Allison Berryhill is hosting February’s 5-day challenge! Allison lives in Iowa where she advises the journalism program and teaches freshman English at Atlantic High School. She is the chair of NCTE’s Public Language Awards Committee, which selects the recipients for the George Orwell and Doublespeak awards. She also serves on the board of the Iowa High School Press Association and is Publications-coordinator for the Iowa Council of Teachers of English. Her first published poem was awarded first place in the Lyrical Iowa sonnet division in 2019. Allison is also an accordion player and a wedding officiant. Follow her at @allisonberryhil for photos of #IowaSky and schoolblazing.blogspot.com for random musings.
Good morning! I am a teacher/writer/poet from Iowa who has been participating in the ELA writing challenge since June. Over the past eight months I’ve written 40 poems with this supportive community! If you are new here, prepare for all the feels as you read others’ poems and the responses to your own!
I suggest you set a timer and write for 15-20 minutes. If you haven’t finished by then, wrap it up within the next five minutes. We are busy people. If you don’t give yourself a time limit, you might get sucked into that whirlpool of endless revision and never get around to sharing your poem! Trust that whatever you share here will be read with kind and generous eyes. Readers will show you beauty you might not have realized you’d written!
For the coming week, I have selected some of my favorite mentor poems I use with student writers. After experimenting here, I hope you’ll try these with your own students. Thank you for joining me for a week of walking the walk: writing teachers should write!
Let’s do this,
Allison
Inspiration
I shared “Twenty Questions” by Jim Moore with my 18-year-old son on the day he left for a year in New Zealand. The poem is ultimately about the choices we make in our lives and the lingering doubt that underpins those choices. Its timing was perfect for my son’s departure, and its opening line has inspired me to look at the sky, look at the sky, look at the sky. (Check out #IowaSky on Twitter!)
Here are the opening lines:
Did I forget to look at the sky this morning
when I first woke up? Did I miss the willow tree?
The white gravel road that goes up from the cemetery,
but to where?…
Further on, this:
If I’d caught the boat
to Mykonos that time when I was nineteen
would the moon have risen out of the sea
and shone on my life so clearly
I would have loved it
just as it was?
…
The poem concludes with the haunting question:
Did I already ask that?
Process
After reading Moore’s entire poem on Poets.org, I invite you to write a question, then another, and follow it through memory and imagery until you have (maybe) twenty questions. Consider the choices that have made a difference in your life. Maybe end your poem with “Did I already ask that?”
“Twenty Questions” by Jim Moore
If you need a second slice of inspiration, read David Lehman’s poem by the same title:
“Twenty Questions” by David Lehman
My Sophomore Student’s Poem
What just happened?
Where did everyone go?
Did they get lost along the journey?
Did I scare them away with the darkness?
Did they forget about me?
Why is there nobody here?
Was it something I said?
Something I did?
Myself?
Am I really that bad?
Have I really changed that much?
Did the medicine change me completely?
Did I follow the directions correctly?
Did I go in the wrong direction?
Should I have asked for help sooner?
Should I have even asked at all?
Am I weak?
Or stronger than ever?
Why can’t I see my reflection anymore?
Where did my life go?
Allison’s Poem
Twenty Questions From My Classroom
Why am I here?
In this chair, by this desk?
Am I flinging finite minutes
of my life into the dusty swirl of students’ too-full thoughts?
Are my words rolling tumbleweeds skirting across this barren plain?
Where is your hall pass?
Why am I wasting breath, breath, breath?
Will another Wednesday roll out from under me in 33-minute sprints?
What do they ask:
What did I miss yesterday?
Why are we reading this?
Where’s Corbin Logeman?
And why do we say “have run” and not “have ran”?
Does it make a difference?
And to who?
Or to whom?
What is the color of teal?
Where is the receipt book?
Can I go to the nurse?
Do they learn anything?
Did I already ask that?
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.
Was he always a pest?
Wasn’t there one moment when he was human?
Who do humans act so inhumanly?
How is this irony even possible?
Can dogs pick up human habits?
But they remain dogs, don’t they?
So why do humans choose to behave unhuman like?
Humans always have a choice, right?
Don’t they?
That child over there didn’t have a choice to be neglected, did he?
Of course not – but did someone choose selfishness over him?
At the top of the animal hierarchy, humans are the most advanced, aren’t they?
Of all the creatures we have dominion over all, but do we deserve it?
Are we worthy?
Was the pest less worthy?
Was the child?
Do you ever think we’ve squandered our place?
Neglected our duties of position?
Are we the true pests?
Did I already ask that?
I was too sick to write yesterday, so I’m pretty late to the game. I read the prompt early, though, and this poem was rattling around in my head all day.
I wonder what life would have been like
if your nosebleed hadn’t required an ambulance ride to the hospital.
How would our lives have played out
if mom didn’t get your diagnosis that cold January day.
Would the pictures of my First Holy Communion have been so dear?
Would my brothers have been so overprotective?
Would I have married at 21?
Would mom have experienced the happiness she so richly deserved?
If you had lived, what would you think about the mother
and grandmother I’ve become?
Of the three young men I’ve raised?
Somedays these questions consume me,
but more often than not,
I look back on my life and think
that I am the woman I am
because of the man you were.
Oh, Mo, this is beautiful. I love it when poems turn the pain of life into something beautiful, and you’ve done that here. Your sensitivity to language and selection of details pulls me along eagerly. Your closing lines are loving and lovely.
Aww, Mo, this is so tender, so loving. I’m glad you are back to the writing. Especially with beautiful piece like this one. The pondering “if’s” feel so real…”what would you think…” You let me peek inside such an intimate relationship that has meant so much to you. I appreciate these honest questions. Susie
Beautiful and heartbreaking – thanks for sharing
Why do you love the woods so much?
You ask so many questions once we’re there:
Did you notice the paw print on the edge of the trail?
What was he feeling when he crossed this path?
Peace? Anger? Fear? Joy? What are you feeling now?
Do you see how the sun filters through the trees? Isn’t it pretty?
How does it feel on your face?
Shh… Listen to the wind ruffling leaves. Hear it, like water lapping the shore?
See the mark — there on the tree?
Do you see how high the flood waters rose?
But look! The tree survived. Isn’t it strong and brave and determined, like you?
They ask questions, too:
Eyes twinkling with wonder: Mommy, do you think a fairy lives in that tree?
Why do you stop and close your eyes and take such deep breaths in the woods?
Why do you turn your face up like that?
What are you looking at?
Why does it always look like the woods make you happy and sad?
Why do I wish to capture each season in amber?
Why is each snowflake, each budding flower, each falling leaf sand in an hourglass?
Did I already ask that?
Haley, this is beautiful! “Why does it always look like the woods make you happy and sad?” is such a great line! Your love of nature, and how you share this identity piece with your children, is captured in this poem. Your ending adds a melancholy note: one who cherishes nature understands loss.
The first rule of improvisation is do avoid questions,
Isn’t it?
Do you remember when you decided to pop the question?
How did you find the courage?
What did you say, exactly? Can you remember the late afternoon sun
While you both sat under the willow tree, sweating and nervous?
Remember walking the ceremonial cow each morning
With your father-in-law-to-be
Into the pasture just before the warmth of the morning sun
Making small talk? Does he remember those walks?
Was the cow brown and white or black and white?
Has it been twenty years already?
Will you always remember your anniversaries spent on sandy beaches?
In quant B & Bs?
Do you remember your first anniversary when your brother-in-law
Was found hanging in an abandoned house?
Remember consoling his three children while the adults tried to figure it all out?
Why did he do it?
Will you always remember the arguments about how to raise children?
What color to paint the kitchen? Where to put my inherited dry sink?
Do you remember the moment that you realized that you are always wrong?
Will you always remember her name?
That’s the most important question,
Isn’t it?
Oh, the emotional movement in this poem! I feel like each stanza is almost a still-frame, but alive. So powerful. Thank you for sharing.
Shaun, I have read your poem three times now, each time discovering another possibility. Your ambiguous use of “you” made me think at first you were talking to another person…but now I think you are addressing yourself. Either way, I am “all in” as I experience these powerful slices of relationship. I am looking forward to reading ALL your poems this week! This was excellent.
I keep meaning to join in and this one’s a day late. But middle of the night insomnia had me thinking about the stories of my life I’m writing this year. And one very important question – can I post this late?
Twenty Questions for my #52stories Project
What story will I write next?
The loneliest moment of my life?
The teachers I remember?
And why do I remember so many?
Will I write about my summer working for the YCC?
Or maybe how I worked in almost every department at Montgomery Ward?
Why do certain spaces remain ever present?
Why did Dortha and I walk to the library almost every day that summer?
How could she read so many books overnight?
And why is the summer reading contest of the brick library the only one I remember?
Should I tell the New York City stories?
The emptying of my wallet before the trip?
The night we stayed in Betty’s condo and discovered she was still in the city?
The David’s cookies I fell in love with?
How I read my book at Shea Stadium and Cynthia’s observation that I was a slow reader?
Maybe the summer Mom sewed my wedding dress and I attempted to do everything she usually did?
Or the bunnies in the garden starring Dad?
Perhaps the origin of my obsession with books starring Kay?
Or how I met Kathy and knew she would be perfect for my brother Karl?
And will I write of Velma’s dementia and the hole in my heart because she is gone before I have finished loving her?
YES! You may post any time! As host this month, I will keep checking back to see late posters :-)! Posting late means you might not get as much feedback since others might not check the previous days’ posts, but I’m delighted you are here–and that you wrote! Each line of your poem invites me into a chapter of your life–like a movie trailer promising wonderful overlapping plots! (BTW, Dortha was cheating. She didn’t really read all those books. She was skimming–faking it–to win the contest.) I love how reading threads through your poem!
Ramona, I loved it!! Perfect descriptions and vivid pictures. I want to know the answers to some of your questions – how could she read so many books in one night, what happened to all the bunnies and did Dad feed them or you? Its a terrific poem.
Those last two lines… Isn’t it amazing how quickly tears can well when the heart is struck just right? Lovely.
What is my purpose?
Am I here by chance?
Do I count?
Or am I just another number?
Do you see me?
Can you hear me?
Do I mean anything to you?
Is my existence a crime?
Where do I belong?
Whose am I?
Why does my heart have no place to rest?
Have I caused this on myself?
Will this sorrow last forever?
Or will it fade only to be revived again?
Where is my peace?
Where is my joy?
Why have I grown cold and numb?
Is this what I deserve?
Will I ever be free?
When will I live?
Melissa, I’m so glad you wrote this and shared it here. While your poem tells of aching loneliness, it does so with beautiful words and honesty–which is what good poems do: they allow us to touch dark places, feel hard emotions, and still feel elevated by feeling the human touch of the poet. “Why does my heart have no place to rest?” is lovely. “Will (this sorrow) fade only to be revived again?” is powerful in its universality. Your words spoke to me.
What if I’m wrong
What if I never know what I’m doing
What if this is forever this hard
What if he doesn’t sleep
What if he doesn’t thrive
What if he doesn’t bond with me
What if my career is ruined
What if this was a mistake
What if I’m always this sad
What if people disapprove
And what if
What if I raise him healthy and happy
What if I get better
What if my world shifts
What if he excels
What if this becomes my biggest strength
What if it makes me a better teacher
What if I learn what love really is
What if I learn to trust myself
What if this changes me in the most beautiful way
What if I’m right
Amen!
Beautiful questions…and what a backbone it takes to turn things around in life and in a poem. Well done.
Emily,
We’ve almost all felt the first stanza emotions with you, but I promise the second stanza is how it’ll play out!
What an honest, raw poem!
Great job!
These questions would make interesting conversation starters. Great job
This expresses all of the fears and joy of a new life. And he will make you a more forgiving teacher…
What if no one ever meets any expectations ever and all we do is accept what is? I love you and your poem.
Thank you for sharing this view of your world, although every view changes depending on where you stand.
Emily, I love how you sandwiched your poem with “What if I’m wrong?” and “What if I’m right?” Your questions create powerful oppositions that invite me to stretch in the tension between the binary poles: What if I’m wrong AND right? Thank you for this heartfelt, lovely poem.
This poem is dedicated to every young woman who thinks she’s fabulous and has no fear of aging.
Why didn’t anyone warn me?
No one talked about aging the way they talked about puberty
Didn’t they know we wouldn’t fear lean muscles and high sex drives?
Why didn’t I know the bra I prayed for would become a daily chokehold?
Why didn’t I know my natural libido would require replacing?
What happened to energy and enthusiasm to M o v e?
Why is staying asleep each night harder than falling asleep at a matinee?
Where did my muscles go?
Are they hiding inside my bones?
When did my arms start flapping?
And why are my thighs CLAPPING?
Why didn’t anyone warn me?
Hair down there would grow wilder?
And getting waxed would become more rattling than a root canal?
Who’s face is this?
Did my grandmother sneak inside my soul?
Is my mother reincarnated in me?
Who’s ass is this all bagged up like cotton balls?
Does my back ache because it’s finished with standing up for me?
Do my feet hurt because they’re tired of walking in my shoes?
Why didn’t anyone warn me the way I am warning you?
Wait, what were we talking about?
Preach, Stacey!!! I laughed aloud on this one! Whose ass is this bagged up like cotton balls is a simile like no other!! Your humor and energy radiate here. What amazing existential questions these are…?
Oh my, this is hysterical and so, so true!
This. Was. Utterly. Delightful. I am laughing out loud! “Who’s ass is this all bagged up like cotton balls?” It’s MINE! I love the entire concept and execution of this poem. You made me recall the “gift box” they handed out at my 6th-grade mother-daughter showing of the puberty film. I remember the girl (actress) unboxing a beautiful yellow prom dress…welcome to WOMANHOOD! (And here is an elastic belt and pads the size and shape of slippers.) Ah, should we be welcomed into menopause with such enthusiasm!
Your poem, line after line (thighs clapping!–right after the matinee, no less) served up this aging conundrum with chutzpa and sass! I am proud to grow old alongside you, Stacey Joy!
Ha! Yeah. I’ve had all of these thoughts…I’ve been swimming for exercise thinking I’d lose weight. Why didn’t anyone warn me that all I’d do was maintain at best? Oh gosh…you got me started.
Stacey,
I really needed this light-hearted, hilarious look at aging. I wish I could toss aside the deep and write something funny.
So many of your descriptions are dead-on!
Love it, so many of us struggle with these issues. Its good to put a little humor in it.
Stacey,
Do all women ultimately inhabit the same body? I ask because you have described mine to a T! Except for that waxing stuff. I’ve never been brave enough to try that! The image of an “ass all bagged up like cotton” is wince-worthy. Lately I’ve been standing in front of the full-length mirror pulling my sagging inner-thigh skin up to see my legs w/ out a roll of skin around my knees. This is not an easy thing to do, my friend. Why, indeed, did someone not warn me? And don’t get me started on the libido. I have some tales to tell.
Stacey — NAILED IT! Every single line is a primer on aging, and I feel this right to the bone….every single line! It’s not just that I’ve faced the “arms flapping” and “bra…chokehold” and the “wild hairs” and the shock of seeing my dad’s (your grandmother’s) face in the mirror— yikes! Your poem lets me laugh at all this. My favorite lines though are: “Does my back ached because it’s finished with standing up for me?/Do my feet hurt because they’re tired of walking in my shoes?” Those two lines saved up for the end are priceless. Really killa lines! I still marvel that here we are 1800 miles apart, and we are soooo connected… so brought together by our shared words in this unusual string of lines dangling between STL and LA on the internet. What a wonderful new friendship this has become… women wired! Hugs, Susie
Wow! I love how the first few questions run headfirst into the central idea – aging is such a wake-up call to us.
I love this prompt, Allison! Thank you for getting me writing today!
What am I supposed to say?
Which tone of voice to use?
Flattened or lively?
Should I listen more than I speak?
Establish my purpose quickly?
Or fold myself into
reservation
a careful invitation?
Have I always tucked myself away?
When will I stretch myself
into the rivers?
into the belly of the beast?
into a voice that
fills corners instead of finding them?
If I wrap this day around my finger,
will I feel any different?
Speak differently?
Love differently?
Have I run this thought into
a painful sort of familiarity?
Are my turning thoughts
just spinning wheels?
Lauren, Your poem causes me to think about the reticence we often feel when prompted to speak or act, or vice versa when we are prompted to hold on to both. The lines
Are my turning thoughts
just spinning wheels?
sum it up for me.
Dear Lauren, It is so good to see you here!
I love how the covering up vs. expanding out works through your poem: “fold myself into
reservation
a careful invitation”
and
“fills corners instead of finding them.”
The poem speaks to the introvert/extrovert balance in all of us!
I loved how your closing lines reflected each other:
turning thoughts/spinning wheels.
<3 <3
You’ve so powerfully summed up how difficult it can sometimes be to know how to respond or even how to present oneself into the world. The line “or fold myself into reservation” reminds me of a great line I once copied from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close- “I zipped myself all the way into the sleeping bag of myself.” It’s funny how one line can really resonate, particularly when you’re feeling that same way.
Thank you for reminding me of “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close”! What a great line. How cool that you “saw” it here in Lauren’s poem.
Lauren, my favorite elements of your poem are, “establish my purpose” and “stretch myself” which flow well with your questions and draw a deeper pondering of the questions you ask.
Wonderful questions! Recently, I read some silly article about some people not having an inner dialog. How can this be? This! This poem is an inner dialog.
Ah!
If I wrap this day around my finger,
will I feel any different?
Speak differently?
Love differently?
So beautiful. I love the way your poem demands reflection on how we respond in our daily experiences. I wish I could post up as a fly on the wall in my own life to witness how often I consider the “most appropriate” way to respond rather than just doing or speaking freely. Thank you for your wonderful poem!
Your poem reminds me of myself before I found my voice. I struggled for years with public speaking. I did not speak much in school either because I was too shy. Now I realize how many opportunities passed me by because I was too timid.
REALLY??
Why did I really do that?
Was there another choice?
Did I consider the consequences?
Why did I listen to his voice?
Why did I take that chance?
Was I bored with life back then?
What if I had said, “No?”
Hmmm. Would I do this again?
What is it all about?
Why do I now want to shout?
Should I stay put or try to get out?
What is it all about?
Where can I go from here?
Will my friends still be there to cheer?
If I take a back seat
Will I still face the heat?
Was there ever another choice?
Should I have listened to his sister, Joyce?
Am I glad I heeded to his sweet voice?
Why did I really do that?
Anna, I love how you nestled your questions in rhyme! Your central question: Why did I really do that? is compelling. Sometimes it’s scary to pull back the layers, to look beyond the surface and examine deeper whys. You do that here, and then lead us to the next set of questions that begin with stanza four: Where can I go from here? Thank you for this poem that made me ponder my own “why did I do that?”
I enjoyed your poem and loved the line “will my friends still be there to cheer” I wondered about the context and it made me so curious. I love when authors peak my interest. Excellent!!!
Hello Anna,
Thank you for you poem and I appreciate the rhyme as well. I have so many interpretations of its context and love that it isn’t clear.
Your poetry is so relatable for me. I feel there are many decisions that lead me to wonder why I really did them. Your lines coax me to peel back layers and really examine choices. I especially love “where can I go from here?”
Wow! And you rhymed. Nicely done. I really like the question, “Was there ever another choice?”
Writer friends, I had not planned the rhyme…it just came. By the time I got to the last stanza I was wondering what the poem is really about. It seemed to be questioning a relationship of some sort. Then, when I decided to repeat a version of the first stanza as the final four lines, I had to find a word that rhymes with voice and choice, I used the rhyming dictionary. Guess what, my husband has a sister named Joyce!
So, I figured this may have been a poem about the times I’ve consented to follow my husband around the country, living in five different states (MO, NY, MA, CA and MI) since we got married! She has questioned how I’ve stayed with her brother all these years!
Once again, I didn’t know what I was thinking until I saw what I was writing! Thanks, Allison for challenging us to ask questions and to write quickly and just post what we drafted.
You all have read other poems and know, my husband and I celebrated our golden anniversary three years ago. Thankfully, he still takes good care of me. I have time to write silly poems and read your powerful ones. It’s truly an insightful experience meeting here and writing together once a month. I’m learning so much about myself!
Thanks, Sarah!
Will I ever get there?
Will we?
Where is there, exactly?
Is it good grades, submitted assignments, and completed tasks?
Is it compliance and a clean room?
Is it college bound?
Career bound?
How is someone supposed to know where they’re bound when they’re thirteen?
How is a mom supposed to teach taking care along the journey when the destination seems so unclear?
And what about parenting my parent?
Will I ever get there?
Where is there?
Is it finished with paperwork, finished with problems, or finished with her?
Will I ever stop freezing in my tracks when the nursing home calls?
Will there ever be good news again?
Is our there the end date that will someday be etched in bronze?
What about me?
Do I still have a there, or is mine too wrapped up in the theres of others?
Is it too late to want one of my own?
Is it worth the trouble to try to find it?
Pam, the sandwich generation so understands
What about me?
Do I still have a there, or is mine too wrapped up in the theres of others?
Is it too late to want one of my own?
Is it worth the trouble to try to find it?
This is so many of us right now – – the “in-betweens” who are in the middle of a spectrum of people who all need us in different ways.
Those last lines make us think!
Where IS there? This resonates with every one of us of a “certain age”. We become lost amongst our responsibilities. The line about the nursing home was especially powerful. It does get better. My kids are grown, my mom is in a safe place, and now I look out for me. Stay the course- it’s worth it!
Oh MY, Pam! This is a beautiful poem, filled with aching tenderness. The progression from your daughter’s “where” to your mom’s “where,” and then to your own “lost where” was so good. “Will there ever be good news again?” is such a hard, honest question.
I also love how your initial question (Will I ever get there?) takes me into such a personal defining of “wheres”–culminating in your final lines with “Do I still have a there?”
Thank you so much for this treat of a poem!
Wow! There’s so much to love about this speaker…trying to hold it all together. “Where is there?” such a good line.
Twenty-three Questions
Why did you call me a female dog
Are you aware you’re only 11 years old
Can you please let me teach you
Will you ever learn how to multiply and divide
Can I help you with your reading comprehension
Will you listen while I teach you how to cite sources
Do you use that language at home
Does your dad call your mother that
Where did you learn that was appropriate school language
Who told you that was acceptable
Was it your angry yelling mother
Did you know the people in the office abhor her
Are you aware that you and your mom have alienated every teacher since Kindergarten
Can you stop bringing your toxicity to school and into my classroom
When will you learn your home environment might be mentally poisonous
Will you ever learn respect
Will you ever be able to play well with others
Do you know any kind words
Will you be able to get and keep a job
Do you pray at home
Are you aware you can ask for grace, love, guidance and forgiveness
Will you open your heart to the beauty of the universe
Or will you take your downward spiral with you to middle school next year
Have you been reading my thoughts? ( just substitute grade levels—I’m in middle school). This made me nod in agreement and laugh out loud! Well done!
Thanks Gayle. I edited it and fixed my mistakes. I was so in my feelings and typing quickly I didn’t proofread. Something I stress with my students.
Hi Seana!! So happy you’re back for February’s challenge.
This poem is clearly an explanation of my FB post this week when you asked me what to do when the toxicity is in your classroom. What a sad situation. I am wanting to talk more about what is happening with the student but this space is about you and your poetry. But I will ask this, do you think you can teach this poetry style and perhaps your student will write 20 questions that will help you get a glimpse into his toxic world?
Through all the sickness of what this child brings to you, your caring heart pours hope in this question:
“Are you aware you can ask for grace, love, guidance and forgiveness
Will you open your heart to the beauty of the universe”
I know your heart is pure and loving and eventually so will he. Praying for you, Seana, it will get better. I was once told we can always pray people out of our lives if we are not going to grow and be a blessing with them in it. Maybe you can try that. Just a thought. Kids come and go all the time.
Hugs!
Oh, Seana! I HEAR your voice. You put words to some of the dark questions teachers have when trying to reach our angriest students. “Do you know any kind words?” is such a cry of despair! Your poem reminded me…am I teaching the kind words? Thank you.
I ran into a former middle school colleague today, and she shared so much that echoes this. The tough questions teachers think but cannot ask. The worries that keep us up at night. The hard job of working with an age group trying to break away into independence, but breaking away by breaking relationships. It’s captured here so powerfully. I sometimes wonder if they do realize they can ask for “grace, love, guidance, and forgiveness”.
Thank you for your poem. I felt the tense energy and emotional outpouring through the lines. As teachers we are so often faced with situations that have us tossing our hands up and thinking all of these kinds of questions. How or if we rejuvenate ourselves at night to come back and face the “job” becomes so critical. How do we meet student x where he or she is? How do we nurture ourselves through it, too? Thank you for these words!
Wow, Gayle….it’s like you sit with me and a couple of friends when we eat lunch at school. I have asked some students…what would your mom say if you said that near her ears? I hear the sadness in this. I feel the sadness in this.
We ever hold out hope that his or her heart opens and the downward spiral is broken. Respect and kind words are what you’re offering in return. I love what you say in the first stanza – in response to the name-calling from this student. “Can you please let me teach you? . . . Can I help . . ? Will you listen . . . ?
Good morning Allison,
Thrilled to be here with you and our cozy community of writers. Your student’s poem reminded me of the many posts I’ve seen over the years of young people’s sadness and depression. Wondering if it’s ever going to get better. Hurts my heart. However, the beauty of the healing power of poetry gives your student and us so much hope. “Did I scare them away with the darkness…”
Your poem speaks to the teacher woes! “What did I miss…” Oh if only they came in saying, “Wow, I hate that I missed your lessons yesterday.” LOL!
This line could’ve been a reflection of my last two weeks: “Are my words rolling tumbleweeds skirting across this barren plain?”
Yep, all week, my question was, “Is anyone here with me in this classroom?”
Looking forward to writing with you this week, and today’s prompt is a wonderful way to begin.
Stacey Joy! So good to see you here this afternoon! Thank you so much for your warm response. I can’t wait to read your poems! <3
Exactly what IS old?
Is it measured by years?
Can we choose how many years of old we want to own?
Thirty? Fifty? Eighty? Ninety-five?
Should we measure it by attitude—
Like— do you want to see the sun rise tomorrow
or just say the heck with this—it’s too much work…
(Is it worth it to make a full pot of coffee today?)
Is old something stored away in a drawer
To be pulled out when you’re ready for it?
(Ready or not, here I come!)
Do we grow into old
or does old shrink to fit us
As we grow shorter
In size and patience?
What should we do when old is sad,
the mind broken, and the body rolling on
or the body failing, and the mind sharp with misery?
What is it’s worth, then
and how should we measure it?
Is old measured by what we have forgotten,
or what we have yet to endure?
Is there a warranty on this old thing?
Can we send our old off
to the manufacturer when we can’t repair it any more?
Will they refund our investment, or does it devalue over time?
Can we buy an extension on our warranty
if It is running out
and we would like to keep it working just a bit longer?
We have something we need to finish—
One more thing to do
Or maybe more…
Exactly what IS old?
I love this!! So much depth to it. I think I am going to read it over and over and over.
The lines that resonate most with me after just one read are:
“Do we grow into old
or does old shrink to fit us”
Love the warranty tie in.
Oh, those lines, “Do we grow into old or does old shrink to fit us?” This really resonates as I wonder where I’m at in the process. It’s partly fascinating to watch my face become the face of someone else who I don’t quite know but still recognize. Sometimes it’s better not to look (my grandmother used to laugh and push old photos of her away. I understand that better now). If only there were an extension on the warranty. I only hope my body and can keep up with me as I shift through life. Thanks for sharing a thoughtful and thought-provoking piece this morning.
Hi Gayle,
Your poem makes me feel good, makes me ponder aging and being old, and makes me laugh at sending old back “to the manufacturer when we can’t repair it any more?”
Love this:
“Is old something stored away in a drawer
To be pulled out when you’re ready for it?”
I love poems with stuff hiding in drawers.
The images here are befitting how we might shrink with age but always want to “grow up.”
“Do we grow into old
or does old shrink to fit us…”
What a lovely poem questioning OLD.
I need to write more poems with “stuff hiding in drawers”!
Gayle, I just loved this on so many levels. First, I just turned 60 and find so many of your questions flitting through my mind from day to day. I love how you turned “old” into a noun: how many years of old we want to own? You then expanded on “old” as a thing when you considered it as something to put in a drawer, then something that comes with a warranty! One of my favorite lines was “Does old shrink to fit us?” Thank you for inviting me to take this old journey with you!
Gayle,
It does seem as though we’re in a symbiotic relationship, yes? Look at us w/ out obsessions about aging. I particularly like the humor in the lines “ Is there a warranty on this old thing? / Can we send our old off / to the manufacturer when we can’t repair it any more?” These words made me think of planned obsolescence and our disposable society. Especially where women are concerned. ?
Beautiful. I think of my dear friend in a nursing home…she’s locked inside of old.
Love how you began and ended with the same question. And there are so many lines to love, especially this one:
“Is old measured by what we have forgotten,
or what we have yet to endure?”
So much to think about in your words. Thanks for this meditation on old.
Why must you always question?
Let’s go for a walk.
Where? Why? When?
(I move the ottoman.)
Why would you move it there?
Hello, honey, I’m home.
Did you get delayed?
(I go in the bedroom to read.)
How long will you be?
(I make some tea.)
Why didn’t you ask me?
(I write a poem.)
What was it about?
(I get into his car after class.)
What was the highlight?
(I sleep a little longer.)
Can I make you some coffee?
(I drift into my mind.)
Will you let me in?
)Let’s go for a walk.(
The full circle of the poem is great. A day in the life… but isn’t it nice to have someone asking the questions, no matter whether we really want them?
Oh, the questions! They seem never-ending at times. I’m left to ponder the placement of the )( at the end. It’s a narrowing in, an entrance to a pathway. Though, it could also be an embrace, or even the opposite of one. It takes the solitary decisions from earlier (I move, I go, I make) and upends them to a joint endeavor.
Right now, I’m envying the awareness that leads to the questions.
I’m also fascinated by the reverse parentheses.
You are so good.
After reading this thoughtful reflection of daily habits/routines, I feel a heartwarming connection to it because of the simple fact that you are honored to share life with someone else, even if the incessant questioning gets tedious. Every action elicits a response. The walking, arranging furniture, coming home, making tea, getting a ride, sleeping in, and writing a poem are all sometimes solitary, independent decisions that someone (who cares about you) notices, questions, and desires to be a part of you. I appreciate you sharing and reminding me that experiencing life “together” is a blessing.
Hi, Sarah — This piece layers in voices for me. All the questions…some that matter and some that seem to nag (“why would you move it there?”). The poem seems to move at separate paces, with you caught inside the parentheses and — sort of holding you there protected from the questions you want to push aside. At the end, with the reversed parentheses, I get a feeling of being let loose to walk away from the persistent what, why, why, where… I really like that you’ve caused me to pause carefully, as if before a piece of artwork at the museum, to defy the fast glance and to look at what might be layered here. You are quite crafty! It’s good to be back with the poets here on this grey February day! Thank you! Susie
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah!!! I’ve read it multiple times and want to spend more time on this journey with you and this person who constantly questions you. I am left wondering and wandering.
The reverse parentheses, who would’ve thought! I’m not brave enough to determine the meaning. I almost want to not know, not ask, you’ve been questioned enough.
My favorite part:
What was it about?
(I get into his car after class.)
What was the highlight?
(I sleep a little longer.)
I loved this because it reminds me of my mom’s questions as soon as I would get in the car after school. Drove me nuts.
Sarah, I hear the extrovert and the introvert so clearly – both voices here – and relate to the need for the silence, the coffee, the walk……I love how both voices and your inner thoughts play together in this verse!
I am just GRINNING, Sarah! I love how you tickle my thinking with the inverted parentheses at the close of this poem. It seems to be a reversal of sorts–a reaching out instead of closing in? Or a shrug of acceptance? It makes me revisit the preceding parentheticals: little actions that sparked questions. I LOVE LOVE LOVE the partner questioning the moving of the ottoman!
And the drifting into your own mind, followed by “Will you let me in?”
I believe you wrote this poem for me personally. 🙂
Oh, those questions! Did you just happen to listen in on the last little tiff I had with my love? Because, it seems like you have. The push and pull of relationship is beautiful in these words….and the ending with those backward parentheses. Ha! Love it.
IS IT A WONDER?
Isn’t it remarkable that Watty Boy understands
the difference in my shoes,
my breathing patterns when I wake,
the time as it nears 4:00,
my smile as well as a tear;
and that you never did?
How is it that I never balk
at wiping Watty’s four muddy paws at the door?
Why did your two trotters seem like coots’ feet?
Is it odd to listen to ol’ Watty Boy’s rattled sleep
and worry that he’s already clocked fourteen?
Why do I never hesitate to hurry home
to feed the ol’ boy or let him outside
or traipse in the rain or snow with him;
yet, even random thoughts of you are blisters on my neck?
How lucky am I that Watty lies happily at my feet
while I play the piano or sing with the guitar;
yet, you preferred the stereo and left the room?
Isn’t it quite something that Watty waits
for a kiss and a hug
before he dives into his bowl,
waits at the top of the stairs,
turns to check for my go-ahead sign
before he barrels into the yard,
but you never looked back?
Do I have misplaced affections?
Am I broken?
Is it a wonder I love my dog
more than I ever loved you?
by Susie Morice ©
Susie,
Watty Boy has his priorities right. He loves you, he loves to romp in nature, he appreciates good music, he is thankful for good food, and he even admits that he needs another person to wipe his feet. You’re not the broken one, my friend. Those of us who have walked that mile have been given new perspectives on what really matters. I know it’s cliche to say that Dog is God spelled backward, but isn’t there so much to that? Our dogs have much to teach us about love – – what it is, and what it isn’t. Cheers to the truth – and to you!
Susie,
What resonates with me here are these lines:
Why do I never hesitate to hurry home
to feed the ol’ boy or let him outside
or traipse in the rain or snow with him;
As I reflect on my own poem, I feel bad that I do not always appreciate the questions.
And then I get to the end of your poem:
Is it a wonder I love my dog
more than I ever loved you?
I so appreciate the direct address and how this poem shifts from an ode to an elegy of sorts while not minimizing Watty Boy one bit.
Love,
Sarah
Susie,
Your poetry continues to wow me. You’re honesty in sharing very specific ways in which your dog was so many things that your husband never was. Perhaps Watty Boy even helped you to see what was lacking in your marriage. While you were in it, you maybe didn’t even know for sure that you longed for the things you longed for.
Thank heavens for Watty’s four paws!
Susie—what a wonderful rendering of all the reasons we love our dogs! The worry about Watty’s rattle is so real—and so painful. Watty’s loyalty is unquestioning and unquestioned. Loved the contrast— and the phrase “coots’ feet” made me smile.
We all need a Watty Boy. He gets it. He understands the partnership; it’s a part of his life with you. His underlying sense of loyalty permeates every line. The question you pose at the end punctuates the piece and brings that loyalty to the forefront of our thoughts. I’m so glad you have Watty Boy!
In my sistah-girl voice, “DAAAAMNNNNNNN!”
This: yet, even random thoughts of you are blisters on my neck?
And this: Is it a wonder I love my dog
more than I ever loved you?
I don’t know if we’ve already established that you and I were married to the same asshole, but we’ve also been loved by our pets more! Wow!!
I guess I don’t need to write about my ex or my cat today, you already did! Thank you for sharing your questions and answers that I, too, have. Love your power and how you’ve been forever changed by the unconditional love of Watty!
Oh, Susie! This line gave me frisson: “random thoughts of you are blisters on my neck.” I love how Watty Boy and “you” are contrasted throughout the poem. (I’m married to a man who wants insipid rural-Iowa radio on but leaves the room and shuts the door when I play the piano!) I loved this contrast: ” he barrels into the yard,
but you never looked back”
Give old Watty Boy a nuzzle from me <3! I'm so glad you're here again this month!
Susie,
We know not all males are created equal, and certainly Watty, and his canine brothers, are far superior to ole what’s-his-name! I love the way your words allow us to see the unconditional love of our dogs and the conditional love of so many men w/out naming this. No, it is not off that you worry about Watty’s 14 year old rattled breathing, that you’ll happily wash his paws, that come meal time Watty gets the best. These are normal responses to love.
Watty Boy’s devotion is true….and in the questions we see who holds the truest love. Wonderful description of layers and years of relationship here. That last question. Wow.
Allison,
You managed to turn what could be random questions about a day in the classroom into a beautiful poem filled with beautiful language. I love the specific details that you sprinkle throughout. I especially love these lines:
“Am I flinging finite minutes
of my life into the dusty swirl of students’ too-full thoughts?
Are my words rolling tumbleweeds skirting across this barren plain?”
Sometimes we feel like we are sharing something so profound and it never lands because they aren’t able to receive.
Thanks for sharing this poem idea and for creating such a wonderful example.
Susan, thank you for your generous reading of my poem! I wrote it WITH my students one day, and most of the questions were drawn directly from things I’d heard in Room #408 that day! I’m so glad you’re here on Ethical ELA this month!
Watching Valentines Day in a middle school is such a fun experience as they try to work out their feelings for someone beyond their own family members. For many of them, this is a new territory. This poem took an unexpected turn while I was writing it as the boy’s perspective began to reveal itself. I think this one is much more accurate than my first draft.
Middle School Love Note
Do you like me?
Do the butterflies begin to flutter the minute the bell rings?
Or does your stomach rumble because your breakfast is already gone?
Do you quickly glance to see if I am looking as we pass each other in the hall?
Or do you avoid my gaze?
Does your arm tingle when our elbows innocently touch while shutting our lockers?
Or do you think the bump was clearly an accident?
Do you write my name in the middle of your notebook so no one will see it?
Or do you even know my name?
Or how to spell it?
Do you wish you had my scrunchie around your wrist?
Or do you wish I had short hair?
Does the teacher call on you when she catches you daydreaming about holding hands in the bleachers of the high school basketball game?
Or are you dreaming about making the last second shot?
Does your face turn red when I walk into the classroom?
Or are you too busy messing around with your friends to even see me?
Does your heart skip a beat when you read “write a poem” on the objective board?
Or do you roll your eyes disgusted with the thought of writing about your feelings?
Or do you even have feelings?
Do you like me?
Or did I already ask that?
I can vividly remember feeling so many of those things as a middle school student and I try to keep them in mind as I have spent a lifetime teaching those kids. You capture their world so dang well! Great detail. I love how the lines play with each other.
What a powerful line, right in the middle of your poem, “Do you write my name in the middle of your notebook so no one will see?” It’s the perfect placement and it captures the anonymity of middle school crushes, not quite ready for the real world but feeling oh, so real. Bridging the initial question with the end and using the “or did I already ask that” works so well.
Leigh Anne, you take us back to the days…..I’m laughing at the scrunchies. I had to ask why all the boys had them on their wrists, and be “informed” by those “in the know.” I’m curious where THAT trend started. Your words conjure the innocent flutterings of first feelings of puppy love, and somehow I’m hearing Donny Osmond’s voice echoing in the back of my mind….. 🙂
Oh, my favorite line: Do you wish you had my scrunchie around your wrist?
This one is so lovely and just the sort of symbolic gesture that I would have loved to see as a teen on the object of my affection — just unabashed crushing.
Oh, Leigh Anne— this captures the angst that is middle school perfectly! The lines, “ Do you write my name in the middle of your notebook so no one will see it?
Or do you even know my name?
Or how to spell it?” encompass all the agony.
What a treat this was…
Leigh Anne — You sure did take me right to those middle school sensations of angst. (rubbing elbows…face turning red… writing a name in a notebook… these made me smile. Just the right set of questions– so simple and yet infused with so much hormonal intensity. 🙂 Thanks, Susie
Leigh Anne,
I love the sweetness of your poem because I’ve forgotten the tentativeness of young love. I enjoyed this moreover because I needed to think about Valentine’s Day from teenage eyes. 4th graders made the day unbearable ??.
This is so sweet and brought me immediately back to eighth grade. The questions are just constantly churning at that age. It’s exciting and exhausting. Thank you for the reminder!
Oh, Leigh Anne! There are so many sparkling lines here! “Do you wish you had my scrunchie around your wrist?” made me GRIN! You are such a sensitive observer, and that shows beautifully in your poem (elbows touch while shutting lockers). And I simply LOVE “write a poem” on the objective board! I’m so glad you are here again this month!
I literally laughed out loud with your scrunchie line! Middle school Valentine’s Day is such an interesting display of humanity. Correction. Middle school any day is, but Valentine’s Day is particularly so! I appreciated the last lines- “Do you like me? Or did I already ask that?” it perfectly captures the distracted, nervous voice of a middle school crush.
Leigh,
Each time I think about this poem and those junior high moments I smile. There’s such tenderness, honesty, vulnerability, and poetry in that final “Do you like me?”
This is perfect! I love all the little questions…that I honestly forget about in my old age. That nervous feeling? That trying to read a bump as accident or on purpose….the teacher calling on your when you’re in deep twitterpation. Ha! This is tender and sweet and spot on for middle school. May I please use this with my students?
Absolutely! I would be honored to have you share with your students. I hope they chuckle at the scrunchies! Thank you for asking.
Spot on perfection, my friend! You’ve captured middle school love.
“Do you quickly glance to see if I am looking as we pass each other in the hall?
Or do you avoid my gaze?”
And I love these lines too! It’s seems to be an all or nothing venture –
“Does your face turn red when I walk into the classroom?
Or are you too busy messing around with your friends to even see me?”
Knowing that you were here has given me courage to join this group.
What If Would I
What if I had said, “I love you, Mom” before she got wheeled back to surgery
instead of awkwardly tapping her on the head?
Would I be carrying around a gelatinous globe of trauma
in my belly 25 years later?
Would my therapy sessions seem to always circle back
to snapshots of my childhood where I was cared for by others?
What if her mitral valve hadn’t been the target of
rheumatic fever’s damaging rage?
Would I have had a mom who loved, nurtured, cared?
Would she have wanted to be there? Would she have been there?
Would I have grown up feeling loved and nurtured and cared for?
What if she had been the mom I needed?
Would Dad have risen to be both mom and dad?
Would I have worshipped him for all he did and all he was?
Would I have drawn to women like Ann Fulk and Carol Lasher and Aunt Pauline
to feel like I was noticed?
What if she hadn’t died before I had my own children?
Would I have come to appreciate all she did?
Or would all that she didn’t glare at me even more?
Would she have offered support to a struggling young mom who felt so alone?
Or would she have continued her self-absorbed circle around the sun?
Would she have tried and it still wouldn’t have been enough,
widening the wedge that seemed to be there forever?
What if I forgave her?
Would I have to face other gelatinous globes of trauma
instead of always blaming her?
What if I forgave me?
Oh Susan. You hid this very well, as I had no idea. I have dealt with these same feelings only with my dad. I obviously didn’t know your mom as well as your dad, but he was wonderful, and I see a lot of him in you! I hope you find the forgiveness you need and deserve!
Susan, what a beautiful examination of what could have been. I love that the writing builds from that initial moment, the awkward tap on the head, and continues through all the moments where you experienced the loss. This honors both the loss and your relationship with her and it.
Susan, I love that your writing is so painfully honest. Thank you for being courageous enough to write it and for sharing it with us. One of the things I love the most about our group and about what we share is that I find myself identifying strongly with others so much of the time. Today it’s the forgiveness questions for me…..I need to ask those WHAT IFs in my own life. Thank you for raising those questions 🙂
Whoa! This line stunned me:
Would I be carrying around a gelatinous globe of trauma
in my belly 25 years later?
The allusion to a being and a lifetime here is so moving!
Sarah
Oh, Susan. I teared up at the first line, and rode with you all the way to the end. You stated so many of the thoughts I have had over the years. The gelatinous guilt is a perfect description of wanting to like your mother, and knowing that loving is the best you can do. That thump on the head. Wow.
Susan — I really loved the way you set this up in these “what if…” and “would….” lines. You’ve just nailed the heartache in these unanswered questions and the complexity of a mother and daughter who didn’t get the chance to play out more time. Your use of “gelatinous globes of trauma” captures the gluey sense of what we cannot know. Your ending line is powerful in its insight. This reminds me of some of the “things we carry” poems. Your poem makes us want to lift you … especially to know how much we appreciate your honesty and the reality of what gnaws, especially as it reminds us of our own relationships that prod us with a litany of questions. Thank you, Susie
That final line has left me with goosebumps. The rhythm of the piece seems to speed faster and faster, but then halts with that final line, as if you physically stopped in your tracks when the idea occurred to you. Thank you for sharing this.
Oh, dear Susan, I gasped audibly at your last line: that perfect combination of unexpected and of-course ending. Your poem is raw and honest, both damning and forgiving at once. That is such a beautiful thing to do in a poem. (Plus I love your WORDS: rheumatic fever’s damaging rage, self-absorbed circle around the sun.) I am so excited to be sharing poems with you this month!
From the very first line, this absolutely took my breath away. So many lines speak entire volumes!
What if she had been the mom I needed?
What if I forgave me?
I’m a novice at feedback, and as I sit here, all I keep thinking is — thank-you for putting this into words.
Susan,
This poem is so emotional and ends with the bigger question of why we blame ourselves for the uncontrollable–thank you for your vulnerability.
Susan,
This is a raw, honest look at motherhood and what we feel when we have been failed by our own mothers. I’ve thought about those “What ifs” too. One thing I know is forgiving others is what we do for ourselves, and I suspect your mom would not have changed had she been around for your children. Mine did not. Her focus was always somewhere else.
Susan, this is heartfelt. In the questions I see what’s missing…what years of sadness come out of a simple question, What if I forgave? I aim to use your last question as a writing prompt. It’s powerful.
Allison – you have captured a typical day in a classroom, including the doubt that I am sure we all have had at some point. “Are my words rolling tumbleweeds…” and “33-minute sprints” are lines that stuck with me. Maybe because we just ended a two-week unit on writing arguments! Thank you for hosting this month.
Thanks, Leigh Anne! I wrote the poem on a Wednesday, when we have an early out for PD. I teach 8 33-minute classes on Wednesdays (with one 33-minute prep period–HAHAHAHA!). Sprint, with a gasp during passing periods, is the best I can do! Thank you so much for your kind reading of my poem. I’m thrilled you are here again!
We Are on our Way
Are we there yet?
You know, the question that begs the response,
Do you think we are?
How long will we frantically doggy-paddle
to the surface of accomplished?
Will the reward be as much as the sacrifice?
When will the blue-light reflection
cease to sting our eyes?
Are we there yet?
Will I understand more than I know?
Will I know more than I care?
And even if they don’t care how much I know
until they know how much I care,
will I make a difference?
And when I feel like a lone lighthouse on the hill,
can I endure to fight for the visions of the ones who’ve lost their way?
Are we there yet?
When we challenge the status quo
to examine our reality in the light of biased authority,
will we find the answers?
How do we search for the needle in this haystack?
Are these the directions we are supposed to follow, to pursue?
You know, the question that begs the response,
Do you think we are?
Are we there yet?
I think I could take many of your questions and reflect on each one. Each bringing me to the point of questioning where I am and where I want to be? Some days I feel like I am doggy-paddling! Beautiful!
Ahhh, thank you for taking the familiar, are we there yet, and giving it new life. The image of the lone lighthouse enduring the fight is so powerful.
Oh, Jolie,
These lines are so vivid, and stay with me as a sit with your poem:
And when I feel like a lone lighthouse on the hill,
can I endure to fight for the visions of the ones who’ve lost their way?
It is a privilege to be the lighthouse and yet there is a sense of burden and loneliness without martyrdom because it is a responsibility, right? Still, the question of endurance remains and in what shape will the lighthouse be after many storms?
Love this,
Sarah
Jolie, I love this poem!
My favorite lines:
When we challenge the status quo
to examine our reality in the light of biased authority,
will we find the answers?
I’m constantly questioning when biased authority will finally answer to the higher power!
Thank you!
Jolie Hicks, we seldom think about the individual moments of a day…until we put lines from Linda Mitchell’s poem and the lines
Can one drop of rain
hold so much memory?
Of thundercloud grabbing up sky
before the storm?
Then, it made me come back to yours and wonder if the raindrops in Minnesota ask this question, too, as it falls into the Mississippi River on the way to the Gulf of Mexico….
Are we there yet?
You know, the question that begs the response,
Do you think we are?
What fun to have personified images from one poem speak to those in another poem!
Dear Jolie,
I was ALL IN when I read this line: “frantically doggy-paddle
to the surface of accomplished”–great visual metaphor. I was again rewarded with this: “When will the blue-light reflection
cease to sting our eyes?”
Your repetition of “Are we there yet?” was spot on in this examination of what it means to learn/teach as a way of life. When do we arrive? Thank you for writing a poem that deliciously allowed me to ponder my own destination(s).
Jolie,
I expected a literal trip when I began reading. Then the gut punch of “ How long will we frantically doggy-paddle / to the surface of accomplished?” hit me. I feel the exhaustion in your words and share it. How long must we wait? When will the time be right. This is a WOW! poem. Thank you.
Happy Birthday to the Lady with the Alligator Purse
Could the doctor have known the footprint of the newborn delivered on 2/15/1820 would forever change the world?
Could your mother have known that the tiny hand of her newborn daughter would be writing at 3?
How long did birthday cake last on a Quaker farm, with six siblings?
Was your famous red shawl a birthday gift?
Or was the “Vote! Said the Lady with the Alligator Purse” purse an iconic present?
Did you have to pinch yourself to fathom an annual teacher’s salary of $110 for those ten years – or did it seem a rich blessing compared to the greater injustices you saw?
Should we thank the Sons of Temperance for your fiery passion to speak?
Did they know they messed with the wrong girl when they told you to, “Sit Down, Listen, and Learn?”
Did they know the firestorm they started in you would ignite the hidden sparks of a raging force?
When you got arrested and fined $10 less than your annual teacher’s salary, did you laugh at the symbolism of those “handcuffs?”
When Congress told you NO every.single.year. from 1869-1906 but you kept asking, did you know you taught us that “failure is impossible?”
Were you there in spirit, wearing a pink hat and marching alongside us in the streets, chanting: “failure.is.impossible?”
Did you really not smile because you thought people wouldn’t take you seriously??!
Did God bring out a heavenly birthday cake 14 years after you arrived, when the 19th passed and bore your name?
Do you know we started carrying your image in our pockets in 1979 when you became the first woman to grace US currency?
Did you know that the sisterhood stands in line for hours on Election Day to cover your gravestone with their “I Voted” stickers?
Do you know how much we appreciate you, more now than ever, 200 years later?
Is there cake in heaven today, and will you save all of us a piece for when we get there?
Are you here with us in spirit today with your alligator purse, wearing a pink hat and a red shawl and eating cake, celebrating with all who proudly cast a big vote for the happiest heavenly birthday for our sister Susan?
Or did I already ask that?
-Kim Johnson
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! I wish I could right “yes” for every women in our country, the world even. I want to go wake my daughter up and make her read this piece. Skillfully, you’ve crafted a praiseworthy piece. From beginning to the end, I read and reread the lines with my heart invested in it. At first, I wondered, “Is this about her family member?” In the end, I would say, “Yes and yes, again.” We, sisters in the sisterhood, are all connected with our “right” to wear the stickers! Thanks for your time in creating this piece. I enjoyed it.
You’ve hit the nail here with that last line, used perfectly. Thank you for giving color to the black and white (pink hats and red shawls bringing life to those old images). I absolutely loved the line, “Is there cake in heaven and will you save all of us a piece?” Your questions carried weight, had purpose, felt a part of the whole. Loved this piece!
A wonderful history lesson, here. Loved the way each question took us to another layer. And yes, yes! I hope the next generation will appreciate the fight enough to fight to keep what they have given to us.
Hi, Kim — Your poem with all its questions is like a big bowl of really yummy foil-wrapped candy. Each one is a surprise… we get to poke our fingers in the bottom of many to see just what they are before we gobble ’em up. First, “the lady with the alligator purse” took me right back to my childhood jumping rope…”in came the doctor, in came the nurse, in came the lady with the alligator purse…” Then, I was visualizing that strong lady and wanting the next image… that “fiery passion to speak.” The poem carries so much voice for women and voting (or not getting to vote), and a stubborn (infuriating) Congress. I loved the sense that Susan B. Anthony was there when we marched with our pink hats (I carried a big placard). The poem has a resounding positive tone, despite the struggles that Anthony had…. which resonates to this day. Kim, you’ve again offered us a way to connect history with our poetry. Love that! Susie
I HAVE GOOSEBUMPS! Kim, I just loved every word of this! It is filled with joy and victory (and I need some of that these days). I want to share this with my students as a model poem for writing biographical poems! I loved how you slipped in details of SBA’s life I didn’t know alongside some better-known references. I’m glad you “told” Susan about the “I Voted” stickers on her gravestone! Thank you for reminding me to celebrate this day with such a rich poem1
Dear Kim,
This may sound like a stretch, but I’ve been thinking a lot about the way men impact women and the voices we raise at those times. You capture this in the lines “Should we thank the Sons of Temperance for your fiery passion to speak?” and the one that follows. This all plays into my reading of The Taming of the Shrew for the Shakespeare 2020 project and my belief we see Kate unmasked in the end. And I love the way you celebrate “feisty” women.
When I began writing I intended to write about my feet, which are always cold. Then this happened.
“Final Performance: A Question Poem“
Why inquire about what’s not writ?
Why ask why of an unfinished script?
Will unknowable lines be known on closing day?
Will the curtain fall in a quiet place?
Or will a silent scream twist my face?
What will happen after the last call?
Will I exit the stage and bow with grace?
Will I hit my mark and speak on cue?
Will that last performance bring cold feet?
Will the audience await to meet and greet?
Will life cast shadows across an empty stage?
Or will an understudy play my part?
What happens to a life’s lost art?
Will memories of names fade among those who remain?
Will death be “a quiet step into a sweet, clean midnight”?
Where do old players go in the end?
Where is the exeunt, the backstage door?
What song will play as the final score?
Why ask why when improvisation remains?
Won’t we all land on the final cast list?
—Glenda Funk
*The quote is from “The Man with the Broken Fingers” by Carl Sandburg.
I can follow the segue from cold feet to final performance. I especially like the line “what happens to a life’s lost art.” The addition of ‘a’ in front of life’s lost art brings focus to the individual, the person. Lots to provoke thought when we end with you, at the “final cast list.”
I love this poem. I am reminded of the curtain call of life. You write, “What will happen after the last call” (line 6). Exiting the stage with grace is how I hope to leave this world, rather than leaving an empty stage behind. Your poem is beautiful.
This makes me wonder how this would have been different had you still been teaching? I see retirement metaphorically in this poem. Intentional? I don’t think you have exited the stage yet, as I still continue to learn from your script! This is so beautiful!
Glenda, I hung on those first two questions: Why inquire about what’s not writ? and Why ask why of an unfinished script? I love the “All life’s a stage” idea emerging as I think about the worrying I sometimes do when the pen has not finished the script…..and the players, and the cast, and the curtain falling are such powerful metaphors for this living that we are doing on our daily stages of work, home, family, friends. Your sequencing of the five lines in four stanzas is visually organizational, and I like the sequence that you use to progress from the beginning to the end. As always, amazing!!
By the way, I LOVED THE PODCAST! Your statements about poetry helping in other forms of writing and reminding us that we should not be one-dimensional writers is still ticking around in my head, and it’s something I will chew on and marvel about for days and weeks – and probably even months. Thank you for that delicious food for thought.
Wait! Did I miss a podcast with Glenda? Do share!
How on earth did you create this magnificent poem in half an hour?? It is full of rich detail, indicative of a brain full of rich knowledge.
There is so much to love about it, especially those of us edging toward retirement.
I love the line “Will the audience await to meet and greet?”
and “What song will play as the final score?”
Glenda—our themes intersect! The extended metaphor here hit me hard. I, too, wonder…
Will the audience await to meet and greet?
Will life cast shadows across an empty stage?
Or will an understudy play my part?
What happens to a life’s lost art?
Will memories of names fade among those who remain?
Will death be “a quiet step into a sweet, clean midnight?
Glenda, this is such a bold (dramatic!) look at our final “hours upon the stage.” I love it. My ear appreciated your use of rhyme. And “Will the curtain fall in a quiet place?” was such a lovely, tender line–as is “Will an understudy play my part?” I will now eagerly go read Sandburg’s poem! XO!
I feel like every day is filled with questions.
Did I remember to lock the door?
Where are my keys?
Have you seen my glasses?
What was her name?
Was it Alora or Donna?
How can you be so sure?
When did this happen?
Where did the time go?
How long until we get there?
Is there a map?
Can I follow you?
Will we know it when we see it?
Who will show us the way?
Where did I hide the chocolate?
Is everything OK?
Why are you crying?
When did you turn the corner?
How long will we be here?
Should I send a note?
So very true. And those questions continue to pile up with age, making me wonder if there’s a reason behind all of these questions. Is it just because my mind is so filled with so many details of so many lives from so much time existing or am I really losing my mind? Thank you for writing a piece we can connect with so easily!
My day in a nut shell! How did you know?
Margaret,
I chuckled at “where did I hide the chocolate?” It’s a question I ask my husband often. It’s extraordinary how ordinary questions become a poem.
My favorite line, too…..and now I’m thinking about that box that I didn’t hide from yesterday…..is it ok to eat chocolate for breakfast???
Margaret, I love how your poem moves from the small, specific questions (Have you seen my glasses?) to the haunting, unanswerable questions of life: Who will show us the way? How long will we be here? This mix of concrete and abstract works so well in this poem!
Margaret,
That “Where did I hide the chocolate?” line is just simply amazing, and the way it comes in the scope of a day in the poem is on point – – if you look at the poem as the hours in a day, that’s where I’m needing the chocolate – – right about the last hour of the work day….
Girl, you nailed it with the chocolate.
Yes, every day is filled with questions, and the older I get, the more questions there are.
Do you live in my head? These are most of the questions I have every day—including where I hid my chocolate!! Thanks for a humorous list of my day!
Oh, Margaret — I’ve certainly been there… more than I’d like to admit! Each of these queries is one I’ve mumbled, I’m sure… or did I, I can’t recall. LOL! My favorite, just because it made me giggle…”where did I hide the chocolate?” … just so funny to think of hiding stuff on ourselves … “for our own good.” Ha! Thanks, Susie
Matter
How are you?
The question hits me every day
leaving me to wonder,
How am I?
No, really?
How am I?
Do they truly mean it when they ask?
Or is simply an act of politeness?
A question that accepts any statement,
any answer,
without really hearing the atoms that comprise it?
Do they even notice my forced smile?
My hey pitched into false cheeriness,
like a cheerleader rooting for a losing team?
Why does it linger in my mind
long after our brief exchange?
An aftertaste
that reminds me of…
Oh, what is that taste?
And what difference does it make?
What difference do I make?
If I were not here to witness the stars
on their journey through the sky
would it matter?
Wouldn’t life still go on?
When one falls,
plummeting toward earth,
would they see a brilliant fiery death?
Or a silent evaporation of light?
And would it matter?
When there are millions
left behind to fill the void,
how much can it really matter?
Jennifer,
Your poem touches on the temporal nature of life, that age-old question about our purpose. This is something I think about often in a world full of change. What really matters? Would anyone notice if I were no longer here?
I’m thinking we may be twins separated at birth. This:
My hey pitched into false cheeriness,
like a cheerleader rooting for a losing team?
That line makes me think we are sisters of the falsetto falsehood, Jennifer!
What a wonderfully deep poem! Don’t we all wonder if anyone notices or cares when they ask us that perfunctory questions?!
I love these lines:
“My hey pitched into false cheeriness,
like a cheerleader rooting for a losing team?”
We all wear the mask, don’t we?
I find myself wondering just how much each one of us matters a lot these days. The last line sums it up with skill—when there are millions left behind to fill the void, how much can it really matter.
Oooh, Jennifer! So much of this poem resonates, and it is filled with questions I pondered over and over leading up to taking this job in Oklahoma. This feeling of being replace-able or of mattering and to whom or two what. I am not sure where you are at with the question in the final sentence or how personal it is, but, for me, you presence here, with us, matters, and I so love that your are in this virtual space with us today. This poem that didn’t exist yesterday exists today and has moved my heart and mind.
Love,
Sarah
Oh, Jennifer! I found myself hearing “the click” (the point I feel wholly invested in the poem) with this:
“My hey pitched into false cheeriness,
like a cheerleader rooting for a losing team?”
Your honesty propelled me forward, and you did not disappoint! As you look at the sky–that sky!–I feel your (my) sense of insignificance–which is both a blessing and a curse. (Sometimes I take refuge in my insignificance.)
Thank you for this beautiful rendering of such powerful shared questions. <3
Wow! I love that last image of the stars and contemplating existence. Very powerful!
Allison,
I love, love, love this first stanza, the rolling tumbleweeds of words, the question of “flinging finite minutes into the dusty swirl.” Your repetition of breath, as if you are pausing to breathe or panting in the race of 33 minute sprints is effectively placed and pulses an energy right when we need it. These are questions that pop up all too often for teachers, daily, in fact, leaving us to wonder if we did, indeed, already ask that.
Thank you for HEARING me, Jennifer! I love how readers’ comments can help me understand my own purpose. When I wrote “breath, breath, breath,” I was feeling a gasping response to the onslaught of questions on a very hectic day. I love your interpretation! One of the many gifts of this writing community is the pleasure of hearing what readers discovered in our poems. Thank you! <3
Plant Change
How do we grow an ally? Is there a seed of empathy, passion, and justice?
Do our branches of progeny have a genetic make up for change-making?
Can human trunks plant roots to build a wall to
cease oppression?
How can this barrier alter the ego bulbs birthing everyday? How do we increase
perennial mentalities when there are so many causes? Which stem:
gender, race, economic, health, animals, education, politics, climate, human rights
holds your strongest fight?
Is it the annual that shifts the landscape with small bursts
of sensory motivation? Do we enable the vulnerable roots with the space
provided to learn and expand? Do our attention spans petal us through
mundane blooming?
Will we ever leave the rhetoric to make a cultural shift?
*I ended up getting a bit bored with my attempted questions and ended as is. I also remembered that I had published a question-based essay on The Good Mother Project four years ago and revisited that (here is that link in case anyone is interested: http://goodmotherproject.com/2016/02/answer-just-love/). I really like to question:)
Allison, thank you for this prompt today. I love the simplicity and power of the student’s poem. Your poem had me reconnecting to the classroom with eye rolls and laughter and I particularly love the repetition in the question: Why am I wasting my breath, breath breath?
I love your play on the science words throughout, the petaling through mundane blooming, the ego bulbs, and human trunks. It connects us to the earth rather than separating us, makes humanity part of natural existence. Even though you ask which stem holds our strongest fight, we have to see that they are all connected.
Stefani, this is powerful. At once as I was reading it, an image of someone reciting it in front of a large audience came to mind as a needed thing. I love the Which Stem part – there are so many options from which to “pick.” We do need a cultural shift! Great energy, creativity – – blooming in a timely message!
Stephani — I really like how loaded this baby is. You’ve played with some hot ones here, and I loved that. You have so much wordplay going on! Quite fun! Loved: “attention spans petal us through mundane blooming” and “can human trunks plant roots to build a wall to cease oppression”… With more time, I’d be curious where this poem takes you. Thanks for getting this up on the website even though you got bogged down and just “ended as is.” Thanks, Susie
Stefani,
That first questions is just swimming in my mind and heart….”How do we grow an ally” It’s not really friendship I am after much of the time, and I wasn’t able to put a word to it until now. An ally. I just want to know someone is on my side but I have to nurture others to get there. Love the tree metaphor.
Peace,
Sarah
I don’t think I’ve ever stopped to think about ally vs. friend. Thank you, Sarah and Stefani, for helping me see how I need both, but they are not necessarily one and the same.
Stefani, I am so glad you are here in this community of writers this month! Thank you both for sharing your poem and for hearing mine!
I love how you used biology imagery to explore cultural concerns. I felt a surge of pleasure when your “to build a wall” line segued into “to cease oppression”! Beautiful.
I want a poem to take me to a visual/sensuous/linguistic/intellectual moment. Yours did!
OOOOOH! A question poem. I just saw a beautiful example of this in Irene Latham & Charles Water’s new book Dictionary for a Better World. And, it just so happens that it’s a challenge for my writing group for next month. So! This is good timing for me to draft. Thanks for this prompt. And, Allison, it’s really nice to meet you. Thank you for hosting this week.
How
Can one drop of rain
hold so much memory?
Of thundercloud grabbing up sky
before the storm?
Scratches of atmosphere
electric with light and sound?
The jump — opening chute,
landing on friend, Branch
to cling to now?
Will it greet the bridge gladly
on rain’s way to the sea?
Barreling along river
at breakneck speed?
With a kiss from leaf
dreaming saffron forsythia dreams?
How one drop of rain
holds these mysteries–
is beyond me.
(c) Linda Mitchell
Oh, and your poem meets another challenge, I see. Three in one! I love the beautiful imagery and the profound question.
I love that you made me follow the course of the drop of rain and question its broader existence. Saffron forsythia dreams is beautifully worded. The simplicity of the title (How) sits like the drop, resting until the fall of the rest of the words as they pick up speed through to the end.
This questioning nature in such a magnificent fashion is reminiscent of Mary Oliver’s poetry –and she’s one of my favorites! Those questions are simply divine and thought provoking about the drop of water…..from a tiny drop to an alliance of force barreling along river at breakneck speed. Delightful!
Linda,
I love this poem. Isn’t it amazing what questions reveal. There is an answering in the asking — such a paradox. Love the lines “kiss from leaf/dreaming saffron forsythia” The ee and the sss sounds give a sensual feel of movement and sway!
Peace,
Sarah
Linda Mitchell, we seldom think about the individual moments of a day…until we read a poem like yours and lines like this
Can one drop of rain
hold so much memory?
Of thundercloud grabbing up sky
before the storm?
Then, it made me think of Jolie Hick’s poem “Are We There Yet? and wondering if the raindrops ask this question, too,
Are we there yet?
You know, the question that begs the response,
Do you think we are?
What fun to have personified images from one poem speak to those in another poem!
Linda, THANK you for this beautiful 6 a.m. poem! You grabbed me with your opening words, and I was immersed in your word/image love through every line. “Scratches of atmosphere” is an extraordinarily satisfying way to think about lightning! I love the journey of the drop of rain. Your poem reminds me of the essential command of all good poems: pay attention. <3
Wow! Your precision is inspiring. “scratches of atmosphere…kiss from leaf dreaming saffron forsythia dreams” – I can’t wait to read more this week!