Our #OpenWrite Host
Amy Ludwig VanDerwater is author of several children’s books including Write! Write! Write! (Boyds Mills/Kane), With My Hands (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt), and the forthcoming That Missing Feeling (Magination). Also author of the professional book Poems Are Teachers (Heinemann), Amy has taught writing for over twenty years, lives in an old farmhouse full of projects, and blogs at The Poem Farm and Sharing Our Notebooks. Find her on Twitter and Instagram @amylvpoemfarm.
Inspiration
First, please read and print if you wish: “Once the World Was Perfect” by Joy Harjo at The Poetry Foundation. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/141846/once-the-world-was-perfect
Poems often tell stories, factual, imaginary, mystical or a combination. Through the lines of Harjo’s “Once the World Was Perfect,” readers follow a story through history, traveling through time from another day to today, from once to now. Line-by-line we journey from hopelessness to hope as the characters in this poem choose one way to live and then another. The last word of the poem is you, inviting us to make this story ours, to invite this possibility of giving into our lives.
Process
Think of or invent a story that includes a time before and a time after. You may choose to mix reality with imagination. If you wish, begin by listing times when your life or community or an imaginary life or community has experienced change.
Now consider the moment of change. Harjo’s poem turns on line 19, “Then one of the stumbling ones took pity on another.” This line separates the hopeless lines of the poem from the hopeful lines. Try drafting various lines that show the turning point between the once and today in your poem. What happened that changed things? What did someone(s) do? You may choose to include such a turning point line, and you may even choose to write this line first.
Allow yourself the freedom to play with time and with point of view. If you wish to use the first person plural (we) or second person (you) as Harjo has done, feel free.
Amy’s Poem
In a Small Town in Western NY
Back then
snow blankets muffled the world.
When people spoke
the letters of their words
formed icicles in sky.
Old men and old women
young men and young women
tossed shovels full of snow
pure white clouds of snow
onto piles soon road-dirt black.
Before long, mittens didn’t match.
Potholes gaped on country roads.
A few people got frostbite.
And the lady in the purple house
got tired of looking at flower catalogs.
Radio voices complained –
The coldest winter on record.
A half year winter.
Winter will never end.
Dogs curled in circles near fires.
But one Thursday
dogs scratched at doors
lifting noses to smells people could not smell
but still we lifted our own noses
unbuttoned wool oats
traded snow shovels for garden spades.
The lady in the purple house
sang to each tiny tulip tip
as they too peeked out into newness
as all do again and once more.
Amy Ludwig VanDerwater
Your Turn
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.
An Oral History: COVID-19 Teacher-Poets Writing to Bridge the Distance
Did you write poetry during the first days of COVID-19 school closings? Would you like to be interview for our oral history project? Click here to learn more.
Late again…
First you weren’t there.
You weren’t there to walk me to school
That first August day of kindergarten.
Then you weren’t there for my baptism.
You weren’t there for the father-daughter event.
Grandpa would happily take your place.
You weren’t there after the storm
Or before or during it either.
And then the phone call came.
And you weren’t there forever anywhere.
You were gone, never to return.
You weren’t there to correct my terrible driving.
You weren’t there to scare off any boyfriends.
You weren’t there for graduation
Or for going off to college.
You just weren’t there,
But I was, and I am here now.
flood
there were signs
in early May we drove home between sheets of rain
the road hardly visible though it was clear
our tires cut through a surface of water on the road
early that May day an afternoon of
cliff diving at Lake Travis
an evening at the Varsity watching
La Cage aux Folles
once home rain returned heavy and stormy
with our power knocked out
we moved to the front porch to watch
traffic along Lamar
rain a constant we noticed cars
‘bottoming out’ as the came down the ramp on to Lamar
we wandered out to help people out of their cars
had we thought we’d be able to help move their car
water on Lamar continued to rise
two feet, four feet, six feet
Lamar Boulevard was kayak-able
water rising to our feet, step back
moments later submerged again
before the night was over, cars floated by
sights I’d only seen on television
night filled with rushing water
but when the sun rose
Lamar clear of water
filled with debris from the night before
large plate windows forced out by
water’s power
This was powerful for me now, as friends have recently experienced flood due to dams breaking and two lakes emptying. I read this with a knot in my stomach, trying to imagine what it is like to see something you only otherwise see in the news. The repetition of Lamar both a guiding point – like the lighthouse beam – but also the change point, as each time it is mentioned, there is something else happening. There is naught one can do in such instances of nature but witness.
Years, decades, centuries
Man has tattooed the world
Sludge fouled seas are inked pools
of choked marine life
cerulean skies turned gray
This stamp of failed stewardship
will leave our descendents doomed to starve,
they will blister in naked sun
This is our legacy
melting glaciers, eroding beaches, rising waters
bursting tsunamis
This is our legacy
to breathe adulterated air,
fill our lungs black,
cough pollution
Then from the Earth’s womb,
a cankerous mewling virus is spawned
and we are stricken silent
No planes rent the air
No automobiles belch and roar
factories cork their smokestacks
The Earth is silent
And for a moment the Earth breathes
through its indelible tattoo
Unique word choices and combinations: inked pools, descendants doomed, bursting tsunamis, cough pollution. I loved “factories cork their smokestacks,” like re-corking a bottle of wine. Sadly – only to be opened again later, as the speaker notes “for a moment.” As the song says, “only for a moment and the moment’s gone.”
Tammi,
Brilliant imagery in
I agree w/ your indictment and have thought the clearing skies and silent earth are the one good thing about the pandemic. Thank you.
—Glenda
We Thought We Knew
Long ago we thought
teaching was about the canon,
complex sentences,
and comma splices.
(Oh, that pretty Oxford comma!)
Content swished its fluffy tail,
demanding all eyes rivet to its twerking hind-side.
We lost our minds,
followed the hallowed bunny
down the rabbit hole
and thought we knew
what mattered.
Until COVID.
Children, let me tell you:
syllabi evaporated!
Whole books (authored by dead white men)
vanished.
Curriculum stood startled,
doubting her worth.
On a quest to find meaning
in spring of 2020,
“The Odyssey” dissolved, dismissed, unmissed.
No one read “The Sun Also Rises”
and the sun still rises.
Truth! Covid really did stop us in our tracks but we survived. Love your ending “and the sun still rise” . This gives me hope!
Allison,
Yes! The sun still rises. We can survive w/less of Hemingway’s misogyny! I love this image:
I tried to fix the indentation, but the site said, nope.
Funny even now how we are discussing “what really matters” in the curriculum. What matters is such a great question raised by this poem. From so neatly organized to chaos. Love the breaking line, “Until COVID.” Puts all the authority to a dead stop. BTW I finally did read Emily Wilson’s translation of The Odyssey this summer. It’s beautiful. If that’s a book still being taught, her version with forward and footnotes is the bomb.
I’ll order it this minute!
Once my page was blank, and my brain
was firing like Tony Montana’s “little friend.”
My footprints sketched loop-de-loops
around the room: moving, straightening,
relocating, wiping, checking, picking,
dusting, hanging, hiding. The room, too,
had been blank, then occupied, and then
abandoned to obsolescence. Suddenly,
a need for a dedicated: office space,
writing space, sewing space, being
alone space, smelling jasmine incense
space, reading only good books space,
gazing out of the window space, sipping
passionflower tea space.
The sun nestled behind the trees as the
pen finally hit the page. That “little friend”
tried its damndest to derail progress, to
quash any speck of motivation. Then,
the words of fellow writers from far away,
yet also somehow so near to my heart,
disarm my brain. The newly vacated space
fills like a bedside drawer brimming with:
romantic, rhyming odes from loved ones;
snapshots of family; keepsakes that take up
space to remind me.
And then, the page fills, too.
Laura — I literally laughed out loud to “and my brain
was firing like Tony Montana’s “little friend” — I have totally had those days. In fact, I really struggled to get anything written last few days. I love the hopeful ending and happy that you’ve filled those pages.
Yea! you did it – my favorite line – The newly vacated space fills like a bedside drawer brimming with: romantic, rhyming odes from loved ones; snapshots of family; keepsakes that take up space to remind – collecting ideas from all around
My teaching life gobbled up my creative writing time today. But, I wanted to say thank you for today’s glorious inspiration and prompt. I have some ideas noodling around…and oh, Joy Harjo. She is simply amazing. To think that at one time she shied from poetry.
Emily and Andrew, you are outstanding writing teachers. I appreciate your prompts and participation this week. I look forward to writing with you both and you all come September.
Linda, teaching (planning, doing) is a ferociously creative act. When I returned to teaching, I hoped I would continue to write on the side. It didn’t take me long to realize that I have only so much creative energy to expend each day, and if the lion’s share goes to teaching, I don’t feel compelled to write.
That’s okay.
It’s all creation.
Be well.
Linda, Your students are so fortunate. Joy Harjo heals us, doesn’t she? xx
Only One Person
From the outside looking in
Her life is good
She earned her PhD
(We’re so proud of you, they say)
She has a successful career
(You’re a great teacher, they say)
She travels to locations around the world
(You’re so adventurous, they say)
She has interesting hobbies
(You’re so creative, they say)
Her persona on social media is outstanding
(Your life is so exciting, they say)
She never meant to deceive anyone
It’s not her fault that she’s good at photography
Then one person looked beyond the photos and the smile and the facade
Only one person noticed
The lack of family photos
Only one person asked
Why she never spoke of her family
Only one person saw
That she was incredibly alone
Only one person understood
That she needed a true friend
Only one person offered
To stand by her side
Only one person
Was all it took
Sharon,
I deeply appreciate the self reflection here that is both personal and familiar at once (at least for me). Your use of parentheses is great here — I wish we taught grammar/mechanics through poetry more because you use it so well. And then you gently guide us to the shift and the final lines of the “one person” about whom I would love to know more — maybe another poem.
Peace,
Sarah
Sharon,
that last line is such a whopper! The difference one person can make is ALL the difference! Our accomplishments, our success, our travels and our work often have high sacrifice price tags. I’m glad you can enjoy both your success and the companionship of someone who befriended you! What a lovely blessing.
Sharon, you have crafted an accurate picture, which describes so many people. I love how you include the “exciting” life of a social media persona, yet reality proves a much different experience. BUT one. One person saw, understood, and offered herself, and that “was all it took!” I believe that academia can be so isolating. We ALL need someone; we all need each other. Thanks.
The last line got me chills! It has a beautiful ending. Thank you for such an amazing poem.
Sharon, your poem was deeply moving. I felt the powerful turn in your poem on “She never meant to deceive anyone.”
Wow.
Thank you for your honesty, reflection, and voice.
I love the use of parentheses to separate what the others think from the reality of being alone. It takes one, only one to notice, to pay attention. I’m familiar with this feeling of aloneness. And I know firsthand how only one can make all the difference. Thank you for this. You have inspired me to be that one. There are so many people alone.
Wow. This made the hairs on my neck stand up. That back and forth in the before….and that truth at the end. I want to be this one person…one day. xx
Sharon — I love the progression of this poem from outside perceptions to truth as you look inward. The ending was so satisfying too. Knowing that someone was out there who understood. “Only one person/was all it took” — beautiful!
Amy, thank you so much for providing such an interesting and challenging poetry prompt today. I have worked hard on a different poem today that I’m not sharing as I’m just not happy with it. I returned to a poem I previously wrote titled “Just Desserts” on June 21st. A few readers wanted to know what would happen next so I decided to revisit this and give it an end. I sure had fun writing it.
“Just Desserts” Finale
When she saw him
drunk and stupid with the redhead
under his arm
her double chocolate mint ice cream
hit the floor
He always said he hated redheads
Now she knew for sure
he wasn’t true
She considered her options
Went home to wait
Picked up the congealed
meal and plates
and plotted a different escape
Finally
his truck lights glimmered
across the thin curtained windows
right at the strike of midnight
She waited in the dark
Watched his surprise
as he switched on the light
No one ever knew
what happened to him
Rumor had it he’d run off
with a redhead
and Sally lost and forlorn
stayed at the farm
tenderly cultivating the greenest and sweetest
sweet corn
Barb Edler
August 19, 2020
Your poem is like a movie, Barb! I could see it all so vividly. I really enjoyed reading this.
Barb,
That final image
is so gorgeous. Something tells me Sally got the better deal in this jilted love story. Thank you.
—Glenda
Oh, Barb, I love this third person-ish poem, which offers this distance between the speaker and the subject but also a knowing, a jesting that we hear in the tone. So good, and then the shift in the final lines about the rumor and the “sweetest/sweet corn” — so much sweeter without the cheater.
Peace,
Sarah
Sarah, I adore how even your responses are poetry: “so much sweeter without the cheater”!
Barb, great story! From Sally’s reaction to “drunk and stupid” that left the ice cream on the floor to the greenest and sweetest sweet corn, this reminds me of Fried Green Tomatoes – – the great unknown mystery of what happened to whom – and what happened to the body. 🙂 This is fabulous. I love your shift – – rumor had it……
Oh, this is so delicious in its “Goodbye, Earl” way! I will right this minute return to the posts of June 21 and put this story altogether!
(P.S. I have an affinity for sweet-corn references!)
Oh my gosh! If this ending is as I read it….gosh. I love this character. I can see it all. xx
Barb — I really enjoyed the story you’ve told and the unanswered question you’ve left: “No one ever knew what happened to him” and what a delicious ending!
Barb, I was one of those who wanted to hear the end, and I’m so glad you wrote it. Oh, what a wicked surprise! What a great ending.
Once the World was Perfect
Once the World was perfect,
When neighbors served each other
Hot banana bread favors
without need of repayment,
Doors and drapes open
To the welcoming visitor’s smile.
Life’s pace encouraged
Unity, friendship, unplanned affection,
Spontaneous distraction,
And the cure for cold isolation.
Now, the rapid ticking of time,
Blinds these friendly companions,
Closed shades, locked doors,
Hourglass sand slipping
through the obligations
of brightly lit devices,
narrowly dividing
despite multiple opportunities.
This project, that deadline,
His ball game, her photoshoot
Leave no time for Mr. Roger’s
Ideal neighborhood.
Once the World was perfect.
Jolie, wow, the world has changed I so appreciate the way you open and close this poem with that exact sentiment. I’ve witnessed this change through the years. If only we could return to a simpler day when people did not have to be so busy or afraid.
I feel such sadness at the end of your poem, Jolie. All of our technology, those “brightly lit devices,” were supposed to free up our time, but instead of enjoying it, we fill it up with more busyness.
Sigh. Mr. Rogers was such a gift of a teacher. Your poem is a reminder of how to care through small actions. I wish I could give you a loaf of zucchini bread. Thank you. xx
Jolie — Your poem really depicts how much our world has changed. Your last three lines”leave no time for Mr. Roger’s/Ideal Neighborhood/Once the World was Perfect” pack a punch!
Thank you Amy! I have just posted up the Joy Harjo poem for my mythology students. We have a discussion about “the good old days” – paradise lost, things were always better back when, and all that. There is definitely a mythology in Harjo’s writing, the metaphors are beautiful, and it is much more optimistic – which I think my students will appreciate now more than ever. As for myself, I am aiming for brevity today, and a haiku suits me just fine.
doors opened
we fled our place masked
we return
Denise, I so wanted to write a haiku today, but it turned into something else. The format is perfect for this prompt, and I’m a sucker for a happy ending!
Denise,
Appreciate the economy of syllables here. The word “fled” is resonating with me — and then the return. Wow.
Sarah
I am so glad that this poem fit this theme…I would love to be in your class. And oh, how your haiku speaks to now. “Fled” is the perfect verb. Safety to you and yours. xx
His Eyes
By Nancy White
Sick and weary I trudge through my day
Alone and weak I somehow make my way
to follow a crowd I see up ahead.
I wonder who’s getting arrested.
Could be trouble again (some protestors probably)
But instead
I see the crowd get thick, but it’s quiet, listening to a man who’s calmly speaking.
I press in. God, I feel sick.
There he is! That one! I’ve heard my neighbors say
he healed a leper just the other day. There’s no way!
Dare I believe these rumors?
I’ve lived most my life with these tumors.
I make my way through feeling so ashamed,
Then he turns my way
and I see his eyes, so beautiful,
glowing with compassion and passion and a love
that’s making time stand still.
I can barely lift my hand.
But, I have to reach this man!
I barely graze his sleeve and then
He turns to leave.
Am I in a dream? It’s the most glorious thing—
I feel clean! Oh my God, His eyes!
I want to sing! I run to tell my only friends
There’s hope! A love that never ends.
They run to tell others, their sisters and brothers,
fathers and mothers, miracle of miracles!
There’s this man and this hope and he’s here!
Who knew?!
The hope was like yeast—a living thing—it grew and GREW!
It crossed oceans and generations,
through the rise and fall of nations,
to all creation
through time, through space, beyond comprehension there is love, there is grace.
His eyes are now on you.
Nancy, the power of your narrative is so compelling. Your words create such tension and joy. The title is perfect, and the end is so thought-provoking and compelling. It is like a musical chord that continues to resonate.
Hope like a yeast. This will stay with me. And how true your words are about eyes, Nancy. It is all there. Your hand-off to readers at the end makes me want to be better. xx
The Blank Canvas
The blank canvas awaits.
White, unmarred and pure
stretched tight as a skin on wooden bars.
It alarms me with its starkness
and beckons to be
defiled with something profound.
I stare at it wondering what it will become.
Afraid of it’s challenge and call
to reach the dreams hidden within.
Then an ember in my heart begins to glow
from whence did it come?
The spark makes my thinking churn
heating up with new visions.
Suddenly, the fever sends fire to my brain and down to my fingers.
My arm reaches for angle brushes of differing widths
and tubes of color – reds, yellow and green.
This flare-up, flowing like lava, makes me dip my brushes in red and black
to add burning marks on that blank canvas awaiting.
I love how you go from being afraid at first to “heating up with new visions” and “the flare-up, flowing like lava”! The creative process amazes me!
Susan,
“I stare at it wondering what it will become” makes me think of every famous painting I’ve ever seen – – I’ve never thought of them as naked canvases BEFORE they became masterpieces. What a change in perspective today!
The flow IS like lava….magical and changing and hot and beautiful. This poem reminds me of the writing process. Faith. The faith keeps us going. The ideas are there. We just must act first. Thank you…. xx
Thanks to you Amy that you got me thinking about what happens when I create. I take it for granted. I am an artist,/educator that taught high school art for over 20 years and now in retirement I am really loving to write. Love these prompts!
I love the transformation of the canvas. There is energy in your words due to the personification it – awaits, alarms and then the artist becomes the agent for change and still the verbs – churn, sends before the color takes hold – lovely progression and two compositions.
“The times they
are a-changin,”
someone said.
(Kidding, it was
Bob Dylan, if
Wikipedia is to
be believed, that
is.)
I used to teach the
disruption of the
Chain of Being
when I talked about
The Scottish Play,
when I talked about
the upheaval
in the “natural” order.
Do you remember the
scene with horses in
act two scene four,
when they turn wild
and cannibalize each
other?
Crazy.
I would stand at the
chalk board, furiously
scribbling the day’s
lessons, the connections
between the characters,
the secret motivations,
what it meant to have
a “heat-oppressed brain”
or a mind full of
scorpions.
At day’s end,
I would leave school
covered in chalk,
completely filthy
with it, like some
Charles Schultz character,
a dust cloud enveloping
me wherever I went.
At home, I would spend
hours, pouring over my dog
eared copy of Harold Bloom’s
Shakespeare: the Invention
of the Human,
but now, I’m busy
chasing my own tail
(it’s vestigial, I don’t like
to talk about it) researching
EdTech tools that cleverly
jam two words together
to make a third word,
GoGaurdian, ThingLink,
Flipgrid, Nearpod. (What
level would this be on
Bloom’s Taxonomy?
Different one, btw, this guy’s
name was Benjamin.)
Oh, we still love our initialisms.
Our FAQs are about our
BOE and the PTA is
concerned with the GPA
in the ELL’s IEP,
and OMG, could we not
just rename the Woodcock-
Johnson test? I can’t help
but giggle every time I
hear it.
But Bob was right, he
did win a Nobel Prize
after all, these times
they are a-changing,
and if you could
understand the subsequent
mumble verses of
his song you’d see
that the world has
tilted, just a bit, on its
axis, has shifted.
We are living through
5 crises, according to that New
York Times opinion piece: political,
social, racial, and the other
ones —
I didn’t actually finish the
article — TL;DR.
The point is that Nicholas Carr
in The Shallows tells me
my brain is different
because of the internet,
or maybe that was Nicolas
Cage in Con Air telling
me to put the bunny
in the box.
The point is — at least, I think
this was the point — WTF
are we doing about Murder
Hornets?
(I thought horses eating
themselves was bad,
now we have
murder hornets!)
Yet (and here’s the shift
in the poem, at least
one of them) it feels, at times in
quarantine, like we’re
simply repeating the
first stanza of Suzanne
Vega’s “Tom’s Diner,”
ad nauseum, or worse,
like we’re slipping
into a Talking Heads
video where David
Byrne is sweating
profusely and repeatedly
chopping at his arm
But it’s not “The
same as it ever
was,
same as it ever
was.”
And that’s ok.
I mean, now, I have to hide
from the mailwoman
(because she doesn’t
social distance with
the neighbors) before
venturing to the mailbox,
And instead of teaching
with just a piece of
chalk, I now have to have
a router and enough
bandwidth and
two monitors.
Times change.
So what if I now sleep
with a mouth guard
(sorry, an $800
Occlusal Guard)
because I grind my
teeth and Heather’s
methotrexate causes
her eyebrows to fall
out so she practices
make-up techniques
on me,
that’s ok. It really is,
and besides, now I know
what “on fleek” means.
And you may ask
yourself, as Byrne
questions, well, how
did I get here?
Stop it. We just are.
Now.
Let’s just go from
here.
If you need more
convincing, read the
novelty coffee mug with
the inscription,
that’s why the windshield
is bigger than the
review mirror: forward
motion is what counts,
(I screwed that quote up, but
you get the point.)
Or take your cue from
Frost, “The best way out
is always through.” (Now
that’s not quite what I meant
Robert, but we’ll press on
regardless.)
It’s about being present,
in the present.
So, I checked my Internet’s
connection. I’m logged in
and booted up, ready,
and waiting for the start
of a virtual new
school year,
which doesn’t start for
two weeks.
(While I wait, I’m thinking
of kickin’ it with The Stones “Wild
Horses” and opening the package
that came in the mail today:
the Death Nut Challenge 2.0.
The last level — the
actual Death Nut — has
2 X Trinidad Moruga
Scorpion Peppers in it —
What could possibly go
wrong?)
Scott, I love the stream of consciousness flow of your poem-rant and all those parenthetical thoughts that read like head scratches asking “what now?” Indeed, Dylan got/gets it right. I’ve wondered what Carr has to say now. Are kids still F-pattern reading online? Yes, “here we are.” Reminds me of Maggie Smith’s tweeting “keep moving” whenever she tweets. Of course, looking back in those old times keeps us going, too.
Scott, I was scrolling up instead of down and (if I’m honest) thought, who the hell wrote a novel in the middle of the poems? When I reached the top (three finger pushes across the trackpad), I decided to delve in and held on through to the end. So many references of what I appreciate here (Bob Dylan’s Rainy Day Women played at our house before church on Sunday mornings, and I’m a fellow Scottish play enthusiast – I almost incorporated that into the first day’s prompt) are cleverly done. And OMG, what are we going to do about the murder hornets – I laughed aloud! I am so glad you wrote one helluva NovelPoem.
Scott, oh my gosh, what a ride I enjoyed while reading your poem. I so appreciated the educational acronyms, and I can so relate to the changes taking place in the classroom. Flipgrid was one of my best friends during the shutdown last spring. Your clever musings are surely genius. Thanks for sharing such keen insights and a wonderfully thought-provoking poem.
Now.
I adore all of these references. I took a trip all around my life with your poem, from hope to frustration to a great reminder.
It’s about being present,
in the present.
xx
Oh Lordy, Scott — I didn’t get a chance to read this till today. What a great poem! And am I ever glad I cycled back to Wednesday’s prompt! The rapid-fire flow of the whole litany is electric with the changes that keep zapping through the lines…like downed wires that still have the crackle of high voltage running through them. The Dylan lines to launch this are so apt…plus I love Dylan lines and was so delighted that he won the Nobel, despite the many out there that were dumbfounded by that. And you’ve built the terrific references to the cultural and literary icons through the whole piece. Dang, you are really good. These are some of my favorites:
I can see you standing there like Pigpen with that dust cloud. LOL!
And….
Dang, that just screams 2020 sucks!
But it is the here and now of the poem…the looking to the moment that swings me away from the downed electric lines to that sort of happy insanity of it all (Scorpion Peppers, Murder Hornets, and the goofy acronyms… ). Times they keep achanging. Your poems have been exceedingly marvelous to read. This is another one that you could splat right onto the page of an NCTE Journal… or the NYT Sunday Magazine (the Naomi Shihab Nye’s weekly selection… except they won’t allow ones already posted anywhere online…darn it!). Good images, great human connections, dry tongue, loud voice….just darn good stuff. Thanks, Susie
Teacher, Not a Teacher, Misnomer
I thought after 30 years
with kids
who kept staying the same ages
for the most part;
endless heaps of Sunday blues,
marking papers and poring over portfolios;
digging for relevant gems in the news;
fussing about the importance of empathizing;
sudden waking at 2 a.m.,
recalling a parent call I forgot to make,
(or was that just another school-mare?);
laughing at pubescent fart jokes;
and wondering what the other side of teaching held,
I would be somebody different,
some wildly free cowgirl,
with arm swinging over my head, hat in hand, busting the bronco of no more school,
swilling margaritas in the afternoon and bloody marys with the sunrise,
lazing in the park well past rush hour,
writing and researching for that collection,
revising that oral history I half-finished when I was thirty,
trout fishing in the middle of the week,
yet,
here I am,
wondering:
why is that kid goofing around at the HyVee and not at school?
while giving the stink-eye to the kid swiping grapes in the produce aisle,
procrastinating the writing till the weather cools off,
eating my lunch, still, in 19 minutes,
wiggling for an hour before I finally dash to the john,
waking every single morning before the sunrise,
furious that teachers and students are getting a very raw Covid deal,
anxiously waiting to read your poems
and share responses that hopefully mean something,
recognizing,
that my DNA has been forever
altered,
forever a teacher.
by Susie Morice©
Susie, YES! I knew I was “really” a teacher when I started picking up stray pencils and whatnot, collecting things in my daily life, thinking “how could I use this in the classroom?” This is my 26th year — I’ve made it to the top sheet of the seniority list — but when people ask me about retiring, I just stare blankly at them. What do you mean retire? This is it. This is what I’m doing until the end. Lol. I think it really is in “my DNA,” too. (And, by the by, thank you for writing and sharing your poems and for also reading mine. Your comments have meant a great deal to me!)
Oh, Susie, you know my heart and have written it in this poem. I’m crying now and cried listening to Jill Biden’s biography and her speech in that empty classroom. No longer in a classroom does not mean no longer a teacher. We simply cannot change our DNA, cannot alter our inherent nature so easily. Thank you.
—Glenda
Susie, I could have been writing this side by side with you today (though you always do this so much better than I). Yes on the Sunday Blues. Yes, yes on the 2 am awakenings. Yes, yes! on those half-finished writings. YES! YES! on the raw deals of Covid. And most certainly yes on how teaching alters DNA – I cannot separate myself from who I am. I wonder how long that lasts for teachers?
Susie, I feel as though you’ve written my own story here….at least almost. I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who still struggles to slow down when eating lunch. Your ending says it all! I’m still smiling from reading your poem! Thanks for sharing your insight and bringing joy to my day!
Susie, I’m so glad you wrote this today. That image of the cowgirl with arms swinging over your head and busting the bronco of no more school made me laugh and cheer! “I thought after thirty years I would be somebody different…….Yet……here I am…..” and the conclusion of realizing that your DNA has been forever altered – – once a teacher, always a teacher. This is priceless. That stink eye in the produce section is rich imagery, and wondering why a kid isn’t where he’s supposed to be – – is that concerned teacher who will always be concerned about a student. I was wondering if I would ever be anything but a teacher, but I’m glad to hear that the teacher in us hangs on forever.
Susie – your poem brought a tear to my eye. My mom is retired, and she, too, is forever a teacher. As I will be. As so many of us are. The details of your poem, every line, honors this truth. xx
Before, we just ignored.
The ignorance of others
remained unexplored.
Opinions might not be the same
but we respected other ideas
to one group assigning no blame.
Delving into the past, we considered the wrong.
We discussed how things were different then
and thought how to improve as time moved along.
Now, discussion has all but died out
Disagree with the loudest and be silenced
by violence, attacks, and shouts.
Now we look at our founders from only one view.
They lived in a past with different social norms,
The good they did erased, we focus only on things that today we’d never do.
Let’s just rewrite history looking at only one side.
Rather than exploring all aspects and learning from both good and bad,
we’ll just tear down our past and toss it aside.
Oooh, Amy! You have really described the change in attitude by most of us. I hope we don’t rewrite history and can learn to look at all sides with openness and true listening. You are right. We need to continue discussion and not disagree with shouts. I hope the days as before come back!
It grieves me whenever history is rewritten. Tearing down and destroying history is not the answer. Violence is never the answer. Hopefully it is a venting of frustration that will not obliterate our past history, but transform our future. For we know that those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it. Well said. I like the sarcastic tone of “
Let’s just rewrite history looking at only one side. / Rather than exploring all aspects and learning from both good and bad, / we’ll just tear down our past and toss it aside.”
Amy,
I find the phrase “rewrite history” both complicated and compelling. I think about who pens history, and we know that’s the winners. I think about omissions and silences in the historical record, which is why revisiting history and adding new discoveries to it speaks to me, so I see much of what some call “rewriting history” as examining the incomplete historical record and filling in the lost and missing pieces. As a popular meme says, “There’s a reason we were told George Washington had wooden teeth in stead of learning his ‘false’ teeth were those of slaves.” I understand the impulse to say,
, but our founders did engage in hot debates about whether or not to sanction slavery. Back in the early 80s Sydney Harris wrote a column called “The High Cost go Compromise” about this. I was a young teacher when I read it and remember where I stood in my kitchen as I read. I kept that article and found it yesterday in a pile of old papers. I wish I’d been taught that part of history better. I think we owe these truths to students. People are complicated, but slavery was never about “social norms,” and the price black people have paid for these monetary decisions should be taught, regardless of how unpleasant the truth.
So true. I will look for that article. Thank you. xx
Your poem makes me think about how I remain hopeful that we can learn from the good and the evil acts of history, reminds me that I want to learn from both, reminds me to not be afraid to protect the one history I learned as a child, just because it makes me feel comfortable, reminds me to listen to those who have for so long been ignored. History has many sides. xx
It’s like we’ve gone from black to white – from one alternative to another with no grey, no conversation – the advantage of a broad nuanced story is absent
There was a time, not so long ago,
when I was
the funny one
the smart one
the witty one
the sarcastic one,
the one sought out for pub trivia teams.
Then that Machiavellian bacteria weaseled its way
into my brain-
eating
infecting
obliterating
Every healthy cell it could find.
I became
fragile
complacent
empty-headed.
I smiled and acquiesced when the dreamy neurosurgeon explained
he needed to drill a dime sized hole
into my skull
to reach the septic swill.
“Sure! Go ahead,” I grinned.
Who would I be now?
I had months of recovery to wonder
if I would remain forever featherbrained,
helped along by family and friends
who intended no harm when they
poked and prodded—
Will you ever be normal again?
You aren’t back to yourself yet.
You should have seen how quick she was before!
She isn’t like she used to be!
And they are right.
I am not the woman I was before.
I am so, so much more.
Mo Daley
8/19/20
Dear Mo, I am so taken w/ your strength, with your ability to embrace and honor who you are now. I know people mean well, but Lordy, we can sure do harm w/ our well-intentioned words. You are gracious and kind in the face of such platitudes. Thank you. Post-Covid me needed your poem today.
—Glenda
Mo, I love the truth of the ending “I am so, so much more”! And I totally agree with Glenda, sometimes people just don’t “get it” with their “well-intentioned words.” Thank you for sharing this!
Geez, Mo, this is raw. You had me totally hooked from the first stanza…and all the way to “so, so much more.” A stinking “weaseling bacteria” worming its way into your sensibilities! As I think about you, about the Mo I know, I am assuring you that you are anything BUT “featherbrained” … yet, I certainly get the jolt of going through what you’ve faced. You are amazing. Your poetry is always rich and wonderful. Today, no exception. You must’ve been Einstein, Stephen Hawking, Madonna, and Michelle before! LOL! Just kidding. In such a few words you relayed SUCH depth of introspection. Marvelous and thank you for the candid, raw, strong poem. Susie
Oh, Mo, I so appreciate your words and you — always. The “obliterating” of healthy cells, the dreamy neurosurgeon (makes me think of Grey’s Anatomy and McDreamy), the question of “normal again” just rubs as if the former was stable, was in some way better because it made people comfortable. You are so, so much. You are.
Sarah
Mo, this is such an honest look at your before and after. Only someone who had faced the bacterial weaseling could write this so vividly (the eating, infecting, obliterating). I only know you through your words, but your strength and courage and sharp thinking comes through every time. I’m so very glad you continue to share the so, so much more of you with us in this space.
Mo, yes, the description of “that Machiavellian bacteria” startled me. I’m so sorry for this experience; however, I can imagine that you are NOT the same, but “so, so much more.” I love this line. The demonstration of these lines proves that you are definitely no longer “empty-headed,” but brilliant. Thanks for sharing.
Mo, those last two lines…
I am not the woman I was before.
I am so, so much more.
That fills me with so, so much hope. Such a beautiful poem!
This journey poem is brave…and yes…you are clearly so much more. I hope that others will have a chance to read your poem of hope and I am grateful for your healing and your generosity in sharing your power. xx
Well? Swell!
Once when the world was perfect
We decided we would marry
You were Nittany Lion and I was a Warrior at Wayne
Marrying while were in college did not seem all that insane.
You were a basketball star.
And I was running track.
You were sending me letters
And I was writing you back.
We didn’t have cell phone back then,
So I never knew for sure just when
A knock on my dorm door would summon me to the phone.
When, we talked I felt like a queen on a throne.
All was going well, we both thought the other was swell.
But, then you decided to break it off!
Then, all that what was heavenly became more like hell.
Who was this woman who stole your heart?
Who was the woman tearing us apart?
Why would you leave? We’d made a good start.
Well, “Forget you,” I said! But I couldn’t, really.
Everything I recalled made me so touchy-feely,
That I whimpered at the drop of a hat,
Saying, “Well, that’s that!
“It’s over. It’s done. We had a good run!”
Then you called me on my birthday!
I listened to what you had to say.
You said you wrong to leave.
Would I, your apology receive?
Of course! I’d never stopped caring.
Though a heavy heart I was bearing.
I never gave up hope that we would marry.
But, believe me, I still will be wary.
But I was ready to drop the load and sing.
“By the way, when will you be bringing the ring?”
Ooh! Such an adventure! I’m so happy things worked out fir you, Anna.
This story, Anna! You are a master of the narrative verse. And that last line — “bringing the ring” is so perfect.
Sarah
Anna, I’m so glad that man came to his senses. I think you may have the best love stories of all time. That last line is fun. I think young people are missing out by not having to await a call or knock on the door. ❤️
Such a sweet love story that shows the ups and downs of a relationship and how the heart can change. I love that you could forgive and I hope the ring came and you lived happily ever after!
Anna, I can see your humor and positive outlook. It’s this hopeful attitude that gets us through broken romance when we are young. I love this…It’s done but when will you bring the ring?
Anna, what a beginning journey to your story together. It’s amazing how those twists and turns through life bring us back on course – I’m glad it did for you! (I wasn’t sure that’s the way this was going to end!)
Yes, he brought the ring and I’m still wearing for the same reason I put it on the first time in August 1966! Marrying him was not insane after all!
For those curious: Nittany Lions are from Penn State. Wayne State is in Detroit, Mi. We had a long-distance relationship during college; we met at our national church camp the summer after our freshman year in college. For those still wanting details. See ON ZION’S HILL on Amazon!
And…it was writing that kept us together!
Amy Ludwig VanDerwater, see what you started! It’s been fun!
Oh yayay! I had not seen this. I am so happy it’s true and that the love story lives on. Beautiful. This poem is an anniversary gift! xx
Anna,
I love the playfulness that your lyrics bring, yet I was still in suspense as to whether there would be a ring!!
Oh my! Is it really you? I love reading about these characters, and true or not…I am cheering for the girl! xx ps – Love that second stanza.
Storms
I don’t know where I am yet heading
The storms push relentlessly on
I’m point man for natures black fury
Safe harbor and peace are all gone
No cease to be found in the tirade
No lull between storms for a breath
No time yet to think past this moment
No rock found to sit on for rest
New day holds blood as a warning
Each wave seems to reach a new peak
Swamping and slamming and drowning
Winds rise to a wretched new shriek
What once was safety surrounding
And pathways one knew so well
Has become a forest of water
The landscape resembling hell
Stay sane in this cold and dark water
All sense and direction are low
Harder yet to stay in the rowboat
With someone you no longer know
As partners that once were united
Best interests of each at the heart
Did not see the enemy coming
Which finally tore them apart
Outer forces were always the danger
And suspects from places we knew
While inside the dark depression
Caught hold and steadily grew
“Can’t row anymore”, so he shouted,
heard o’er natures furious blast
“You alone have to get us to safety”.
No rest from the nightmares that passed
All around me is scattered the litter
Family, friends well-meaning and right
Offered safety devices to help us
Could not see the enemy’s fight
To follow the course as he planned it
Depression and darkness his guide
I know he is lost in the forest
The womb is no place to hide.
To stop rowing with storms all around you,
Run, hide under your safe mental bed
Could not possibly bring you to safety
The blackness is inside your head
So, alone I will keep right on rowing
To weather the storms ugly rake
And I will emerge all the stronger
For the ocean was only a lake
Wow, Judi. You’ve really given us an insight into depression. Your extended metaphor and imagery are stunning. Wonderfully done.
Judi,
This is profoundly sad, yet your strength resonates throughout. The rhyming and division of stanzas are perfect. Rhymes add rhythm and evoke a cadence of normalcy. Four line stanzas suggest seasonal changes that are different yet the same. These lines carried me along and gave this poem a personal feel:
Thank you.
Judi, I really enjoyed the driving force of the metrical lines here. The repeated shifts from the nine syllable line to one with eight syllables effectively works, for me, as a constant thrumming or pulsing throughout your poem, which adds an urgency to your “dark” content. I enjoyed reading this out loud! Thank you for sharing this.
Judi, you’re quite a story teller. I was drawn in from the beginning and kept reading to see if all would turn out well for all! When it didn’t, though my heart ached, I am encouraged that the main character is the story “will emerge all the stronger”.
“As partners that once were united
Best interests of each at the heart
Did not see the enemy coming
Which finally tore them apart”
This speaks to the loneliness of mental illness, for the person suffering and for the loved ones too. I want to sit beside this speaker, to row together. Your poem brings out my wish to protect and love. Thank you. xx
“Once We Read a Fiction and Called It Truth”
—Glenda Funk
Once we read a fictional story of America
Its cover faux exceptionalism
Binding lives of white pulp paper
Knitted together with diaries, letters, sermons,
The detritus of manifest destiny.
Omitting nature, Native voices, Others,
We glorified mythological American epics
Reinvented lives to erect false prophets,
White washed and canonized reality and
Called hyperbole history.
Earth rejected our retelling, our falsities and
Spit our white lies from her mouth.
On Standing Rock, along cascading rivers, through
Whispering forest canopies nature
Confronts the teller of tales,
Disrupts national narratives,
Echoes her own voices and speaks:
Listen. And so we must. And so we begin
Revising, telling the stories erased from
Historical records, learning who we are,
Envisioning who we can become.
Baptized in truth like John
Resurrected in antiracist attire
Marching into our futures,
Caste into inked verisimilitude,
We write on time a new narrative
Born in the spirit of John Lewis,
Raised in the shadow of a rainbow.
Hit. The. Nail. On. The. Head.
Glenda,
So many lines here are resonating with me, making my heart and mind stir “White washed and canonized reality” and then this line with its allusion, bringing back to our consciousness “Spit our white lies from her mouth./On Standing Rock,” and then “Resurrected in antiracist attire” — I love the progression and the possibility of “We write on time a new narrative.”
Awesome!
Sarah
Glenda, that play on white in “spit our white lies from her mouth” is so good. This throws so many punches at the narrative, starting with that first line and ending with the shadow of a rainbow. Wow!
Glenda, this poem needs to be published in a new anthology! Brilliant! And why must we continue celebrating Columbus Day?
Glenda, these lines you have penned today are so poignant! I love it all, but especially this:
Listen. And so we must. And so we begin
Revising, telling the stories erased from
Historical records, learning who we are,
Envisioning who we can become.
Something about that vision – who we can become – that gives us hope for the future!
Thank you for this, Glenda. This reinvigorated me. Your lines: “Once we read a fictional story of America/Its cover faux exceptionalism/Binding lives of white pulp paper/Knitted together with diaries, letters, sermons,/the detritus of manifest destiny.” are ones I’d like to share with a stubborn colleague of mine…
Laura, I’m honored. Please share if you want.
“Envisioning who we can become.” May it be so. May it be so. Those last two lines – phew. Gorgeous. xx
From the “white pulp paper” to being reborn and “raised in the shadow of a rainbow.”
Such a beautiful retelling of the next chapter in our history. It’s a long time coming, but I thank God that we are rewriting this story. Thank you, Glenda.
Once the table was set, and we sat bottom to bottom
hungry for fish sticks and apple sauce
until the cookie tray passed to the last
of us was empty.
Indignant elbows jabbed the fleshy bit
between siblings’ ribs and cries of
Unfair sent spoons of sauce
into hair while Mother stared at the
kitchen sink with Silence.
And for years this replayed with different bottoms
hungry for pork chops or french toast or even milk.
Then Mother sold the table that held our
bottoms, shifting our bodies into spaces
that held tables set by others where we pulled up
a chair and passed the bread basket, sipped
wine, even lingered in conversation as
the remains dried on plates.
And now the table is set, and we sit shoulder to shoulder
space to lift our elbows, no longer bothered
by the touch of a hand as we so generously
offer the other the last piece of pie only to
pull the tin between us and clink our forks
in the morsels of sweet Enough.
Sarah, your poem evokes so many memories for me. I might need to write about dinner time. Fish sticks and a Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese were staples during the lean years when I was a struggling mother, but dinner together was also a staple. I love the way a crowded table and a table for two both evoke a sense of belonging, one chaotic, one peaceful. All eating together. That normalcy matters so much regardless of how many gather. I love this poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Sarah, I’ve told you how eerily similar our childhoods were. I love your descriptions. I especially love your ending, when there is room for all.
Sarah, the shift between what was and what now is works beautifully. You captured and revived memories of fish sticks and applesauce and sibling interactions. That phrase “sweet Enough” gives us the perfect ending. Time and space and growth provide us with these morsels and allow us to bring about that Enough.
Sarah, this is beautiful. I loved how the agitated motion at the start with its “indignant elbows” that “jabbed” and sent “spoons of sauce” flying shifted to a lingering and a sipping and a pulling in by the end of the piece. So good!
Sarah, that image of the full family table and the antics that ensued with applesauce in hair is a window to your childhood – and I remember the table from Alone Together. Your snapshots in time here, time spent around the table with growing elbow room and more/better foods are something to savor – just like the wine. I love the capitalization of Enough at the end! Your poem is the whipped cream on the pie today!
Sarah, your words warm me. I love seeing your families history written through meals and tables shared. That last line really ties it all together!
Oh, I feel this as a child and as a mother. How time moves on, and how we grow. Our memories shape us and each other’s memories enlarge us…as your speaker’s memories have done here for me. That fork clinking is a stunning last image. I wish you “sweet Enough” always. xx
Sarah,
What a beautiful poem of survival, empathy, love and joy that can grow even in want and competition. Golly, this is one of my favorites of yours.
Fabulous…”in the morsels of sweet Enough.”
Thank you.
Hankenskein
By Jennifer Guyor Jowett
The befores of before
wind themselves
upon the string of time,
a ball of yarn I collect and
carry with me,
winding the variegated threads
along an ever-shortening after.
Oh, Jennifer, I love this so much with the “befores of before” winding — the yarn, the threads. The imagery is so perfect. I so need metaphors to understand the complexity of time.
Sarah
Jennifer,
I love the metaphor “string of time” and the image of unwinding string. You’ve connected past yo present and honored the temporal w/ this tightly woven poem. “variegated” is a perfect word. Your poem makes me so conscious of diction.
Jennifer — This is a beautiful image! What a metaphor…the strings of time. Oh, dear me, I want to download this one and keep it handy. Gorgeous! And the YARN SKEIN … Hankenskein! Soooo crafty!
You are good, girlie! Thanks, Susie
Jennifer, As a knitter, your words hold special resonance for me. Time is often measured in string, color to color, project to project. Those befores and afters that makes us who we are. xx
Amy, your prompt worked for me today. I have been chipping away at a memory in my life of a flood in my hometown when I was a senior in high school. The idea of a turn (and to write that first) worked for me. Thanks for being here. Sending air hugs.
A weekend after floodwaters receded,
entry was nauseating,
layers of mud,
stench-covered
floors, furniture,
sheets, towels,
pots, pans.
A congregation showed up.
Twenty-one Episcopalians
dug, sorted, carried
carpet, sheetrock to the curb.
The trash pile grew taller
than me; I wandered
lost in the muck
that had been my home.
Outside my bedroom window
lay a stick, barren of bark I peeled away
at Youth Camp–a symbol of shy awkwardness.
Peeling layers to the real me I wanted to be.
That stick glistened at my feet,
a beacon to possibility.
We can climb out of flooded windows
and discover hope
Someday.
Oh, Margaret, I have read other memories of yours of this flood, and this one is special with the turning when you see the stick.
That glistening stick lighting the way to possibility, discovering hope. Those last lines are perfect!
Margaret,
I am at once with you in the aftermath of the Hurricane, which I witness through some of your poetry (am I remembering accurately?) and I am thinking of Derecho now and the destruction, the people who “climb out” once but will forever be climbing out. It doesn’t every really end does it? Even after clean up. It doesn’t end for the people who lived it, continue to live it.
I so appreciate you bringing this poem to us, to me to ponder and witness. Someday.
Sarah
What a lovely poem, Margaret. Reminds me of Hurricane Katrina. Anniversary coming up. I love the last three lines the most, especially the “someday” emphasizing, maybe we won’t find hope soon but we will eventually. Thank you.
Margaret,
These days I spend so much time thinking about storms and their destruction and the imminent hope required to rebuild, required to keep moving. I don’t know what kind of storm is worst, but there’s something about floods that evoke catastrophe of biblical proportions. Each week I receive an email from several former students I’m LDS missions. One came a couple weeks ago after the recent hurricane threat to Florida. The student wrote part of him “wished for a cat 5 so they’d have more opportunities for service.” I found that so upsetting and emailed back indicating my displeasure. I have an aunt who lost her home in the Joplin F5 tornado. Anyway, your poem captures both the destruction and the hope. I love the symbol in these lines:
That stick! I could feel it in my hands. That peeling, Margaret. And the specificity of “twenty-one Episcopalians” makes this singular experience so universal. Beautiful. xx
Amy, thank you for the prompt today. I love your story of winter, even the winter that would never end, coming to an end. One of my favorite parts of living in the four seasons is the power of spring. It always wins. I especially love the woman in the purple house. What a delicious and wonderful detail. She of course is watching for the tiny tulip tips. So precious!
Thank you also for introducing me to Joy Harjo. I thought of another once upon a perfect time, and it’s a story we are studying this week in my Bible study, so I wrote a poem of the fall from Genesis 3.
The Fall
Once upon a time they were kept apart
But the most crafty and cagey creature
(for Goodness sake, why?)
took the good and stirred in the evil
Introduced Knowing right and wrong
That cunning creature asked questions
Really? Are you starving here? Don’t you get anything to eat?
Oh, yes, we eat. We eat everything…except…uh…
I mean…not everything, exactly…
just…just not from that one in the middle…
Ahhh, they say that’s the best one.
No. I don’t think so. We’ll die.
Mwahahaha! Do you believe that lie?
Think for yourself. It will open your eyes. Be like Creator.
It does look delicious.
They ate.
They hid.
They hid their knowing.
They no longer knew only Good Garden.
They now also knew evil empire.
They spread their
knowledge
to the rest of us.
We hide.
But Goodness calls,
“Where are you?”
Denise,
This is a wonderful allegorical retelling of the genesis story. Are you familiar w/ Calvin Miller’s “The Singer,” “The Song,” and “The Finale”? When I read your blog posts and poems evoking faith, I wonder if I’d still be a church-goer if I’d known you way back when. I’ve often told people I don’t reject the theology I grew up with. Maybe poetry is my church now. I especially like the simple hope at the end of your poem and the dialogue you weave into it. Thank you.
—Glenda
I love this light and humorous version of this Genesis Fall from Grace in the Garden. You captured well the innocence of the good and the craftiness of the evil. I am glad the goodness is out there calling and doing more than we know.
Denise,
That temptation is so real – – and it’s interesting that temptation, itself, is the reason for our shift between light and darkness. What a perfect topic to choose for the moment of change – the shift. And it always seems to happen just that quickly. Thank you for reminding us where the power is.
Denise, What a wise idea to bring your study to poetry. I would like to try this with my reading more, and thank you for helping me to think about this…for me and for my students too. Your line “It does look delicious” reminds me of my failure…so simple, so weak. But still, I want to call to Goodness, “I am here! I am here!” xx
Amy, I loved the prompt today. So many seismic shifts in our lives that we can consider pivotal moments of change — which to choose? In your poem, the dogs going from circling in front of fires to the Thursday of scratching at doors, sniffing smells people could not detect – – the change! I particularly love that the dogs are the detectors. Our best friends and comrades communicating things about life and the world to us. Thank you for today’s inspiration.
Shattered
we’d been going out
but then a wrinkle
decided to stop
see other people
out of town
the call came
“there’s been an accident,”
she said,
“a freak accident that
made the Atlanta news
we need to take food”
a car crashed
through Mojo’s restaurant window
where you’d been sitting
your parents holding hands
across the table
pinning them
underneath
shattered glass
everywhere
miraculously you lived
no one understood how –
that’s the nature of a
triple miracle
so we made a raisin-glazed ham
and scalloped pineapple
delivered it to
the Funny Farm
where you were
helping your folks and
recovering too
from the kitchen
I caught a glimpse
of you
in the recliner
your face and hands
cut, bandaged
avoiding my gaze
as you sat alone
my heart skipped a beat
I saw a different you
a vulnerable you
who’d shown
heroic courage
in sifting through
shards of shattered glass
to save others
not the showoff trickster motorcycle rider
not the competitive race car driver
not the fast talker with orange PowerAde staining your lips
as you talked and talked and talked on a concrete picnic bench
I saw you –
knew I was in love with you
but was too scared
of another broken heart
to unleave
how does anyone unleave, anyway?
not all pieces are as easily picked up
as shattered glass
I could at least
ask how you were feeling
no risk there
so I texted,
“wanna talk?”
expecting to wait days
for the response
that came
immediately
Kim – this is at first a compelling hold-your-breath-and-cringe sequence that tipped into a hold-your-breath beautiful love story. You’ve launched my Wednesday with a gift. I sooo love this. When your poem revealed “the Funny Farm,” I gasped as this was not “just” a news story…it was you and your sweetie pie. Your word crafting with “unleave” is perfect. What a weighty word! Love it. Might have to steal that at some point. I really love the “saw a different you” shift. Terrific ❤️ Thank you, Susie
Kim, what a miracle story. So awesome. And a lovely telling. Like Susie, when I saw the Funny Farm, I said ‘wait a minute. Is he at her house?’ Then I figured it out. Such a love story. I love that the answer came immediately.
Kim,
I love this story and am filling in the details between the lines, in the white spaces, but I want more. It is compelling. I smiled with this part,
“so we made a raisin-glazed ham
and scalloped pineapple”
because it is so true how food, these sweet nourishing foods are both a gesture and a partner when visit people hurt or grieving. And then the concept “unleaving” — how do you unleave? And so often we want that. So true and complex.
Peace,
Sarah
Kim, I love the pace that you have formed in this poem. It works well to describe your thoughts, the change, and the immediacy of his response that you did not expect. Great poetic story. Thanks for sharing.
Kim, Every word of this poem held me and made me hold my breath awaiting the next detail. I worried and waited and wanted to know how this story ends. I love the way the telling complicates people, shoes us we’re all more than one thing.
These words give me hope for humanity. Now I want to know what response you received back. Im nosey like that. Thank you.
—Glenda
Kim. Kim. I do not know if this is true, but it feels so true. So honest and raw and plainly truer than fiction. The tiny details….I am rooting for this couple, for this world, with your words. Your poem exudes hope on a small and large scale. xx
I might daydream
forever from the top
of the woods on
Sunday mornings
with fog still lifting
and the tree branches
beckoning like ladders,
always leading me
to somewhere else
Kevin – How fitting for this early morning post to travel with you into a lifting fog. The “ladders” is an exquisite stroke of imagery on this canvas. Beautiful! Thank you, Susie
I love “beckoning like ladders…” Just a funny image came to mind, how my 20 month old grandson will climb any ladder in sight. Probably not the image you had in mind.
Kevin,
Your poem got me to exhale for the first time today. I realized I have been holding my breath since I woke up. I think it was the line “and the tree branches/beckoning like ladders” — and I so wish I could climb so that I could see something different.
Peace,
Sarah
Kevin,
This poem creates a lovely image of nature and the way it carries us away in our imaginations. Thank you.
—Glenda
Kevin, there is deep thinking happening on these heights, and what a glorious way to spend a morning – – the best thinking time of day! That fog lifting is like ideas rising in your mind. Beautiful.
Kevin, Now the “top/of the woods on/Sunday mornings” is where I want to be. Thank you. Nature heals and lifts in so many ways… xx