. Beautiful!
We are water and oil
Opposites made to forever toil
Persons of backgrounds unalike
And yet we combine perfectly
An emulsion for the ages, yes
I cover you and you cover me
Our differences become our strengths
And they will set us free
For work is not work with love
I have weak hands that cannot bring life
You have strong hands for driving through our strife
But the weak must cover for the rough
And the strong for the tender
Together we are one, united in our splendor
Whoops i misunderstood the directions and did it to your picture
oh well
CD0897520938475093284570932845,
First, I love seeing another poem based on the laundry photo. I’m fascinated by how we respond differently to the same photo. That is, w/ no rules it’s impossible to write wrong. Some of the images and phrases that pop for me are “water and oil,” “emulsion.” I also love the contrasting hand imagery and the rhythm of the rhyme. Thank you.
—glenda
CD0897520938475093284570932845,
When you wrote, “An emulsion for the ages,” I felt a sense that went beyond a mere combination of unlike backgrounds. It was an inextricable connection which you tied together beautifully in the last line, “Together we are one, united in our splendor.” Thank you for sharing. =)
Gayle,
I loved your poem of this “lonely in love life.”
Each of the phrases spoke directly to the photo.
What an inspiration!
Anna,
What a great poem! I could feel your angst as the boy in the middle took over and pushed his way into the limelight.
I loved how you showed the little girl taking a stand. It reminded me of Maya Angelou’s poem, ” Still I Rise!”.
An inspiration today- thank you.
https://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/cph.3c15416/
It’s just a movie
Lonely
This is good for life?
Judged
Think again
Valuable
Created in God’s image
Persevere
One day mercy will come
Choosing
To hope and to love
Entertained
It’s a great movie!
Such a cool form to use in this poem! (Now I want to try it!) I found myself stringing all of the one word lines together: lonely, judged, valuable, persevere, choosing, entertained. “Choosing” stands out the strongest to me. What a journey to go through, walking up a flight of stairs. Thanks for taking us along!!
A Century later
Herstory
Is still Being
Written, stopped, busted
Ms. Paul’s insight,
“I always feel the movement
is a sort of mosaic.”
Pieces
Are generational
Stand With her
Connect the mosaic
Interlock arms
Sway those hips
Inherit shequality
Smiles get you nowhere
A feminine stance
Bridges power
Births the next segment of
Of the montage
It will never end
But it won’t stop
*In response to: http://feminist.org/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/10703760_10203183024680010_2207000059778354452_n.jpg
I love it! This is the photo I wrote to as well. And, I chose this quote to accompany it as well. The idea of passing on the strength is strong. I love the herstory and shequality….and, “smiles get you nowhere.” This makes me the think of, “you’d be pretty if you smiled more” message that women still fight. Wonderful take on this prompt.
Your ending is super powerful. Love “It will never end
But it won’t stop”
Thanks, Gayle. The *photo of the children playing got me going this morning.
That’s Me!
That’s me, the tall girl in the middle.
I made that car.
Now that big boy wants to fiddle.
Fiddle out in front, like he the star.
It was me who drew the design by the fires;
Now here come that boy, slick as a fox.
I’m the one who screwed on those tires.
It was me, not he, who painted the box.
He pretend it’s his invention.
But I have no intention
Of letting him get away with that.
He keep that up, I’ll smash his hat
Right down over his face!
He’d betta treat me with grace
Or I’ll never let him even ride my next car.
You better believe it. He’ll see what girls are.
That’s me in the middle, standing in back.
And that’s my car and that’s a fact.
I’m stepping out front. I’m taking my place.
And you! Wipe that smirk right offa your face!
*Inspired by Group of African American children playing (1900?)
https://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/hec.30313/
Anna, what is so captivating – besides the great message – is that you bring such heartfelt voice to this picture. Such truth about what is happening and the feelings. My favorite line is “You better believe it. He’ll see what girls are,” but what I love most is your sass and wit. “He keep that up, I’ll smash his hat.” Your style here makes us all want to run up into this picture and raise you up concert-style and parade you around with a banner so that no one is “confused” about who is the star here. We’ll help you show HIM!
Anna–what voice!! Your words jumped off the page and into my ear! Best line for me–“He keep that up, I’ll smash his hat/Right down over his face” The details of the picture are clearly visible in your words. (That’s my car and that’s a fact!)
This speaks to the informal, intuitive feminism of a young girl who knows her worth and is willing to defend it. As a reader, I feel this most in the last stanza, which encapsulates what your poem is all about. The first line of the stanza places me back in the present and brings me back to the photo that inspired your piece. The second line creates history and character, while the third line imagines the girl’s future of standing up for herself. The last line surprised me by confronting the reader directly and demanding respect not only from her friends but also from the audience. I thought that was a very clever way to pull the reader into the scene and remind us that she deserves to be taken seriously, not to be chuckled at and seen as naive or childish. It’s a very effective end to this charming piece.
Anna — I LOVED this poem. It was so rich with voice and rightful sense that this voice was smart, sassy, and knew how to “step out front…taking my place.” I LOVED that. As I read this our loud, I couldn’t help but hear that “I have no intention/of letting him get away with that”….the strength of that. Good! Quite a lovely righteous piece! Thank you! Susie
Anna,
Like most teachers I suspect, I struggle with getting kids to develop VOICE, but they can typically identify it when it’s present. Wow, does this ever have voice!! Can I have your permission to share it with my students when I need an example of voice?
The press will be here tomorrow.
YOU LET US DOWN
Good, make sure DOWN is hefty.
WE HAD FAITH IN YOU BUT NOW?
That ? is everything, but your sign curls.
Is This America?
Underline, yes. Some espresso?
PUBLIC before PRIVATE ENTERPRISE??
Double ??, nice. It’s getting late.
Our home, our homes.
And Gino’s butcher shop, closed.
And Frank’s fruit stand, closed.
He prayed with us at Holy Guardian,
made blessings for our Little Italia
betrayed us for UIC, uprooting
our loyalty. And so we must march.
DALEY IS A DICTATOR!
Carry your signs high, ladies.
WHAT IS JUSTICE?
And fasten your scarves for wind.
WHAT IS A HEAD WITHOUT A HEART??
Oh, we have both.
City hall, here we come.
https://cdn.wbez.org/image/f1252ea4e58560d19717e81b8aff722a
Sarah–even before I clicked on your link to see the picture, I knew what would be there. I heard the clamoring voices–the rage and the focus on detail, mixed.. And I especially liked the practical note–fasten your scarves for wind. That is so very true of all women’s movements–principal and practicality, side by side. Oh, we have both. The rallying cry.
Sarah, I’m enjoying the conversation as the ladies make the signs, deciding what should be bold or underlined, and the back story of how this picture came to be – – the conversations that took place. I think the line that most resonates with me is “And fasten your scarves for wind.” Because they knew there would be pushback, but they were ready – whatever the cost – to take a stand. I also love WHAT IS A HEAD WITHOUT A HEART?? and the way you made some lines heftier than others to emphasize the signs. The stories in the pictures are so inspiring – -reading how we all perceive them.
Sarah – I love the history of this woven with the reality that we still march with some identical messages (Is this America?). The placards and the reality of the backdrop of closed shops… the struggle comes through so clearly in the voice of your poem. “We must march.” And, indeed, we feel both head and heart. This is a terrific way for students to draw themselves into their own history, feeling what those before us felt. Wonderful! Thank you! Susie
The line, “And fasten your head scarves for wind.” was the key line for me. I think it could even be a title. All of this protest depended on the strong women in this photo. Beautiful take on this prompt.
Sarah,
Love the conversation that offers only one voice which/ the other implied. The all-caps forces me to hear the shouting. And even though the poem responds to the photo of marchers, I can’t help but read it in context of this moment in time. These lines parallel now:
“ Our home, our homes.
And Gino’s butcher shop, closed.
And Frank’s fruit stand, closed.”
I love the way this complicates the poem and laterz the past in the preset times. Thank you.
—glenda
“Young boys harassing the first African American family to move into the all-white neighborhood”
Last night I dreamed I saw a
young Don harassing the first
African American family
moving into his all-white
neighborhood. He stretched
tiny fists in raised rage,
spittle foaming from his mouth—
a circle wrapped around his hate—
bellowing a bubbling brew,
feeding a klan of kreepy kids,
misfits like him from a
Flannery O’Connor short story
who believe in jesus and justice,
just not the god of love. His
barbed-wire words stretch
like a cabled line reaching across
history into infinity,
still measuring others
not by “the content of their
character but by the color of
their skin,” their “shit-hole” homes.
Now a squinting shadow
stands spewing and shoveling
the same slop, while
around the resolute desk
the boys swarm.
“He ain’t learned nothing.”
And so it goes.
Who knew in this
child a good man
would be so
hard to find?
*Additional inspiration from Eve Ewing’s “I saw Emmitt Till this week at the grocery store,” and Lorraine Hansbury’s “A Raisin in the Sun.”
—glenda funk
klan of kreepy kids – this placement of the three k’s! Barb-wire words, circle wrapped around his hate, squinting shadow spewing and shoveling – these word images work are clear, evocative, disturbing He is truly the squinting shadow, unable to see what we see and only a shadow of any other president. Thank you for giving us this powerful look.
Glenda,
My “favorite” lines are “feeding a klan of kreepy kids” (yes, ew) and “barbed-wire words stretch
like a cabled line reaching across history into infinity” – a perfect way to describe how hurtful, damaging his shouting really was. I can feel it.
Glenda,
This poem is an argument for creative writing in schools. To see a photography and imagine into the space with context in every word, turn of phrase. The synthesis of sources. The allusions.
bellowing a bubbling brew,
feeding a klan of kreepy kids,
misfits like him from a
Flannery O’Connor short story
who believe in jesus and justice,
This part is so powerful. The lack of capital in klan resists it and the lack of capital in Jesus refuses them such an excuse.
Moving, moved,
Sarah
Glenda–this is a surprising take on that photo–bringing that hatred forward into today’s uglier-than-before world “His barbed-wire words stretch like a cabled line reaching across history into infinity,” Wow. Your choice of words and the alliteration (lots of “s’ sounds–a nasty hiss) add a viciousness to your poem. (Wasn’t that photo chilling? The hate on those young boys’ faces!) Young Don, indeed. History is repeating itself.
I am standing up! Applause, applause! This is so clever the way you took O’Connor’s story and brought in a good man is hard to find. A young Don with tiny fists conjures such imagery. Oh, I can’t even imagine……and I also think the “I Dreamed” feeds right into the MLK dream that is so opposite of everything happening in the poem. That question at the end, though. Oh, that just seals the message like hot wax. I adore everything about this.
Oh, yes! Glenda, you have captured the mess with a strong voice that shoves us to pay attention. The power lines for me were these … “tiny fists in raised rage,
spittle foaming from his mouth—
a circle wrapped around his hate”
and
“who believe in jesus and justice,
just not the god of love”
and
“barbed-wire words”
and
“squinting shadow
stands spewing and shoveling
the same slop,”
and then ending with the reality of “a good man” being hard to find. Well done, my friend! Thank you, Susie
I’m so glad you wrote to this prompt. The photograph moved me but I was at a loss as to how to put my feelings into a poem. Of course, young Don is it. Isn’t it? We know this boy as a boy and as a leader and by his very famous words. What a strong statement this poem makes. Your last stanza is so true, and so haunting.
Stunning. To open with young Don, is to bring this photo right smack back to our present, which is not so hard to believe. [When I saw it, I thought immediately of that photo from a year or so ago, young white male yelling at Native Americans, on the National Mall.] Time has not changed things much at all. These words “believe in jesus and justice /just not the god of love” fill me with sadness for their honesty, leave me thinking about how faith should really be lived, what love looks like. Love the alliterative words, love the three lower case k’s – taking away power in that trio of letters. Thank you for this!
Glenda,
Your poetry is sooo good it makes me not even want to add mine into the strand! This one, in particular, is awe-inspiring. The allusions and sound devices pack a powerful punch, but it’s the ideas that really make this work.
Like many commenters, I especially appreciate “his
barbed-wire words stretch
like a cabled line reaching across
history into infinity,”
[Young boys harassing the Horace Baker family, the first African American family to move into the all white Delmar Village neighborhood of Folcroft, Pennsylvania]
Apology to the Family of Horace Baker
Fast forward 57 years,
another angry old white man
hating, primed by ignorance and fear,
carried six decades forward
with a thirst for white privilege,
a mutilation of the 2nd amendment,
a disregard for truth,
a legacy of bias,
a haunting sneer at democracy
and the common good,
and the utter incapacity for decency:
the shame of America.
by Susie Morice©
Susie,
You are my muse. You’ll see what I mean if you read my poem. I love the way you took the photo into the future. All we need do is make the young boy old. Of course that list is spot on. *sigh* But knowing we’re in the same side makes me feel better.I just wish the human virus would disappear. Thank you.
—glenda
Taking the past image and setting it into the present emphasizes how a learned behavior is carried forward, through many generations. Your word choices showcase that hatred (mutilation, disregard, sneer, shame). The shame of America indeed!
Susie,
Apologies abound in this one. Photograph after photography, there is someone of privilege and ignorance in power exploiting and violating human beings. And this “Fast forward 57 years” and this “another angry old white man/hating” and this “mutilation” and this “incapacity for decency” — it all robs of dignity.
I am disgusted yet wrapped in the beauty of your phrasing as a protective blanket,
Sarah
Susie–you and Glenda!! “carried six decades forward”…I really didn’t believe that the world could be as mean and ugly as it apparently has become. What was I missing before, or ignoring–or was it buried, just waiting to sprout that ugly weed we call our government right now? The thirst for white privilege, the shame of America. Indeed.
Susie, what a picture! I can see the haunting sneer at democracy. Wouldn’t it be interesting if, like in Harry Potter, the pictures were to come alive and allow us a brief conversation with the past? What a great perspective – – a 57-year-overdue apology to the family of Horace Baker. Pictures often hold far more regrets than good memories, don’t they?
Is it OK to simply respond to your work with an, AMEN? I hope so. Amen. It’s true. It’s true. It’s true. And, we must change this truth.
The sharpness and biting lines of your poem brought me goosebumps! I love “and the utter incapacity of decency: the shame of America.” It resonates with me because I often find it difficult to feel patriotic or proud of being a citizen in this country. With immigrant parents, there is a rift and disconnect that exists with me and my white peers. It’s not always repairable. Thank you for your poem.
Alice Paul at the Seward-Belmont House: http://feminist.org/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/10703760_10203183024680010_2207000059778354452_n.jpg – I chose this one because I KNOW that look! I’ve seen it too many times. And those were the looks that ultimately saved my life.
The Principal and the Preacher’s Daughter
Kimberly Lynn Haynes!
Why are you back here in my office again today?
Your daddy would be so ashamed of you!
Lean across that desk.
You know how this works.
Whack!
For stealing a box of chalk from Mrs. Sharpe’s class so you could play school at home.
Whack!
For ripping up Dawn Taylor’s lunch tickets and hiding them in the trash and blaming April Hudson.
Whack!
For writing a fake confession on April’s desk – in Mrs. Sharpe’s lipstick from her desk drawer.
Whack!
For daring Marvin Pirtle to pee in the soap dish and going in the boys’ bathroom to check the evidence.
Whack!
For playing a harmonica to add dramatic emphasis and trying to remain mysteriously undetected when Mrs. Myers was at the board teaching math.
Whack!
For going through Mrs. Myers’ desk to take back the harmonica she took from you when you were detected.
Whack!
For inciting a class chant for Randy Howard to “Take off your pants, Randy,” when his butt was itching because he forgot to rinse off the soap from his morning shower.
Whack!
For climbing the fence at recess and picking the kumquats from Mr. and Mrs. Gibson’s tree and then distributing the stolen goods.
Whack!
For offering to roll Karl Lewis in the tire at recess and deliberately rolling him into a tree.
Whack!
For sneaking Queenie Peavy home and finishing the class read-aloud ahead of time so you could give spoilers.
Whack!
And one for good measure. For being a preacher’s kid and not setting a better example. Let’s see if this can straighten you out for a day!
Kim,
I’ve known some PKs in my lifetime, but you may be the naughtiest one ever. My husband wanted to know why I was laughing. This is so funny. Did you really talk a boy into peeing in the soap dish? That needs to be in a MS novel. I laughed at rolling the tire in the tree and the kid taking off his pants, too. You must have been hell on wheels, my friend. The repetition of “whack” is so effective. Maybe you need a restorative circle. ? ??? I love this poem. Thank you.
—glenda
Ohhhh! What a mischievous imp you were! This had me laughing all the way through, though you may not have found these funny at the time. I’m glad you had fun with this image. I was going to do something about busts with it but chickened out – you, on the other hand, went for it, not surprisingly, based on what we’ve learned here. So hard to pick a favorite, but I really loved the dramatic playing of the harmonica and checking the boy’s bathroom soap dish. Oh, and sneaking home the book for spoiler drops. Too fun!
Kim,
Love the “whack” and I smiled in parts and cringed at others — a little PTSD coming back for me. But how specific in this images, Miss Kim?
How many Randy’s have you known, ” when his butt was itching because he forgot to rinse off the soap from his morning shower.” Love this but also really feel for Randy.
Sarah
OH MY GOSH, Kim, you were hilarious… what a marvelous little stinker you were…. I’m thinking still are… whack or no whack… I know that behind that “look” in the picture, that ol’ lady had to stifle the laugh at this wonderful little girl, so full of vinegar! The repetition of “whack” had that uglier side… whacking kids is so mean… but just the same, you were so in charge of yourself, so full of baloney and stinker-ness. The verbs: stealing – could play; ripping – hiding – blaming; daring; playing; inciting; climbing; distributing; offering; rolling; sneaking …. being! Just the trajectory of a wonderful kid… and wonderful teacher and writer. Super! Thanks building a lifetime of great stories here. Susie
Whack!! I could hear the ruler!! If this is all true, you are the best PK I have ever met (and I’ve known some challenging ones). My favorites–the harmonica duo and the lipstick/confession incident. I have to admire your ingeniousness. Want to come hang at my house? I think we could have a really good time!
Wow! This is quite a list! Just when you think the whacks will end, there’s another reason – and a hilarious one at that. Thanks for the laughs! I love the bit about taking the home to read in order to spoil it for the others. There are so many stories in each stanza of this poem – they could serve as entire chapters in a novel that I really want to read!
Gayle, that has to be such a true poem for that lady. Your poem and the picture makes me think of Green Acres – the place to be, farm livin’ is the life for me…….I can so hear Mrs. Foster saying all those things as she works those overalls. This is a fun, fun prompt, and I can’t wait to read these for today. Thank you for stretching us and growing us as writers.
Girls’ playground, Harriet Island, St. Paul, MN (1905)
We were young adventurers
Swingers
Climbers
Risk takers
The fuss and prim
did not prevent us from reaching
places unexpected.
Our faces full of determination
and spunk,
we watched as one or two,
the first of us,
moved beyond the earth’s hold,
testing the boundaries of gravity,
pulling from inner strength and
proving what we all knew we could do.
We had stars in our eyes
A handhold on the future
Saw glimpses of what could be
And latched on.
Jennifer—I think my favorite line is “the fuss and prim /did not prevent us from reaching/places unexpected.” This was so true in both a physical and symbolic sense. This was such a time of change for women. “Saw glimpses of what could be—and latched on”—that is exactly what they did!
Jennifer,
Love the strength of women celebrated in your poem. Wonderful words: “ Swingers / Climbers / Risk takers.” The final image is a glorious reminder of all the women who keep pushing in and cracking that glass ceiling:
“We had stars in our eyes
A handhold on the future
Saw glimpses of what could be
And latched on.” Love this. Love the positive message. Thank you.
—glenda
Jennifer, I stared at this picture for a long while and almost chose it because there is so much going on (as there always is with girls). You brought such insight to this. I like the double-entendre of swingers and the faces full of determination and spunk. I also think about my own life (after I was mostly cured of being such a brat)- – watching others before making decisions. Your line “We watched as one or two, the first of us, moved beyond the earth’s hold, testing the boundaries of gravity, proving…” And then the rest followed suit. Such a picture of growing up and how we always watched those older than we were to set the example for us. I love the story that you tell about this picture!
Oh to be a Swinger, a Climber again! I love the lines “The fuss and prim/did not prevent us from reaching/places unexpected.” The fact that these girls are expected to be one thing, yet they keep reaching, dreaming, and “proving what we all knew we could do.” Thanks for giving me that extra push that I needed tonight to keep moving on.
Gayle, wow! You pulled so much from that photo. The image sat in the background as I entered into the narrator’s voice. The description of the dance partners is perfection. And the sounds- her singing, chuckling chickens (yes, they do chuckle though I’d never thought of it that way before now!) – how I love them as well.
Gayle,
The repetition of “This is not what I bargained for, Mr. Foster” frames the poem beautifully and is so appropriate for an ekphrastic poem based on a photo. I find ambiguity in Mrs. Foster’s voice. Is she talking to the real Mr. Foster, or is she talking to the laundry? Having hung up my share of laundry as a kid (We never had an electric dryer.) I can see both. My favorite part of the poem is the personification of the upside down pants as dance partner. And the breeze staying home seems to suggest nothing about the speaker’s life will change, leaving the poem w/ a dejected, lonely tone. Knowing the photo is from 1938 locates both photo and poem during the Great Depression, so I can’t help but think Mrs. Foster is more fortunate than most. This really is an extraordinary poem. Thank you.
—glenda
Gayle – I totally loved your poem…the ruminations of the Mrs. as we imagine the man who wore those overalls. The image of “handstands” and the “slouching.” It brought to mind the latest book of poetry from St. Louis poet laureate, Jane Ellen Ibur, in which she writes the poems of those “Mrs” in poems about Mrs. Noah…Really hilarious and fascinating. The collection is called The Little Mrs./Misses (with a slash mark through Mrs.). I highly recommend the book. My favorite is Mrs. Tarzan. This is a fun prompt! Thank you, Susie
Gayle, I love these lines: “I could not understand the weight of that word” and “Lonely in our new love.”
Your personification is wonderful and highlights the loneliness very well. I love it! Thanks for sharing.
Picture: “Negro going in colored entrance of movie house on Saturday afternoon, Belzoni, Mississippi Delta, Mississippi”
Here is an image I made with poem on picture: https://drive.google.com/open?id=10hTLkXqPsqXhydv0VkuOcnk20CtA8eoT
The shot is wide
Black surrounded by white
So I gotta enter on the other side
Hughes, you wrote this, you were right
Life ain’t no crystal stair for us. Just a height
Of separation. This photo here captures the divide
I’m the figure in the middle, I’m the feature in this picture
But I’m not the star of my own show. This is not my world at all.
I’ll walk on up, see the film, then descend this long staircase and I’ll
Know the design they had in mind all along. Build you up and watch you fall.
I made a thing with the poem on the picture but don’t know how to share.
I’d love to see it. Maybe you could Tweet it and share your Twitter handle with us? Your poem is so well crafted with the allusion to Langston Hughes and built like a stair way down. This history of racism shames me. I’ve recently listened to Stamped by Jason Reynolds. It’s an amazing recount of the history of racism in our country. I wish we could change it. I hope it is, but all too slowly.
I don’t have a Twitter! Dark ages!! Haha. I’ll figure out a way though 🙂
Hi, Angie,
If you save it in your google drive, you can share the link to your google drive, or you can email me, and I will try to convert it and paste it here.
Sarah, sarah.j.donovan9@gmail.com
Angie—the incorporation of one of my favorite poems, “Mother to Son” is perfection. “This is not my world at all…I’ll know the design they had in mind. Build you up and watch you fall.” The physical shape of the poem and the skillful rhyme and word choice—so many ingredients to respect here! With your permission, I would like to add this poem to my lesson plan on Hughes poetry.
Thank you, Gayle. I will try to get you the picture I made and yes, you have my permission. *Honored*
Angie, you have created a poem that visually reflects the climb, which I love, both for its impact and the simplicity. You nailed it in the last line – build you up and watch you fall. I had been toying with this idea before reading your piece but you did it so much better that I could have. Pulling in Hughes’s line works perfectly as well. Well done!
Angie,
I too thought about Langston Hughes when I saw that photo and am thrilled to see the allusion in your poem. That last line is a gut punch, “build you up and watch you fall,” but it is the reality of institutional racism. Thank you.
—glenda
Angie, I love the concreteness of this poem – – that line of the long staircase – – build you up and watch you fall. Your poem takes the shape of a staircase, and what a great message!
I really liked your poem a lot. I also love the stairs that you made with the poem itself and I didn’t think of that and I think that is very clever.