Jennifer Guyor-Jowett is our host for the March 5-day writing challenge. Jennifer has taught English and Literature for over 30 years to 7th and 8th graders, contributes to the BlinkYA blog, and writes Educator Guides for MG and YA titles. She has written with fellow teachers at Aquinas College as a Summer Writing facilitator and occasionally co-hosts #MGBookChat. Follow her on Twitter @jenjowett .
Inspiration
Several writers have given us a glimpse of their origins, their words evoking the sounds, smells, touch of the world as they came into being. Use one of these writers as inspiration (Brian Komei Dempsters Origin, Jacqueline Woodson’s opening lines of Brown Girl Dreaming, George Ella Lyon’s I’m From) and delve deeply into your own origins.
Process
- Read through the Origin Story poem examples (linked above)
- Select a format that resonates with you
- Use a literary device, such as anaphora, to ground readers into the origin
- Explore the richness of the world you birthed from, considering the contrast between the place you originated and what runs through you
Jennifer’s Poem
Being (Jennifer Guyor-Jowett)
Life comes into being
On a fourth day
The very beginning of July
At the near ending of the 60’s
In a city split
by angry words,
explosive,
their rage lighting the night sky
in fiery reds, whites, blacks, and uniform blues
Life comes into being
inside a brick tudor
on Mark Twain Street.
My literary life
as much a matter of geographical happenstance
as by a birth through a grandmother’s love of words,
which knit their way around me,
drawing me together.
Pieces of Frost and Dickinson and Hughes
And Barbara Fritchie.
A fight against the
roads divided.
A hope with feathers
of the dream it used to be.
They, too
We, too
Me, too
I, too
am America.
Life comes into being
Within the rooms and words
of Mark Twain Street,
even as words
from the streets of Langston Hughes
and Maya Angelou
and Tarana Burke
lie like patchwork
within my frame.
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.
Origin Story (Judy Bryce)
Born to be a fighter
Born to be a writer
August of 1964
Have I been here before?
New soul or old soul
I’m not sure
I just know that
I have a heart that’s pure.
Born into a family of 9
Three sisters
Three brothers
Was there room for one more?
Hand me downs and barbie dolls
Safe to play outside
Not really a care in the world
As long as a book is by my side.
Never would I imagine
My life path
From many deep valleys
To blooming sunny days
From single mom to stable relationships
Holding on to everything given me
And seeing things from a new perspective –
All blessings from above.
This is a lovely world to have inhabited – playing outside, no cares, books at your side. I love that you were born to be a fighter and a writer (sometimes these are one and the same). I sometimes wonder if I’m a new soul or an old one too. Thank you for sharing this with us.
Acquarian (Ruth Reneau)
On January 25 of 69
A queen was born to mankind
I swear I must have came before
There was nothing I didn’t know
Memories within the womb recall
Even when I let out my first bawl
From my grandfather’s yard in Queen Square listening to Otis tunes on a Sunday afternoon
Wearing Bellfoot pants and navel cooler
To my father’s house in King’s Park
Wished my parents stoped playing
“Our Genie’s Afraid of the Dark”
Hardy Boy’s and Nancy Drew
Cinderela Library took away the blues
Kiss and Darling sparked my muse
Self Government to Independence
I have seen it all
Riots and demonstration
Answered the call
I am a mixture of ethnicities
Blended into one
A real Creole gial you understand?
My identity is never to look down upon
That last line is like a mic drop. I love your specific details and I feel as if you take us on a journey with you through this poem. I lived off of renting Nancy Drew books from my local library. What classics.
Thank you Emily. I spent most of my childhood and teenage years reading those books. I am happy that we did not have television in Belize until I was already a teen.
Ruth, I loved the journey you took us on and the rhymes helped.
I liked the lines “Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys” Good Job!
Thanks Seana. I am the rhyming kind haha. I am happy I was able to take you on that journey.
February 3, 1977
Bouncing baby girl
apple of her mother’s eyes
as all her children were
this was no secret
A mother’s choice
A father’s pride
wrapped
cuddled
showered with love
Growing pains
lost and separation
grounded in faith
hope and aspiration
Your poem really spoke to me! Thank you for sharing it! My favorite is the middle stanza. “A mother’s choice” rings so many bells. Three simple words that speak volumes.
December 29, 1959
I am born in
Wagner, South Dakota
Yankton Sioux Reservation
USA–
My father
a late bloomer
is 30 but looks like a boy
playing dress-up like a doctor
Korea or government service?
easy answer for
why he delivered me
I am the family papoose
dark-haired and swaddled
in my mother’s arms
Her hair is bobby-pin curled
in a style abandoned
with house dresses
and lipstick
by the time my mind
captures her
eternal pose
scowling at the kitchen sink
1974
she gazes at me
in the Wagner photos
with a love I did not know
until now
2020
when she hugs
me with her boney arms
her steely judgement
and acute memory
sluicing
together
into the past
“With a love I did not know/until now.” That says it all. How often do we realize too late? How lucky you are. “ her boney arms
her steely judgement
and acute memory
sluicing
together
into the past”
What a beautiful vision you give us. Thank you.
Hi Allison,
This grabbed me:
Her hair is bobby-pin curled
in a style abandoned
with house dresses
and lipstick
by the time my mind
captures her
eternal pose
I am feeling that admiration that little girls have of their moms and yet there’s that “thing” that squashes it. In yours it’s the “scowl at the kitchen sink.” Hmph.
But you have her in your arms now, all boney and judgey but still Mommy. I love it.
Your poem paints a beautiful picture of what sounds like an amazing childhood. I liked the line,
“he looked like a boy playing dress up like a doctor”
Excellent !!
November 21, 1963- My Origin
Anxious mother due to two days of hemorrhaging
Teacher father on a field trip to the bank
which, among other things, led to a divorce 15 years later .
It was a rainy Thursday and I entered the
world at 10:23 in the morning.
I’m told it was a regular delivery and
she breast fed right away.
She was a credentialed student and teacher-to-be
so she knew to read to me that day.
I was Cassandra until she saw my face
then she remembered my dad saying, “Seana, Seana…”.
The nurses and doctors reassured her and
he was grateful to have a daughter.
They didn’t know doom was approaching.
I was wanted, desired and prayed for
and was the only child until an adoption 8 years later.
Inglewood, a suburb of Los Angeles, was a
welcoming place for working Black folks
so there was ease and joy in their lives.
Church and calling the kin folks on Sundays,
Laundry, card games, and Lawrence Welk on Saturdays.
Stevie Wonder, The Temptations, and the
Motown Sound was aways playing in the background.
They admired Jesus, MLK, JFK, Malcolm X, and the LAPD.
The day after my arrival, tragedy struck the nation.
Nurses and doctors cried, everyone was horrified,
and Jackie became a widow.
People were glued to their fuzzy tv screens
so I went home a day early because she
only wanted to be around positivity and
happiness.
She did say they cried during the funeral seeing
the Kennedy children.
Its absurd that my three uncles ALWAYS called or sent
cards on November 22nd, once they would hear it was the
anniversary of JFK’s death.
Somehow they always
associated my birth with the killing.
Good writing always leaves us wanting more and yours definitely does today. It’s seems so extraordinary to me that she knew to read to you that day, perhaps because I never thought to do this, but what a way to introduce you to life. You place us in the serenity of your life and then that ending comes, one you hinted at but I wasn’t expecting. And you are forever connected to it. Powerful stuff here.
Seana,
WHAT a story, what a history lesson here, told in real life, rich words and feelings. This line got me: “They admired Jesus, MLK, JFK, Malcolm X, and the LAPD.”
Your final stanza is incredibly powerful–birth and death fused.
I was anxious from the time I read “doom” until the end, even when the interlude of your upbringing. Your story is compelling and told with grace.
Hi Seana,
Your poem have a deep history. MLK and KFK were loved by many. My great grand aunt had a book with pictures and life story of the kennedy’s
My friend, you and I have so much in common. It’s crazy how I read about C.S. Lewis dying the same day as JFK but no one acknowledged his passing. And here you’re being welcomed into the world the day before and still he steals the thunder. Too bad you and I never got to know him. We had our Obama that’s for sure. LOL. I love your poem and how sweet your mom was to take the time to read to you and choose a different name. That’s amazing because once we choose a name, that’s usually a done deal. Sorry to have gotten here so late, it’s been one heck of a day, as I’m sure you know.
This part was reminiscent of my childhood too:
Laundry, card games, and Lawrence Welk on Saturdays.
Stevie Wonder, The Temptations, and the
Motown Sound was aways playing in the background.
They admired Jesus, MLK, JFK, Malcolm X, and the LAPD.
Imagine how they once admired LAPD. My how times have changed.
Love you Seana! See you for tomorrow’s last prompt!
Jennifer,
These four days of writing have truly helped distract me from the craziness and chaos of everything going on in the world. I’ve been juggling “teaching” online with supervising my kids’ learning and helping other family members. So, being able to take a chunk of time for ME and my poetry community has been such a blessing. I have loved each of the four inspirations! I almost “cheated” today and turned in a “Where I’m From” that I have written before when my students did. But, I wrote in the wee hours of the morning and truly felt such catharsis when I reached the end . . . something months of therapy hasn’t been able to provide. Hopefully, the peace I feel lasts.
As for your poem . . . wow. What a great poem to be a mentor poem. I loved these lines: “My literary life
as much a matter of geographical happenstance
as by a birth through a grandmother’s love of words,
which knit their way around me,”
Thank you for leading us during this very tenuous time.
I’m so glad this has been helpful. I know it’s been a good focus for me too as I transition from school classrooms to virtual connections with students and navigate the unknown of our life now. Thank you for being here and sharing your writing with us – each of our voices is so important and yours has been a needed one. Thank you for the kind words too.
Summer of Love
I’m from teen parents,
And the right-forearm knock-the-wind-out-of-you seatbelt.
From a screwdriver stabbed into the dashboard of the canary-yellow Nova,
Required to operate the ventilation fan.
I’m from parties at Grandma’s house and
“Where’s your aunt Helen?”
“Oh, she’s in the basement smoking doke!”
From the old black-and-white television
with five VHF channels and two UHF channels,
But only when the antenna was angled just so…
From a washing machine that connected to the kitchen faucet,
And the scent of jasmine incense when it was cleaning day.
I’m from cherry Slurpees on hot summer days,
And using lawn-mowing money to buy passes to the Hydrotube.
I’m from pumping quarters into Galaga and BattleZone and Tempest
At the 7-Eleven,
And staying up way too late to watch SNL,
And not having any classmates who had a clue.
From Looney Tunes in the morning,
And paying a dime to ride the city bus to school, one-transfer,
From stopping at the chocolate shop for twenty-five cent bags of mint sandwich trimmings.
From flying kites on the soccer field,
Catching water skeeters in the cool stream behind the college.
From “Come in when it gets too dark!”
Those “Come in when it gets too dark” days were the best. Lucky you to get bags of mint sandwich trimmings – I need more info on those! Your days sound a lot like mine – cherry slurpee summers and Looney Tunes mornings and TV playing by oddly positioned antennas only. Thanks for bringing me some of that back today.
Shaun,
What wonderful details!
I especially appreciated these lines:
“I’m from pumping quarters into Galaga and BattleZone and Tempest
At the 7-Eleven,”
Loved the second line— And the right-forearm knock-the-wind-out-of-you seatbelt.. What a great visual you give us there, and honestly, through the rest of the poem. I get a real picture of your coming up, and it looks like an amazing time!
The Where I’m From form works so beautifully here! The cherry slurpees in hot summer days and the forearm
Seatbelt – those are my jam! Pure imagery!
I love this poem because I see some of my precious students in the child of you. I love your poems in this space.
Love this poem Shaun!
“And the right-forearm knock-the-wind-out-of-you seatbelt.” Omg, instant flashback in time. Your poem has bits and pieces of my own childhood and what makes me smile is it’s the fun that makes children’s lives memorable.
I smiled at the VHF and UHF because wow, I had really forgotten. And that darn antenna! So funny.
Thank you for taking me down memory lane!
With each line, I am transported to different settings of this childhood right along with you! I can still taste the cherry slurpee on my tongue and feel the whomp of the arm flying against my chest. Amazing detail! Thank you for sharing your poem with us.
Shaun, your vivid descriptions created images that caused me to remember. Fantastic poem and I enjoyed reading it. Thanks for inviting us into your world.
ElevenEleven
I am born of the power and mystique
Of eleven
Born the eleventh day of the eleventh month
11 days before America’s great mourning
Before a ripped nation
would forever be severed
Born in the eleventh hour and only 120 seconds
After the eleventh minute
I am born of New Orleans
Oklahoma and Los Angeles
Of struggle and success
Marriage and separation
Divorce and devastation
I am born of revolutions
seeking solutions
To injustice and segregation
100 years after Emancipation
A nation steeped in sickness and hatred
Medgar Evers
President John F. Kennedy
And Four Little Girls
Dead
But of a King who would
March
Speak
Stand
For equality in our stead
He had a dream!
Will we let freedom ring?
I am born of a distant father
fighting in Vietnam
For a country that denied
His dignity because of his color
A father who sent letters
But rarely spent time
At the house he chose for my family
Where 3 bedrooms and 3 baths
Were as easy as warm waffles for us
With hopscotch and laggers
Barbies and Beany and Cecil
I am born of a gifted mother
Who balanced her cigarette on her lip
Like she balanced parenting and parties
A master of words, pools, and school
A teacher who never stopped learning
And made us beg for crossword puzzles
Boggle and Rummikub
A woman scorned but undefeated
Someone who lived with cancer
Like a warrior
Adjusted her armor and kept fighting
Until she was ready to be released
Into her ancestors’ arms
I am born of strong legs and working hands
Of bright smiles and freckles
I am born of tears that fall like rain
“As a joyous daybreak to end
The long night of captivity.”
I am born of African kingdoms and royalty
Of the Bantu and the Congo
I am born of a long lineage of power
I am born of God.
I thought my favorite lines were “Where 3 bedrooms and 3 baths
Were as easy as warm waffles for us” until I hit the stanza about your mother. “A master of words, pools, and school”. I wish I had met your mother, hanging cigarette and all. What a heartfelt story of a well-filled life.!
Someone who lived with cancer like a warrior – powerful stuff. And that is reflected in “of African kingdoms and royalty… a long lineage of power.” Your writing resonates today as I have just finished Stamped (Jason Reynolds) and Black Brother, Black Brother (Rhodes). I have to talk to someone about Stamped, just to bounce my thoughts around on it. I loved how you integrated King into your story. And the use of all of the elevens was interesting (adding those seconds in!).
Thanks Jennifer. I just started my first Jason Reynolds book Look Both Ways and adore his writing. I have heard about Stamped too. May have to add it to my home-learning/teacher-reading list. ?
Stamped is non-fiction. Reynolds is engaging throughout but it’s a different format. I just have lots of questions, especially after reading Rhodes and how diverse writers see the same event. I love his Ghost (Track) series. Long Way Down and All American Boys are perfect for those who can handle more sophisticated content.
Listening to “Stamped” on the Educator free downloads from libro.fm today.
I actually got the chills reading your poem, Stacey. As I read each stanza I thought, “Ooh! This one is so powerful!” Then I read the next one and thought the same thing. I love how you bare it all in this piece.
I’ve recently finished Stamped…and I gotta say it just lays it all out for everybody. I highly rec. And, I love the no apologies, in-your-face facts of this poem. The revolutions seeking solutions. There were things bigger than the writer or the writer’s parents that we readers know. We feel the leaning into the wind of these strong people, especially the mother. This is a poem to be proud of.
Stacey,
I shouldn’t have read your perfect poem. We were born 10 days apart and your story is parallel to mine in SO many ways. Luckily mine is 90% finished. Thanks for your heart and love.
Stacey,
Another incredible poem!! And just when I thought I found my favorite lines, others would pop up. I love the whole start . . . it was a little like a puzzle to figure out . . . November 11, 1963.
The lines I love the most: “Adjusted her armor and kept fighting
Until she was ready to be released
Into her ancestors’ arms”
Wow. Just wow.
Stacey,
Your poem is a melodic history lesson. I love knowing you’re a November baby like me. This poem reminds me of Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise.” That last line, “I am born of god,” is all-encompassing of our common humanity.
“Who balanced her cigarette on her lip
Like she balanced parenting and parties
A master of words, pools, and school”
The first line here is fire bright–imagery that makes me see her LIP! Wow.
The next line takes me into simile as the cigarette is balanced, like her life.
The third line fills me with assonance and rhyme, drenching me in your words words words.
Your final stanza builds upon itself with such power I wanted to stand and applaud. Wow.
On May 24th
“If I ever have a child
on May 24th,
I’ll die or hell will freeze over.”
She remarked in response
To her best friend’s
complaining kid.
Then, she saved him, Michael—
the bemoaning boy
too excited to listen
to his mother’s warning.
He jumped into the pool,
thrashing and splashing
no longer curious
about the water’s enigma.
Without a single thought
Her plump, rounded belly
Made waves like a cannonball plop.
She rescued him;
She saved him
On May 24th.
Moments later,
she clutched her abdomen
Swollen with eight-month evidence of growing baby
Only to give birth
three-weeks before expected
On May 24th.
What’s to expect
when you’re not expecting?
Incubators, breathing tubes, and tiny baby tests
Four pounds. That’s all? Four pounds.
That’s all.
On May 24th.
The tiny baby girl
Declared entry
into Carter’s world
The day before
George Lucas stormed
The Star Wars’ scenes.
Hell waved its wand
As snow blanketed
the Hawaiian mountains and Miami.
No one died that day
Not mother, not child
On May 24th.
That’s an amazing origin story! Each stanza is propels us forward – we must learn if she bears the child on May 24th, knowing that she must. Threading the date throughout and showing its significance (as any birthday should have) again and again ties that thread even stronger. Well done!
Amazing. I read faster and faster to get to the ending!
This is fantastic!! Such an interesting and unique origin story and you tell it so dang well!
JOLIE, this is such a wonderful poem, born of your birth! I love how these prompts crack open poems inside of us we didn’t know we were carrying. This is a gem.
Love
by Morgan Padilla
Comforting, it reaches across distance,
Strengthening, I feel it now when you’re gone,
and this is the stuff of fairy tales, I’m sure.
First quiet and hopeful, not daring to dream,
all that we’d go through and all that you mean,
to me, today, forever and always, my love.
Fighting, it rages, both helpful and destructive,
threatening all that we have built,
and you, my love, as sure as always.
Raging and violent, soft and soothing,
I know you care and feel for me,
My Love, you will always be.
Love is such a binding tie and you weave its strength into every one of these stanzas. I’m especially drawn to the line, “and this is the stuff of fairy tales.” It conjures images of little ones or magical or even relationships.
So many faces of love. Your poem really shows acceptance of all of them.
Your first stanza drew me In immediately. This is the stuff of fairy tales…if only we all had this feeling. What strength this love radiates.
July 9, 1972
I was born on a Sunday
At Keesler Air Force Base
Biloxi, Mississippi
Today’s high was 91 degrees
Probably a lie; it had to be hotter.
Nixon was President and
William Lowe Waller was governor
We moved the next week.
Dover Air Force Base
Delaware
Should have been culture shock,
But it all molded me.
I was born as Vietnam raged,
Billie Jean King slammed Wimbledon,
Elton John’s earned his first number one album, and
Roley and Pierce trained a Quantico
As the IRA and the British fired,
The USA sold grain to USSR, and
Jean Westwood lead the Democratic National Committee,
The Cold War was testing weapons.
As Smokey Robinson serenaded with “Tracks of My Tears,”
Spanish trains collided,
Fifty- seven died in twenty-four in New York,
And Venera 8 landed on Venus.
Baseball played in Atlanta,
Syphilis testing truths were revealed,
Space Shuttle dreams began,
And I little girl cried for her mommy.
I was born in Mississippi but
The stories of the universe already ran
In my veins
_ Laura Douglas
March 17, 2020
Our history, your history, wrapped up in the lines of this poem speak volumes about you and about the time. I love how “it all molded” you and me too, everything from moving to “Smokey Robinson,” “Elton John,” and “Spanish trains.” The lines that stand out to me the most include, “I was born in Mississippi but / The stories of the universe already ran / in my veins.” Yes. I believe so. Thanks for sharing.
Your subject/verb choices are incredibly impactful (can you tell I’m an English teacher??). Giving the inanimate subjects such action and the play on verbs for the subjects (Vietnam raged, Baseball played, Billie Jean King slammed works so well). These choices drive this piece and take me along for the ride. Thank you!
That last line is gold: “…but the stories of the universe already ran in my veins” –
Such a great way to connect all of that history and yourself! Love it!
That ending! Wow, Laura! The stories of the universe ran in my veins is profoundly deep. I love “probably a lie.” It sounds very Sandra Cisneros-y with sass! You know a lot about what was happening in the world when you were born. That’s a beautiful way to bring the personal part back at the end the way you did.
Laura,
I LOVE the way you intermingled key historical events into your poem, each of them reflecting different cultural things that surely impacted who you are.
I Was Born
I was born
From Dick, Jane and Sally
in perfectly pressed clothes,
with clean blonde faces,
obedient dogs,
fluffy cats.
Look! Look, look, look!
Oh, how I looked.
I learned the power of the alphabet from Dick and Jane.
The Borrowers were my comforters.
Arriety, Pod, Homily, and Hendrearry Clock.
Even their names were borrowed, not quite right.
When I lost something,
I knew that they repurposed it in their Under-clock home.
The thimble a coffee cup, the spool a bedside table.
The loss stung less, then.
I learned to say goodbye to things without regret.
Golden Book Encyclopedias were my intellect.
Multi-volumed, shiny, primary-hued covers.
A-Ar, W-Z. Faithful friends.
They never threatened, always informed.
The covers lost their shine with overuse
The coating peeled off like sunburned skin.
I made sure to put them back on the shelf in order
So that I could pull the right volume out when needed.
I learned the power that knowing things offers.
My mother’s Nancy Drew books
fueled my dreams of adventure.
Oh, how I wanted to be Nancy,
Multi-talented, skillfully shifting gears in her little blue roadster
(What does she drive in today’s renditions?)
As she careened down the mountain,
brakes failing.
I’ll bet she didn’t even break a sweat.
And she was always right.
She was superwoman. She could do anything.
Nancy taught me to use my mind,
that risks were worth taking.
My grandmother’s Gene Stratton Porter books
took me to the Indiana swamps—
Freckles, Girl of the Limberlost, Laddie.
Lives in 1910 were so simple, so hard.
Survival was at a premium;
Nature’s beauty and savagery lay just outside your door.
I learned gratitude from Gene Stratton Porter.
I was born from words.
Sentences and paragraphs built me from within
Poetry, biography, adventure, mystery, romance
drew me out into other worlds.
I live there still.
What a true celebration of literature this is. Your descriptions are lovely – even their names were borrowed, not quite right, the coating peeled off like sunburned skin. I’ve never read Gene Stratton Porter, but I want to now. I did live in Nancy Drew’s world, right along with you though. The remarkable sleuth, fierce mystery solver. But I want to live most in your final stanza – being born from words and built from sentences and paragraphs – both from within and without. Thank you, Gayle!
I love this stroll through all the titles that brought us to where we are today. Now I want to try it!
Oh, Gayle, I love this poem. You have such a reach literary history. I think we should all try to write a poem with stanzas about the different books and series that made us. That would be fun!
You cap this incredible poem with such a powerful last stanza.
Bravo!
Gayle,
I remember the Dick and Jane books. I loved them, too, as well as Nancy Drew and the Bobsy Twins. Of course you were born of books. The last stanza is my favorite.
My grandmother was a fourth grade teacher, and I have all of the books, never used in class. I consider them my treasures!
Through silencing they came,
shrouded in second-class skin,
scarred by myopic glances
and iron fists, they
crushed their bosom with books,
pinched pain into pastries,
splashed fury in Moscato pours
for Papa, Mio figlio. I
place a lilac branch in my legacy,
a terra cotta vase
from my grandmother’s village,
hand-painted with Tuscan spring wildflowers–
Dolores and Adele, daughters
for whom she kept secrets, told half-truths,
stole from church coffers for school Papa refused
while Mio figlio
devoured contrition-filled ravioli.
I resisted the kitchen, turned from men,
pushed books into my bosom, dwelled alone.
What is the value of a girl?
Silence. Dolores and Adele
inherited Papa’s myopic gaze
uttering Mio figlio
not in pride but disdain, favoring their girls,
depriving their boys of affection,
draining husbands of their virility.
I pinch a cluster of four petal blossoms–
Grandma, Dolores, Adele, Sarah.
Fragrant lilac drifts from the vase,
vines connecting, strangling
the painted wildflowers.
What is the value of a girl?
Good stuff. I see that myopic, pinch, and lilac repeat — strong images.
So much here. What is the value of a girl? The story you tell is so powerful—I can visualize these women, looking out for their women. Amazing story, told in words that allowed me to hear the speech and see the action…
I pinch a cluster of four petal blossoms… fragrant lilac drifts from the vase. Wow! I imagine those four females drifting from the legacy branch, connected and strong. Having silence be the answer to the first time the question is posed causes us all to stop. And listen. You leave us again with silence after it’s asked again, as no words follow. Except for our own, in the thoughts we take away. Wonderfully created!
Wow. Powerful emotional question, What is the value of a girl? Indeed! Thank goodness for Grandma, Delores and Adele. Thank goodness for the lilac to bless the memory of them despite mio figlio! Rock on reader and writer girl!
Sarah,
The code switching us so effective in defining a cultural paradigm. I can relate to the lines “I resisted the kitchen, turned from men,
pushed books into my bosom, dwelled alone.” I still think about how we can be in 2020 w/ this question “What is the value of a girl?” constantly on my mind of the collective consciousness.
Dear Sarah,
“shrouded in second class skin”
“devoured contrition-filled ravioli”
“I pinch a cluster of four petal blossoms–”
Line after line strums my ear/mind/heart.
You are a role model to me.
I am from seen but not heard
From rice and pork and
Definitely no pb&js
I’m from diary rants
From wishing I were some else
More thin
More attractive
More blonde
I am from tempers
Passed down from mom and dad, mostly dad
I am from the all bark no bite
That bark, though,
So vicious and cruel
It could take anyone down
I am from academy and Chinese school on Saturdays
From discipline and respect, whether it earned or not
Everything a race
To the top
The one with most promise
What will she choose?
Medicine, Business, Law?
I’m from carving my own path
From girl to woman
To teacher to mother
I am from these moments –
An apple that fell too far
From the family tree
I love that we are able to see you through your words – the race to the top and the bark but no bite. There is so much about your final words “From girl to woman to teacher to mother” and that ending “an apple that fell too far from the family tree.” Spinning that phrase into something new, something that forces us to rethink it and pay attention, Pay Attention! to it feels satisfying as an ending. Thank you for sharing.
Hi Emily, I’m happy you chose the “Where I’m From” style because it is one of my favorites! It always works and your is especially well done. I love that it’s layered in the hard stuff like tempers and vicious and cruel barks with the strength of
“academy and Chinese school on Saturdays
From discipline and respect, whether it earned or not…”
to the softness of
“I’m from carving my own path
From girl to woman
To teacher to mother”
Funny how the hardness is overcome one way or another because of the strength and beauty of YOU!
Emily,
My eye keeps going back to “everything a race” as a hold onto the double meaning of the word “race” and how you are threading culture and gender and age in the first lines and then pulling them apart toward the end as you “carve your own path.” I can’t help but see the potential in the word “carve” for what may happen to that “apple” at the end.
Peace,
Sarah
That bark, though… so vicious and cruel—what a great line! The economy of words there is powerful. And the last—an apple that fell too far from the tree— tells a story all its own.
Emily,
You include so many concise, yet specific, details.
I especially love “An apple that fell too far
From the family tree”
Good morning Jennifer! What a juicy good writing day you’ve launched! ???I don’t know where to begin! I love your opening stanza:
“In a city split
by angry words,
explosive,
their rage lighting the night sky
in fiery reds, whites, blacks, and uniform blues”
So much to see and feel here.
Then:
“as by a birth through a grandmother’s love of words,
which knit their way around me,
drawing me together.”
There’s something magical and warm when I picture your grandmother’s love of words creating YOU!
And then:
“A hope with feathers
of the dream it used to be.”
Feathers is one of my favorite J. Woodson books using Dickinson’s inspiration. Have you read Feathers?
But that final stanza is the punch!
“Words from the streets…lie like patchwork within my frame”
BRAVO!! Standing ovation over here in California!!
Good morning to California and you! I have not read Feathers, but I now know I need to. I love Woodson and was lucky to hear her speak at MSU to students, teachers, and readers. What a beautiful spirit she has. Thank you for the kind words and the suggestions for reading!
When I Was Born
By Nancy White
When I was born
They took a movie of me on 8 mm film
As I was pulled from my mother
There I was, chubby and wailing
Into an age of prosperity
Of big new cars with fins, cruising, and drive in movies.
Such ingenuity!
I played with Barbie and Ken and their Dreamhouse and convertible
In front of the TV which was always on-flashing
Black and white images
Of violence and a dead president
And never ending jingles—
“Winston tastes good (like a cigarette should!”)
I was born into so many mixed messages
Sexual innuendo and “That’s not ladylike!”
“You can’t ride that— it’s a boy’s bike!”
But then the wild sense of freedom
Running barefoot outside
The wind blowing our hair straight back we were standing up with hands on the roll bar of Dad’s Jeep,
Out for pizza and ice cream everything right.
We proudly flew the red, white, and blue
And learned every song that praised it.
We were proud, shiny, and new—
Dad owned a factory and we watched a man walk on the moon!
I was born in innocence evaporating, inventions abounding, ideas evolving.
And today our babies are born
in an age of mixed messages,
confused by hypocrisy, corruption, and what’s real.
I’m somehow still a baby and I’m still crying, still learning to walk,
wondering about the past
and fearful about the future
I was born in innocence evaporating, inventions abounding, ideas evolving – what a sweet, sweet line. Your imagery is what captures me (“hands on the roll bar of Dad’s jeep” and a dead president). I love that last stanza. It’s so true and the choice of ending the piece with those words is thought-provoking.
Nancy,
I just finished writing my poem — I like to write before I read others — and I am in the mind of feminism right now, so these likes struck me:
I was born into so many mixed messages
Sexual innuendo and “That’s not ladylike!”
“You can’t ride that— it’s a boy’s bike!”
I wonder desperately about these messages and the implications even today. Love the last stanza here, too, especially “I’m somehow still a baby…” So powerful that we can feel so connected to the wondering of the past within us.
Sarah
I love this! “I was born into so many mixed messages,” as we all are. Maybe that’s what our time period should be called. Mixed Messages.
Nancy—we must be of an age. So many of your images (so vivid!) were mine. “played with Barbie and Ken and their Dreamhouse and convertible
In front of the TV which was always on-flashing
Black and white images
Of violence and a dead president
And never ending jingles—
“Winston tastes good (like a cigarette should!”)
I was born into so many mixed messages…“
And you last thought gives me pause—what will our children do with their mixed messages? There is so much open ugliness today. Our messages seemed so innocent. Were they? I don’t know…
Nancy,
You created a very impactful poem here. I could read and re-read it. I like how you veer from it being about your origins to making commentary about children born into today’s world. Then, that ending . . . it’s a whopper! Very powerful.
I really like the line “You can’t ride that— it’s a boy’s bike!” because I had a boy bike. Purposefully! I didn’t realize the statement that I was making. I just wanted that bike. I liked it better.
And, all the patriotic songs we learned. I can still sing so many!
Thanks for helping me tap into some of my own memories.
Jennifer, your snapshot of literary greats and the snippets of their words – patchworked into your life. That’s stunning, and so rich. How unique that you got to start life on Mark Twain Street. Beginnings don’t get any better than that!
Jennifer, Like others, I like the frame of your poem with the line “Life comes into being.” The interweaving of literature allusion is beautifully done.
August 11, 1961
I am born on a Friday
in August at the University Hospital
where my father is a resident in radiology.
I am born when our country is at war
far away in an Asian land of dictators.
Father answers the call.
I am born hungry and starving,
worry dried my mother’s milk.
My cries are her cries.
My hunger is her hunger.
I am born as orders change
calling ROTC medics to report
to Fort Polk, Louisiana–
next door.
I am baptized at three weeks
by Paw Paw, my grandfather priest.
Mama tells me I am OK,
She is OK. We will be OK.
Good morning Margaret,
This hit me hard:
I am born hungry and starving,
worry dried my mother’s milk.
My cries are her cries.
My hunger is her hunger.
My son was sick when he was born and my milk never came. I will never forget the doctor saying I was too stressed out for the milk to come and since my baby was in NICU I couldn’t even try. It was the most defeating feeling ever. But thank God, he’s OK, I’m OK, and we are OK.
Your final stanza was a sigh of relief. I felt myself clenching and hoping up until the end. This is lovely and speaks to the resiliency of both moms and babies, you and yours.
Margaret,
As a child of the Vietnam generation, I sense the underlying tension in your entry into the world, but look at Southeast Asia now. In 1975 when the war ended I never imagined Vietnam being a tourist and expat destination, but it is. Yes, “we will be okay.”
Fighting my own tears here. This spoke to me so much – I think because of the hungry newborn and worry dried milk and the connection that the cries and hunger gave both of you. It brings to mind those newborn sounds (which still cause me to cry in grocery store check out lines when I hear them – yep, that’s me, returning everything to the cart so the new mom can go before me). The simplicity of the small stanzas, the gentleness of them, contrast with the hardship of your parents’ situation. And I love Paw Paw.
Your last stanza—what all mothers do and say, and then try to make it come true. Your story is told in few words with grand meaning. Thank you!
The worry feeling is strong in this…poor mama trying to feed her hungry baby in the midst of all the turmoil. I can’t imagine the frustration for all involved! What a neat detail that Paw Paw baptizes the baby and that it makes things OK…OK…OK. Really nice poem.
Jennifer, I love your poem and how it defines you. I was drawn in by the opening stanza about the Civil Rights Movement and loved how your house and environment and “grandmother’s love of words,
which knit their way around me” instilled In you your love of words and sense of being American. I loved the poets you name in the last stanza. Truly inspiring! ???
My sister
What a beautiful day for my parents, January 26th, 1979.
Not so for me.
I was five, spoiled and rotten, not ready to share my room or my papa!
Shocked, I was, when I saw this perfect baby girl.
My sister.
I didn’t leave her side. My world did change, but not for bad, but for the good.
Bathe her in the kitchen sink. My turn!
Put her down for a nap and I would go missing.
Found! Laying beside her in the crib.
My life changed that day to something beautiful.
I got a confidant and a best friend. Now in our 40’s, my life is perfect and so is she!
What a beautiful relationship! I love the images of you napping beside her in the crib, wanting it to be your turn to bathe her. So sweet and special. I’m glad that relationship has lasted all for you both all these years.
Christian, your sister will love reading this. Always so selfless, you wrote about your sister. (Please don’t tell my brother, it’ll just give him another reason to start up….) I can see this on beautiful scrapbook paper….in a frame…..gift-wrapped with a pink bow! And sitting on her dresser.
You are blessed to have a sis!
Sisters are special. I was almost 7 when my sister was born, so I relate.
Christian, this is absolutely adorable. I love the opening:
What a beautiful day for my parents, January 26th, 1979.
Not so for me.
I was five, spoiled and rotten, not ready to share my room or my papa!
You set me up for a beautiful day and then BAM not for you! So cute.
I adore the shift in your feelings about the new baby because it’s realistic and familiar to any of us who were that child or that new baby. I watched this when my daughter was born and my son wanted to know if we could send her back. LOL.
But the best part of it all is the end. “I got a confidant and a best friend.” Nothing is sweeter than having a marvelous relationship with our siblings.
Thank you for this poem today. I think I’ll tell my sister I love her right now.
Awe Stacey. I think you and me would be buddies!
Oh, I love the image of “bathe her in the kitchen sink.” This is a lovely tribute to your sister!
As I was reading, I wondered if my sister wrote this, but noooo. LOL
Beautiful piece.
Christian, I love the “beautiful day” you described and how the birth of your sister changed your life. I get the feelings of the five-year-old, not wanting to share her room or her papa; however, this scene is in contrast to your amazement of the baby. She is “perfect.” I hear the joy in your voice as you reminisce about her care and your involvement in it. Oh, I’m jealous of those who have sisters. I’m an only child. Thanks for sharing your beautiful day.
Oh, so lovely. I hope you can share this with her!
Christian,
I feel the love you have for your sister. I have a brother five years younger than I am, and we are very close. He’s supposed to be coming out west at the end of May, and we’re heading to Lake Powell w/ our spouses for time in the lake and then to three of the national parks in Utah. I hope coronavirus doesn’t spoil this plan.
It’s My Day!
It’s our anniversary!
Time to celebrate in the Motor City!
“OOOOOOhhh!”
“You’re as excited as I ! I’m a winner!
I made reservations for our dinner.
We’ll get you those frog legs you like to eat.
I’ll have something else. I prefer meat.”
“OOOOOhhh! NOOOOO!”
“No? But you like that restaurant.
I always get you what you want.”
“NOOOOOOO!!! It’s the baby.
The baby’s coming! Look at me!”
“What? That kid’s not due for another week!”
He said as he patted her on her cheek.
But then, he looked down and saw the leak.
I was born the first granddaughter in my dad’s family
And named for two grandmothers. Lucky me!
Anna, for my dad’s mom.
Jamar, for my mom’s mom.
And now, years later, I’m a mom.
June 20 turned out to be a difficult day
That day and in the years that followed.
The day I was born not hallowed.
There always was the decision of what to celebrate.
They had their day and I had to wait.
And now, seven plus decades later,
I’m still not a very good waiter!
I’m so glad you wrote this from both births. I had entered this thinking the “I” was you and finding it was not felt like a surprise (much like the birth suddenly beginning in a leak). How wonderful that you share your grandmothers’ names. I love that connection you have to them.
Ha! You made me laugh at some points and think, “oh dear” at others. Frogs Legs! Oh, my.
What a wonderful family history story. They really make for great tales at times when we get together to celebrate.
Anna,
Such a funny memory to change their lives. Gave a new meaning to the word Anniversary!
Oh Anna! I love your storytelling ability laced with humor. Such a sweet story and you carry on such a beautiful legacy. My favorite line: “What? That kid’s not due for another week!”
He said as he patted her on her cheek.
But then, he looked down and saw the leak.
Anna, how precious that you are named for both grandmothers. I’m sure that you got the best of both. And what a sweet anniversary surprise you were! You’re SO much more thrilling than frog legs. In so many ways, that downside of having to wait to celebrate your birthday is eclipsed by the continued love of two parents who enjoyed spending time with each other. In today’s world, that’s a rare situation. I love your writing – and always, the stories that are wrapped inside.
Unfortunately, the marriage of my parents did not last. But, I had my first party as a “Sweet Sixteen” celebration. That “nearly” made up for the ones not celebrated earlier.
Furthermore, with school ending in mid-June, no one at school was interested in my birthday either. What a deprived childhood! This isn’t “pitty-party” day, is it? 🙂
I love how this prompt puts us in touch with the stories we were told about our births. You are right with your parents celebrating in this poem.
“still not a very good waiter” Love the pun. Beautiful humor and honor.
Anna,
I giggled when I read ““What? That kid’s not due for another week!” Like women have any control over a child’s birth. Men are naive! I’m celebrating you through your poem. Hope you’re taking good care of yourself, my friend.
Rather than penning an origin poem about myself, I wrote about my youngest son.
“My Son“
You were born in laughter and
Slipped into the world
Not quite an Easter baby, a
Little prince from purple rain.
You were born daddy’s boy
While I drove sixty miles
Round trip to feed your
Chirping, unsatiated hunger.
You were born a birthday surprise
Sprouting like Iowa volunteer corn,
A boy climbing for the top crib rail
We heard the thud from your landing.
You were birthed in the hungry years
1985 generation Y child, questioning,
Gnawing on the world’s cornucopia,
Sinking your teeth into earth’s marrow.
You were born back to the future
When we are the world promised
Time, a better world for you and me,
Windows opening innovation iGen
You were born to mommy dearest
Always crazy for you
An echo boomer baby boy
Bursting from your millennial cocoon
—Glenda Funk
I felt like I lived the moments of your son with you in your words today, Glenda, and you’ve inspired me to do this for my own two. You’ve so carefully woven the marks of the decades inside these stanzas (“when we are the world promised Time). I absolutely love the “birthday surprise sprouting like Iowa volunteer corn” and remaining words of that stanza. What a gift!
Glenda,
This is beautiful. Your imagery is perfection.
Oh, Glenda, what a treasure you have penned today. My favorite stanza is
You were born a birthday surprise
Sprouting like Iowa volunteer corn,
A boy climbing for the top crib rail
We heard the thud from your landing.
The imagery and “roots” are so spectacular here. A boy who refused to be contained by a crib when there was so much more to life than that rectangle of mattress and bars. And it brings back memories of those thuds we’ve all heard from our own little spuds. Does your son share your birthday or his daddy’s?
It’s so precious – – I had a “not quite Easter” baby, too, – a March 27 boy in 1989, one day after the bunny hopped back down the trail, and he, too, thudded.
Delightful!
The kid was climbing out of the crib (set to its lowest level) at nine months. He doesn’t share a birthday w/ either parent, so when rewriting I’ll need to rethink that line.
I had my first child in 1985, too. I like all the aspects of that time period you captured.
Oh! Glenda. How well this works including references unique to that time period. “Purple Rain” and “Back to the Future” stand out for me, too.
Oh, Glenda. I can’t even comment on this. It is too perfect. So I won’t.
I hope you share this with your boy….he sounds like a busy kid with all the climbing and questioning and sinking teeth into earth’s marrow. I love that the writer is “Always crazy for you” this kid, this love. A wonderful poem and gift.
Glenda,
This makes me want to follow suit and write one of these for each of my children. What an emotional task.
I love, love, love how you subtlely lace pop culture reference in there. Yet, they flow perfectly.
Thanks, Susan. I owe this kid a scrapbook I promised to make for his 18th birthday. He’s getting it for his 35th birthday. I’m a terrible mother. If you write poems for your children, don’t give a poem to one w/out giving a poem to all.
Jennifer, thank you for another inspiring prompt today. I texted my father first thing this morning about the events of July 8th. His responses helped me compose this Origin poem today.
Waycross Welcoming
on Ware Street
in Waycross, Georgia
in the wee hours
of July 8
water breaks
hospital-bound
Felix heart-pounding cool
Miriam painfully excited
about the happy and
interesting journey ahead
drama-filled waiting room
Felix sweating it out
family gathered
1966-style:
NO DADS ALLOWED! birthside
new parents, driving home
humming
singing
praying
wondering
What are we in for?
beneath Plant Avenue
by the landmark Green Frog
I answered…
with an undeniable gas bomb…
they understood a little more
I was christened
with family tears of joy
Miriam as beautiful through birth
as when she left us in 2015
our mournful tears, deathside
welcomings, homegoings
different origins
little blips on the dash –
joys and sorrows
of consummation
Oh, I see the love here. For Miriam in your beginnings together and her leaving, in the family tears, and laughter over the “gas bomb.” This brought me back to when we brought our first one home – we absolutely didn’t know what we were in for. How can you since it’s so much more!?? I love the soft w sounds to invite us in and am reminded of all the baby softs (woos, wonders, wombs).
What love, what joy, what real and true and all good things. Every child should have this. The gas bomb made me smile…and I have a kid that did the same thing. Funny how it was endearing.
Kim,
Love that you were able to talk to your dad first. I see you honoring your mom here. I know the love and loss you feel for her.
“Miriam as beautiful through birth
as when she left us in 2015
our mournful tears, deathside“
This really is lovely. I hope you share it w/ your father.
Kim,
Your sweet mama was precious. Loving how I was able to celebrate you in this poem and your mom at the same time.
“christened with tears of joy” ah! that’s inspiration right there!
I answered…
with an undeniable gas bomb…
they understood a little more
What a wonderful set of words! This made me chuckle. A heartfelt story told here.
Jennifer,
Love all the models you’ve offered us today. You’ve written a wonderful origin poem. Love seeing all the authors named and the way you’ve woven Dickinson’s “Hope is the thing with Feathers and Hughes’s “I, Too, am American” into the poem.
“They, too
We, too
Me, too
I, too
am America.”
You have a spectacular start w/ all these writers. Years ago I wrote what’s called a Random Autobiography.” Have you heard of this format? Origin poems are a wonderful way to invite students to write poetry. I’ve even used the “Where I’m From” model for digital storytelling and as an introductory speech. I can see babies writing in 16 years, “I’m from COVID-19 pandemic fears, looking for something to do during the lockdown.” After the NYC blackout there was a surge in births.
I think I’m going to write my poem about my youngest son. I’m working on a scrapbook for him I should have completed 17 years ago. He’s from a mom who doesn’t craft!
Also, I’m Often a late commenter, and was last night. I circled back to yesterday to finish my commenting for Day 3 poems.
Thank you, Glenda. I will need to check into the Random Autobiography format. We begin the year with identity and I love having new models. And oh, yes! The origin stories from these days will be interesting. What a wonderful gift to your son to include an origin poem for him. I love that idea!
My birth
on the day after Christmas
the day filled with fatigue
and post-holiday weariness
taken to the hospital in a taxi,
neither unable to drive.
she in labor
he still unlicensed
My birth
at Good Samaritan Hospital
the Bible cemented in my heart from the start
a stone’s throw from the Wabash and
revolutionary heroism
my love for history birthed with me
Dr. Bartlett proudly announcing the arrival
of Hutchison number four.
My birth
a strong period to
an already overburdened mom
she came from two kids,
he came from three
and full of want to fill the world
with more little Catholic kids.
My birth
smack dab in the middle
of the most contentious
decade in our history,
the collective hearts of the country
still broken from the gunning down
of Camelot’s prince
My birth
snuck in there during a dull spot
with two more shocking assassinations–
the even more charismatic yet seemingly vulnerable younger brother
and the champion for the Black–
just months apart.
a heightened unpopular war a world away,
one which my dad lived his last day still full of regret
weighted down by his years on the draft board
and a moon landing intended to shut up the Soviets
and give American’s hope–an exclamation point at the
tail end of a tumultuous decade.
My birth
in utero the trauma formed
I lived through her trifecta
of life-shattering news
while still swimming
and somersaulting through
her fluid.
My birth
during which they discovered
the faulty heart valve
which set the rest of my life on
a course of feeling devalued.
My birth
an epiphany . . .
MY life.
What about hers?
54 years lamenting
how her heart issues
affected MY life,
MY nurturing (or lack thereof),
MY anxiety-riddled trauma pocket.
Maybe it’s time I considered
how it affected her.
My re-birth.
This piece just gets more powerful the further in I am. That last line! What an exclamation point (to borrow your words). I am drawn over and over to the in utero stanza – the somersaulting so visual and vivid and visceral. And your self-reflection at the end – so powerful. “My love for history birthed with me” – what a beautiful line! “
I agree that this poem gains in power and strength as I read. The last line is extremely poignant. The whole re-thinking of of the writer’s impact on another. Wow. I have reflected on how much I don’t know about the history I was born into. I too am a lover of history…but the years of my birth…they seem to have escaped my learning until recently. And, as I learn they are surely shaping me. Those 60s sure were full of trauma. Can you imagine taking care of a newborn in the midst of all the “news?”
That “faulty heart valve” was so important in the writer’s perspective. The line, “MY anxiety-riddled trauma pocket.” really resonated with me. I was born to a Type 1 diabetic in a time when it was advised that diabetics not have children. I feel like I know a part of the writer very well.
Amazing! your closing line shows the power of writing poetry. It makes us re-think what we thought.
My birth
an epiphany . . .
MY life.
What about hers?
54 years lamenting
how her heart issues
affected MY life,
MY nurturing (or lack thereof),
MY anxiety-riddled trauma pocket.
Maybe it’s time I considered
how it affected her.
My re-birth.
Susan, where to begin with the beauty and sorrow of all that is here…..the repetition of my birth, ending in rebirth……the backdrop of what was happening at a time in our history that was contentious, and then this:
My birth
in utero the trauma formed
I lived through her trifecta
of life-shattering news
while still swimming
and somersaulting through
her fluid.
That was a powerful part – – a mother who, despite chaos, provided a haven of safety and carefree somersalting. Peace in the midst of chaos. Heartbreaking and comforting all at once.
Susan,
So much in your poem hits me on a personal level. First this line:
“the collective hearts of the country
still broken from the gunning down
of Camelot’s prince”
My first memory of television is of JFK’s funeral. In September we visited the Henry Ford museum in Michigan where the car in which he was assassinated is in display. It was a moving experience. I began learning about Vietnam when I was seven. And that last stanza in which your thoughts turn to how your heart condition effected your mom reads like a refrain of my thinking about how certain things must have effected my mom. Until she was close to death I’d only thought about how they effected me.
Jennifer, I’m a bit envious of your literary heritage. I don’t come from that but it is what I am most drawn to. So different than my parents. I was an odd duck to them. Ha! Your use of repetition is really effective. Life comes into being evokes a gentle beginning. I love it.
My poem is below.
This poem begins with August heat–
riots and war rolling over the land
to the soundtrack
of The Summer of Love.
Even though all signs pointed toward
mild-manners
Justice and kind-heartedness,
Arrogance and stubbornness
Dominated the news.
Our poets
wept as flag draped coffins
and wounded soldiers
dodged spit and epithets
hurled at their superiors
literally singing kum ba yah
in off key voices
at their desks.
Oh, they tended the poem–
making sure to edit
and revise at all
the regular intervals
conservatively stanzas
punctuated with oxford commas
and Vatican II.
Eventually, as poems do
they write themselves.
Intense green
as an old forest of many layers
and peridot sparking rings.
Her canopy grew
wider and stronger
with each word,
Each word
Each ring.
The movement from the intensity of the August heat and riots and war (juxtaposed agains the irony of the soundtrack) to the canopied and forested greens at the end works beautifully. I love the stanza of tending the poem, in all its punctuations and revisions. What a wonderful way to describe and analyze!
This has been an amazing challenge and you’ve met it well. Your images remind those of us alive at the time of the turmoil back then….an alas…still today. That’s life. Times change; people don’t.
Even though all signs pointed toward
mild-manners
Justice and kind-heartedness,
Arrogance and stubbornness
Dominated the news.
Linda, such troubling times when you were born. You captured the mood of the war torn and conflicted America in the 60’s. I love “Justice and kind-heartedness,
Arrogance and stubbornness
Dominated the news.” So true. The frustration and anger over the conflict and lies are s stark contrast next to the peace and love message of the youth. I especially love the last stanza with all the imagery of green. For me it suggests lasting hope and truth.
Linda, you set the stage with the August heat and wars and riots, and draw such a stunning image of widening rings and deepening layers. The part that resonates with me is the conservatively punctuated stanzas. I never thought about grammar from a more conservative perspective, but it makes so much sense. Very interesting perspective!
I love the use of poem to guide us through your origin story. Of course, I was born, too, in the August heat (on the same day, but I don’t think the same year). I also love how you incorporated the peridot, our birthstone, in the last stanza.
You provide a powerful snapshot of the times here. Your words flow in a way that I envy, especially the “tended the poem” stanza. I will be borrowing that particular phrase to drop into conversation at some point.
Linda,
I love the personification of poems writing themselves, the allusions to Vatican II and implication of using the Oxford comma. The Summer of Love was such a turbulent time, and your poem speaks eloquently to that idea in this turbulent moment, a moment when we need poets to write what only poetry can pen.