Today’s writing inspiration comes from Kimberly Johnson, Ed.D. She is a literacy coach and media specialist in a public school in rural Georgia. She enjoys writing as a guest blogger for www.writerswhocare.com and counts down the days between monthly 5-Day Writing Challenges. She is the author of Father, Forgive Me: Confessions of a Southern Baptist Preacher’s Kid. Follow her on Twitter at @kimjohnson66.
Inspiration
Jason Reynolds, recently named the National Ambassador of Young People’s Literature, captures the way he felt about news of a death in Long Way Down in his verse “The Way I Felt.”
Process
Raise a Glass to the Literary Avant-Garde by writing your own version of “The Way I Felt.” The “ul” feature in the comment box will help you indent if you wish.
If you are feeling nostalgic, keep the past tense and direct address.
If you are feeling connected to the present, move to present tense.
The “I” need not be you, but could invite another perspective in human form or an abstract concept like Love, Joy, Grief, Regret.
Kim’s Poem
The Way I
felt when your
tail thumped three
times was heartbroken.
I never had
a dog as
loyal as you.
I stood on
the front porch
waiting for you
to look up
but you were
too weak to
lift your head.
Three tail thumps.
And I understood.
It was time.
“Just this side
of Heaven is
a place called…
Rain…bow…bridge”
*Quoted lines are attributed to Paul C. Dahm from the original “Rainbow Bridge Poem.”
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.
The Way I Found You
The way I felt
with that first phone call,
a terrified sister
begging for another reality.
A naïve sunken heart,
only in its early 20s,
having to face that
their mother was gone.
As unbelieving as it felt,
the body was real,
and three days past,
cold. alone.
A haunting memory–
constantly recalling,
never forgiving,
the empty gaze of the dead.
The Way She Felt
Liberated
No longer having to convince yourself,
as most humans do,
that bad things really could
never happen to you
You learned that they could
one day,
in the doctor’s few words
and your fight now
would now be not denial,
but getting well,
beating the odds, struggling
to hope and attain what was possible.
Remaining unscathed forever
never getting sick,
never experiencing real loss
is the impossible dream
you leave behind.
And when it happens
whatever it is,
you can be free.
You can finally understand
and embrace your vulnerability,
and that of others,
and live your life
as one with them.
Can you forgive me?
Me, overwhelmed, paralyzed
Unable to write
I feel this. At the same time, I want to rail against it: Write! Write! Write! But I also want to draw this speaker in and give her a huge hug. Then whisper in her ear, Write!
Mo,
I am not sure who the “you” is here, but the irony in your poem of being unable and yet still…is very moving. Thank you for your words!
Sarah
The way I feel
when at the end of the day I
find the boundaries around my nails ragged and cuticles tender, when I
feel the kind of weary that isn’t the clean kind you get from climbing a real mountain, when I
realize that I can’t trace the boundaries and that I don’t know the mountain’s name
or if it even has one–
I was told that everything has a name.
I believed that if I paid attention I would
remember.
But I wasn’t the one to name the animals.
Sarah, the line that resonates most with me is “the kind of weary that isn’t the clean kind you get from climbing a real mountain.” I love this – – you put the taxing, non-choice weary into its own category, apart from the good kind of sore and weary that we earn when we tackle mountains of our choice.
Sarah,
This idea of “can’t” in the tracing of boundaries in the naming of the mountain — and the connection to the boundaries of your nails. Wow! That imagery and understanding of the end of the day is everything.
Sarah
Sarah – I feel the weight of your body, mind, and soul in every word of your poem. There are many days when we lay our head down to rest at night and can’t really “trace the boundaries” of the mountains we face. Your poem gave words to the feelings I have when wrestling with challenges in my own life, like aging parents, or a bought of depression and anxiety my sister struggled through about a year ago as I stood by, weary. I’m not sure which way you meant your last line… Is it hopeful? I believe the “One to named the animals” might see our mountain climb and know the name even if we do not.
I appreciate that so much <3
Always felt something like it.
Standing in a shower of
was it called embarrassment?
I taught myself
the first rule,
no crying, only laughing it off,
feeling like
I wanted them to see
my intention to see
my effort my need
to get it right,
the answer,
the quip,
the friendship,
anything so
someone else
could take the
shame.
Heidi, those foot-in-the-mouth moments of wishing we could take our words back and spare ourselves embarrassment are so awkward and uncomfortable! I love the way you compare it to standing in a shower… embarrassment can be so thick it drips off!
“I wanted them to see/my intention to see” – how often we all do this, want this; I can totally relate. I see this in my students, too. Perhaps it is connected to that feeling of wanting to be understood. Thank you for sharing!
The Way I Felt
when you said
yes, was like the
cracking of a cement slab
at once an awful rending
and a billowing release
my heart ripped out
and my heart soothed
an ending of hope
a beginning of hope
you, at 25, were too big
to pull onto my lap
too knotted in your pain
to let me brush your curls from
your aching eyes
too exhausted from
your struggle to listen to my
ignorant bromides
Can I take you to the ER?
I asked, dreading and needing the same answer.
Yes, you said.
Allison — There you are… I was waiting for you. And I am so glad I did. This poem captures that juxtaposition of two totally opposite feelings that create the real tension of “dreading and needing” … you have brought the “knotted…pain” and laid it up against “curls” and “at 25…too big to pull onto my lap”… oh man, this has an ache in it that is every bit the “cracking cement” … The feel of this is so real and it hurts… I am needing a lap to crawl into. Thank you for unleashing such an emotional, dear piece of yourself here. Thank you, Susie
Allison,
This is dynamite. My heart hurts just reading it; I can only imagine living it.
I can’t believe how well you capture that tension between wanting the answer to be no yet wanting it to be yes.
Allison, this is it! Every parent of a child suffering in this way prays for the YES. Thankful you got yours. I’m still praying for mine. The way your poem began, I wasn’t sure what to expect. My brain was thinking she asked him for a divorce and he said yes. LOL. Far off! I love this poem and I love YES!! YES! YES! YES!!!
Allison, thank you for opening such a painful and hopeful window of your life with us. This resonates so deeply with me this morning. As the mother of a reforming drug addict, I can relate to the feelings you describe here – the knowing, wanting to know but not wanting to know, wanting a yes and hoping for a no, wanting more than anything to erase the pain and addiction, the constant prayers and the never-ending fears when an unknown cell phone number called. Oh, what beauty in the YES! Yes to life, yes to I want things that aren’t good to be better. I’m so glad you were there.
Allison, I want to appreciate the crafting of this poem along with courageous ache of its subject–“the cracking of a cement slab,” so heavy, rending and release, the end of hope and the beginning of hope, “my ignorant bromides,” dreading and needing. You laid it on us, and I hope you feel us holding it with you.
Becoming Confident
Donnetta Norris 05-18-2020
The way I felt
when I put the first words on the page
scared
nervous
unsure
What could I write
that anyone would read
The way I felt
when my writing came alive before my eyes
freedom
newness
refreshing
My words have value
I have something to say
The way I felt
when I could fathom the truth with confidence
I Am a WRITER
What a joyous poem! This is what I want for my students. Something I appreciate about this monthly forum is to be reminded that I can grow as a writer through affirmation. If people’s comments were critical and negative, I would not return to the page. Let’s give our students this experience of
“My words have value
I have something to say”
Thank you, Donnetta!
YES DONNETTA! You are a writer! Claim it. It’s your right for being a writer! I love your writing and I’m thankful to be here with you.
Donnetta – I just got a chill and a thrill reading your poem. I see so many students (Jr. High) who hate/refuse/can’t stand to write. Maybe some day they will be able to say the same words. Is it confidence they lack, or appreciation of the beauty and art of words right now? And, I too, will claim your words. Even here on this site, I sometimes fall back and think, “My words are not good enough” among such talented writers. Thank you for raising this banner high over your head, “I am a writer”!
For four days
I think I expected
this outcome.
On Sunday I’d been asked
if I wanted her to be moved
to the hospital.
I said no and
went to work for a couple of hours.
I sat with her
while a machine eased her breathing,
and before I left the nurse asked me about
hospice.
Monday I met with hospice
and sat with her each evening
after work.
Little seemed to change
from my vantage point.
And on Thursday
a call in the morning
told me that it looked like
today.
I sat with her for hours
reading,
rubbing her hands with oil,
and watching her breath
until she wasn’t.
Oh, Jamie, your closing lines are so powerful in their sensory depth: rubbing her hands with oil. Can I please have someone rub my hands with oil as I close out my hours on earth? This is such a lovely, loving, soothing image. And your last line: “until she wasn’t” was, in its simplicity, breathtaking. Beautiful.
I love this, Jamie. <3 The stanza–and the line breaks you chose–for "And on Thursday / a call in the morning
/ told me that it looked like / today." The way you play with time and words that signify time brings up the idea of time that your mother had and didn't. There's a poignant irony in "on Thursday" and "today." The last line, abstract and concise, is even more powerful given the contrast with the concrete details of the previous line. I'm moved by the poem, and it lets me into your experience in these last days and moments with your mom.
Thank you for sharing these tender moments with us. The end of your poem, perfection because it captured the essence of transitioning so well. Hugs.
The Way I Felt
when I heard you with her.
I never would have thought–
I stood in the shower
the next morning
quietly wailing at,
what I thought was,
the same volume as the
water spraying from the showerhead
but my rage was too loud.
I wanted to pour
boiling water over your bodies
not to watch the skin pool on your bedsheets
but to let myself feel
powerful
so I could remember
that night as the one
in which I destroyed you.
Laura, I feel the rage you express through your powerful imagery: “watch the skin pool on your bedsheets.” I think the pain/rage caused by betrayal/jealousy is one of the strongest, uncontrollable emotions I have felt. Your poem captures this so well, and responds with a most satisfying closing line: “I destroy you.”
I feel your rage, but I also sense your victory. Thank you.
Daaaaaaaaamn! Laura, this is painful, raw, but oh so powerful. I’m grateful you’re still here to write because I know that feeling and it could have ended terribly for you if you didn’t have power over your rage. You are a strong woman and you’re all the better for it. I don’t know how recent this was but I just want to say, the rage will pass and you won’t give two rats asses whether he’s destroyed or not. The power is in your rising. Rise my dear, rise.
Laura – Betrayal and revenge. Not always acted on, but just as strong in our hearts. Your words brought back the raw emotions I saw in my sister who experienced a similar shock even though she “never would have thought” it to be so. My arms ache to comfort this woman and calm the rage as I did for my sister so many times.
May 18, 2020
The Way I Felt
I felt excited
me a girl of 25
you, my neighbor,
a man of 30
at my apartment door
asking me on a date.
I felt laughter
bubble up inside.
so many times you
entertained me with your
witty thoughts and humor.
I felt pride
watching you perform
playing your guitar
and singing in the band
such amazing talent.
I felt love
for you.
Were we out for Chinese food
Or breakfast at our favorite spot
When I professed those words?
I felt sure
you would carry me
across the threshold soon.
Your parents
were so confident
ours was meant to last.
I felt impatient
waiting all those years
to never hear the words.
the ones I surely
would have
lived to regret
If I’d responded
Yes.
I felt grief
so many years later
sitting in the service
to celebrate your life
Your favorite songs
resonating with my heart.
Your favorite jokes
upon my lips.
I felt anonymous.
No one at the funeral
save a few old friends
even knew my name
or remembered
we had been.
I felt relief
I held five years
of good memories
along with five more
of disappointment and despair
and laid them down to rest.
Grateful you never asked me.
“Will you marry me?”
a lonely place even though you share you would have lived to regret
Beautifully written!
Julie — I read your poem several times and out loud… it was a journey that took me along with you and felt the sense of loss… and then relief. Geez, this is such a complex story of your heart. I so appreciate that you shared something so intimate, so heartbreaking and yet… “laid them down to rest.” You are so strong to put so much into these words. Thank you, Susie
“[S]uch a complex story of your heart” is a response that shows how deeply you move into the poet’s story. Thank you, Susie, for modeling responses that teach me to be a more present, authentic, and clear reader/responder to others’ writing.
Julie, this is an amazing poem. It is narrative, pulling me in to hear the story. It is lyrical, laughter bubbling. It is imagistic: I see you (not)carried across the threshold. Your repetition of “I felt…” and your sensitive use of alliteration magnified your poem’s movement toward its powerful end. Wow.
The Way I Felt
When a drunk driver killed my grandmother
Was a well I continuously fell down
and down
I never knew pain like that….
I was fourteen
I didn’t know bars, alcohol, empty excuses, or
Strangers who belied it was his first-time drinking and driving
It wasn’t
I was dancing, laughing in the living room when
I saw her car on the ten o’clock news
No soft voice told me she was gone.
It was a sticker on her car
Window in the background of a
News broadcast
I couldn’t name death, but I knew what it felt like.
Falling
Drowning
Gasping
I didn’t know the rules of death,
But I knew a TV Reporter had
Taken
Broken
Mangled
How I learned she was never coming back.
I love the line I couldn’t name death – such a harsh moment of discovery
Laura — Holy crimany… this is brutal. Your poem hammered the cruelty of losing a loved one to the horrific indiscriminate drunk driver. Oh man! Your lines …the white space and the careful selection of “drowning” and “gasping” and “mangled” and “broken”… oh wow. The youthful dancing and laughing and then the jolt of recognition and reality… a coming of age… a coming of the cruel reality of loss. Whew! This is a WOWZA poem… In 24 short lines and very few words, you have mastered a godawful reality and emotionally brutal loss. Whew. I am sending hugs, Susie
Laura, what an absolute world-rocking moment for you. That moment of dancing and laughing that completely upends itself and takes you from one extreme emotion to the other in a matter of a picture on the news. I never knew this about you – – that you lost your precious grandmother this way. I’m so sorry – my heart goes out to you this morning like it was that very moment of loss. Hugs and love.
Laura – I read your poem twice. Each time, I felt as if I was that dancing, laughing girl in the living room. I could see her body and her expression, frozen, as she watched the news. That joyful moment stopped cold. Your poem painted a picture of the sights and sounds and emotions in the moment as well as the confusion and grief that followed in the words, “falling, drowning, gasping” and “taken, broken, mangled”. (Also very effective in list form.) I can only hope your heart has healed from this sad and shocking episode of life.
The way I felt,
Can it be?
The last Monday of the A.L.P.!
Will I cry or
fill with glee!
Up throughout the night checking all the links,
Will it be enough or will this week’s plan sink
Online yearbook signing pages,
End of year memory books for the little sages
Will it lift their spirits,
Enough to get them through
Keep them reading through the summer,
This end of year can’t be a bummer!
Bittersweet the end is near,
Will we laugh or shed a tear?
Susan — You have marched like a warrior through this monstrous new teaching arena. I am so struck by how hard you worked to “get them through/keep them reading” … this is so not what any of us expected. You are a HERO! Your poem confirms all those mixed feelings…that “bittersweet.” Thank you for posting your poem! Susie
This truly captures that end-of-year spirit that only a pandemic could crush – and then not even! I know others who work on yearbook, and it is SUCH an important document of human experience. Schools now are talking about cutting yearbook because of budget issues. I can’t imagine a high school experience without yearbook! That is not a new normal I would embrace. That yearbook is exactly as this poem presents it – like it’s own character, the ties that bind, the bridge for each student to stay connected, stay grounded in that memory.
Well, Kim, your poem is a trigger for me and I’m sure so many! I recently lost my stepdog (that’s what I called my best friend’s dog) and actually held her through the transition. I thought putting my cat down years ago was the worst, but to watch a sick dog leave was by far the most painful pet loss I’ve experienced. It’s only been a little more than a month and I still expect to see her in her cozy bed. ?Your poem expressed all the emotions related to losing our pets.
Lost and Finding
By Stacey L. Joy, May 18, 2020
The way I felt
Lost in the museum
With all those dinosaurs
And glassed bones
No one familiar
Pulling me onward
Terrifying
The way I felt
Lost on the playground
Hiding from Richard’s fists
And Lynette’s snake eyes
No one choosing me
With laggers and jumpropes
Maddening
The way I felt
Lost on the 181 bus
All those heavy hips
And lanky arms with hair
No one scooting over
Making a seat for skinny me
Isolating
The way I felt
Lost in my college dorm
In a 6 by 6 musty room
With a girl who had pink elbows
And washed her hair twice a day
No girls like me to laugh with
Infuriating
The way I felt
Lost in bed with men
Who never knew me at all
Who thought I found myself in them
But I didn’t know me either
Because I lost myself for them
Disgusting
The way I felt
Lost in suffering and deception
Found me at an aperture
Where peace and joy entered
Like morning light teasing
The darkness of mountains and skyscrapers
Liberating
Stacey—the lines that stood out for me—the roommate with pink elbows who washed her hair twice a day—such specific details allowed me to fill in the rest of her-and choose not to like her very much! Each of your “chapters” leads me to a sigh of relief at the end…
Stacey,
I love this structure. The anaphora to start each stanza and then the participle you end. It really works.
Dang, you do this, Stacey, every single time. It is the voice. The honesty of the voice. That’s what shakes this poem into very real mosaic of where you have been. To have all these tough moments of realization and then to have risen to a state of “peace and joy” … “at an aperture”…. ooo… this is beautiful. I like the pulse of this poem… each stanza delivers a whack and yet not a defeat. Instead, it seems to come as a lesson or a chapter in the story of you. You’ve shared a lot of poems that make me think you are ready for a collection that is the “Story of Me”… or something like that. The strong voice is consistent…taking us to the “morning light.” I’m glad I didn’t just sink into bed and call it quits for the night. Thank you for being here. Susie
I. can relate to so many of your verses…”Lost in my college dorm” and “Lost in bed with men”. The words your write and the way your write them would be 2 chapters in my own book. The adjectives you use to describe the way you felt…spot on.
Stacy – Your poem so moved me. Life lived is difficult, but when we find our way… liberating. Running out of time this morning, but I wanted to make a few comments… Just so people know, their poems are appreciated!
The Way I Felt
holding your hand
and
praying for you
to surrender
your soul to heaven
was unlike anything ever.
I had
a faster heartbeat
and a bigger adrenaline rush
than in any match or game
I ever played.
I felt
warm and tingly
sharing space
with the angels
coming to escort
you home.
As the rattling breath
ceased,
I wanted to yank
that puff and pulse
back down into you.
Your spirit rose to a place
you believe in
to be with people
you’ve yearned to be with
for years.
You rose higher and higher
as we knelt
near your bed in that spartan
nursing home room,
leaving us empty
and lost
and untethered.
It would be years
before the gratitude
shoved the ache aside,
taking over a larger
space in my heart.
~Susan Ahlbrand
18 May 2020
Susan, Sometimes letting go is what’s best, but the loss never goes away. Your last two stanzas are so poignant and powerful. The feeling of being “untethered” is such a perfect description. Finding one’s footing after a significant loss is so clearly captured in that one word. Thanks for sharing such an important personal pain and event.
“Untethered’—I am going to save that thought for later. Thank you…
Susan, I’ve been in this familiar and painful place.
This stanza is what we long for, what eventually comes:
It would be years
before the gratitude
shoved the ache aside,
taking over a larger
space in my heart.
Hugs for this lovely tribute and for taking the time to go back inside the moments that assuredly are like walking back into the fire.
?Stacey
I know what it feels like to have to let go. I didn’t even get to say good-bye. It hurts either way. And, yes, it took “years before the gratitude shoved the ache aside”. Thank you for such elegant poetry.
I have been doing so many serious poems lately. I spent the day musing over another memory to share, and this came to mind…
I Remember the Time
I remember the time
one summer…
A student rode up on his bike as I worked in the yard
He was dishevelled, grimy, jean shorts hanging low and a too-small t-shirt,
a grin wreathing his face.
He threw his arms around me in a sweaty hug.
“Hey, Miss Sands! You’re not going to believe this—
I’m reading a chapter book!”
I remember that
my heart swelled just a little bit.
He had been almost illiterate, a seventh grader
at the alternative school where I taught.
I remember the time
I thought that If we had accomplished this breakthrough,
Anything was possible. This was the reward we all seek.
I told him how proud I was.
We chatted about the book for a moment, then
he looked over his shoulder, hopped on the bike, and,
calling out, “See you later!”, rocketed down the road.
I chuckled and shook my head. Exactly what I was used to from him.
Two middle schoolers ran up, panting
“Did you see him? Which way did he go?
That’s my bike—he stole it!”
I remember the time…
When I realized that there was still some work to do…
Gayle, I was completely pulled in by your poem. The details are so vivid. I can just see this student and the humorous way you end the poem is delightful. I am always amazed by the ones who so masterfully play us. Thanks for the smile!
This made me laugh out loud! Isn’t this the truest thing, “When I realized that there was still some work to do…” If you could only have had that moment without the late-arriving middle schoolers bursting into it. Ah! No wonder he “rocketed down the road.” We are all very complicated beings, with so much that makes us unique. I hope you do continue to bask in that sweaty hug!
This is awesome and sad. He had a moment, but he stole a bike. Students live lives I cannot fathom.
I love the collision of those two moments – sharing the book with you followed by learning he’d stolen the bike, hopefully so he could tell you about the book
Gayle, I was not prepared to the end. It’s not funny, but I chuckled a bit. How rewarding! He seemed just as proud as you were. As I reread the last lines, I find myself shaking my head. Is that how you reacted in that moment?
The Way I Felt
When you betrayed me
It made me sick
I couldn’t breathe
It made my world collapse
I trusted you
to be
a friend, my friend
to be honest
to treat me right
We called each other
friends
I meant it – you didn’t
We called each other
“sis”
I meant it – you didn’t
I protected you
You took me for granted
I supported you
You used me
I loved you
You manipulated me
When you betrayed me
I fell into the abyss
Oh, Monica — This is visceral and real. I felt precisely what you have described, and I am brought to my knees with the sense of betrayal. When you repeated “I meant it, you didn’t,” I was so right there in that processing. This is a poem of crushing loss… and every word you have here, does the profound justice of how that breaks us. You used so few word to accomplish such a deep and sadly universal sense of loss. I’m wowed by that. I love your honesty… it will serve you for all your days. Thank you, Susie
Oh Mon, this is so REAL — it makes me cry . . . . it makes me hate whoever hurt you — that what a good poem should do – and you are so talented, my friend. Thank you for sharing.
Being a girl, this is true for all of us. We all had that one friend (at least) who broke our trust. Thank you for capturing the memory.
This was a thought-provoking prompt! Jason Reynolds’ poem is raw and powerful; I couldn’t imagine writing anything that might do it justice as a mentor text. I felt even more so when I read your sad and precious poem…those ‘three tail thumps’ – oh, my, such an image. I decided I had to go ‘light and happy,’ from a conversation I had with a preschooler this morning.
The way I felt
when you invited me
to a sleepover
was
lighter,
lifted by
laughter.
You are four years old,
irrepressible, and
imaginative,
including me,
your teacher.
How did you say it?
“When this ‘kona-viwus’ is gone,
I want you to come to
my sleepover.
We’ll play hide-and-seek, and
Guess Who? and
eat fruit snacks.
I miss you.”
Yes,
in this time of isolation,
instantly,
I felt
lighter,
lifted,
loved.
Maureen—the first line had me going in a very different direction, because I hadn’t read your intro. And then I began to smile as the story developed. “We’ll play hide and seek and eat fruit snacks. “ I would definitely go to that sleepover. Want to come to my house? I’ll get my Guess Who game out and we will play. 🙂
Maureen,
This is do precious. I’d love to hear mom’s and dad’s reaction to that invitation. Well done w/ the dialect of a four-year-old. I’m smiling and feeling “lighter and lifted.” Thank you.
—Glenda
Awwwww, how sweet is this!! Maureen, I just can’t imagine hearing that invitation and not balling my eyes out. What a generous offer and I pray you’ll have the opportunity to take her up on it. LOL so cute.
Thanks for this “lighter, lifted, loved” feeling your poem gave me.
Well, lighter indeed–to feel that we have maintained that crucial face-to-face connection with little ones through screens. Everything with them is heartfelt, instant and now. Thanks for this, my neighbor and mutual friend of Jill Ortman-Fouse! I teach PreK at Rock View in Kensington…and this is my very first day ever visiting Ethical ELA and the Open Write.
Welcome, Heidi! Ethical ELA has been a lifeline for me during this pandemic. You and I, we must meet up, one of these days – on the other side of this pandemic!
The way I felt
When I texted
And texted
And texted you
Without reply
Is ridiculous
In hindsight.
You were not
Lingering
from some
Dread disease.
You were not
suffering
from the blues.
You were not
Simmering
Over some grievance
Against me.
You were not
Ignoring
Me either.
You were not
Being
Abducted
By aliens.
You were not
Bitten
By a venomous snake.
You were asleep.
That’s it.
That’s all.
You were out.
KO’ed.
Dead to the world.
And I was an idiot.
This is fantastic. I can feel all those thoughts running through your head – I can see them running through my own head – at the unanswered text. Thanks for sharing.
How our imagination runs wild, when we can’t get in touch with someone we love…especially during this time of shelter-in-place! This was a fun way to express your stressful emotions. It is strange how it always “Is ridiculous/in hindsight.”
I have no idea who this is written about—a daughter/son, a partner?—but I loved it! The acceleration of dire circumstances was wonderful!
Katrina,
The litotes here is very effective in emphasizing the tricks our minds play on us while awaiting a response. Thank you.
—Glenda
Katrina,
Were it not for our current circumstances, I would think that you were lamenting the shortcomings of technology, and maybe it’s because of the long-winded conversation with a parent I just participated in, but I relate to this so much right now. Students who have been silent for weeks will suddenly pop out of the abyss as a small blue text bubble as if there’s nothing unusual about ignoring earlier correspondences and suddenly having a need for my services 🙂 I especially loved the stanza about aliens and snakes since I know I often wind up feeling silly for the wild “what if”s I’ve concocted!
This is the best!!!!! Had a good laugh on this one. I needed that. Thanks Katrina! You’re not an idiot either, he is for being such a hard sleeper. What if you were falling off a cliff and needed him to answer??? ?
I want to laugh out loud at this, but only because this is me! I’ve done this. Created an end of the world scenario when the person was just sleeping.
Perfect. There are so many undread reasons that people are not responding–but I always assume they have rushed to the bedside of a dying loved one these days. The way I feel…
The way I felt
the last time we argued.
Resolved.
It would be the last time
I felt that way.
It was.
[I find it slightly humorous that I misspelled my own name – and how that seems to add to this particular poem! Can’t seem to fix that, so for now, I’m Denies…]
Succinct and powerful poem. Love the short lines: ‘Resolved.’ Followed shortly thereafter by, “It was.” Wow! So strong and clear, so decisive. (I am amused by the changing of your name – ha! I don’t think this poem hints at any sort of denial – rest assured!)
Dear Denies… Short sweet, and strong. “It was.” Perfect. And I do love the name!
Denise,
Sorry, I can’t bring myself to misspell your name. ? As I get older the arguing and what remains seems more important than feeling “resolved.” I like the succinctness of your poem, the clipped one-word line, the use of space. All serve the theme well. Thank you.
—Glenda
I love it!!! The typo with your name speaks volumes. Deny that Hill and keep on walking! You will feel resolved again, don’t “deny” yourself.
Hope you got some laughs. This is great!
Kim, I’m writing a summary comment here because I’d end up writing pretty much the same thing for each poem offered today. Most bare secret emotions some have kept hidden for so long, reluctant to reveal how we really felt or still feel. You’ve noticed most of our poems have to do with loss? Loss of a parent, loss of a pet, loss of trust, loss of confidence.
Thank you, Kim, for the prompt, and Sarah for the community within which we as professional educators can remove our masks and express ourselves with such verve, vivacity, and nerve. Once written, most of the poems leave us with a sense of victory. We survived and can go on now that we have fewer reasons to hide what we felt and feel. We are free! Our writing is setting us free!
Kim, The way you let your pet have the last three words was inspired. Hearing your story reminds me of the loss of our Ben but in a hopeful, buoyant way.
Kim,
I love the tribute to your fur baby. Setting “It was time” apart opens up the space between life and death. It’s very effective. As my dogs age, I’ve begun preparing myself for their passing. It’s so hard watching these once vibrant critters age. I mark time by what they can no longer do. Touching poem. Thank you.
“Squirrel Gift”
A fountain of bile burned my throat
the first time Puck and Snug
murdered a squirrel &
supplanted its corpse
onto the living room carpet.
I didn’t see them dash into the house,
didn’t notice them drop
the bushy-tailed rodent,
its teeth bared, an agonizing grit
cemented in death’s vise.
I sat at the dining table
tutoring a forensics student, preparing
a senatorial oration, perfecting persuasive appeals:
“I think your dogs brought you a gift.”
A single digit pointed at the soulless creature.
I scooped the squirrel into a snow shovel,
deposited the stiff in the garage,
commanded the dogs to sit for a snack,
patted their white fur & returned to the lesson.
“Sorry about that. Where were we?”
–Glenda Funk
May 18, 29020
Glenda, I love the abnormal normalcy of this whole scene. I feel for that poor squirrel, but I’m so glad your rewarded Puck and Snug for showing you that they are fierce and vicious hunters who have done a good day’s work in protecting the mama they love. I love how you opened with the shock effect: “the first time Puck and Snug murdered a squirrel,” and closed with nonchalance: “Where were we?” It cleverly makes us want to know the juicy details of all the other times that this has happened and the ways these serial squirrel murderers operate. We have discovered in our writing that we have the same dog combination – – Schnoodle, Schnauzer. And that is what I love: the joys of never knowing what is next with our boys! Love this poem!
Ha 🙂 I love the low-brow “interruption” of the squirrel corpse as you were engaged in very high-brow educational pursuits. Thanks for the smile 🙂
The phrase, “deposited the stiff in the garage” is by far my favorite line. So casual, so practical. And the snack and the continuation of the lesson—perfection.
This poem is an amazing story – I think it could be written as a very compelling short story! I love, love, love your steady focus with your student, totally oblivious to the “supplanted corpse” (ha!) and that your student had to draw your attention to the situation, so shyly, “A single digit pointed at the soulless creature.” This is fantastic! So funny and horrible, all at once. That final line – “Sorry about that. Where were we?” – this teacher is not going to lose her focus! Thank you for this, Glenda!
Oh, Glenda! As you know, I can certainly relate to this experience (although, what a trip to have a student, and so calmly too, point out the gift!). Your line “deposited the stiff” really tickles me! What a great–and accurate–opening line too! Your line break after the first line really builds drama and I couldn’t wait to dive in
Glenda — Your voice is just splendiferous here… you are such a force. Here you are with dead meat on the living room carpet, hounds and all their unabashed elegance offering up supper… and you with the “senatorial oration”… I was laughing out loud on a day that was NOT given to laughing out loud… dispatching with a snow shovel and right back to “perfecting persuasive appeals” — You are magnificent! John Lithgow comes to mind… this is priceless! LOLOLOLOL! Terrific poem! Thank you for this! Susie
Kim — Your poem crumbled me this morning… tears…big ol’ sad-eyed, dog-levin’ tears. The echo of the tail… it was a sort of trinity that I could feel and hear. Losing your buddy…I am so sorry that you had that deep loss, and i so completely feel it too. It hit hard with a blow that felt like Jason Reynold’s book… that story, his lines were so powerful. You gave us a challenge in today’s prompt to really dig in. This will bring us some strong pieces I feel sure. Thank you, Susie
Thank you for this lovely inspiration today. I love this book and was just thinking about it the other day.
The Way I Felt
By: Emily Yamasaki
when the music cued
time stilled for a moment
Never seen you nervous before
I leaned into your arm
the dark fabric
from your tuxedo
feels so different than
your normal striped polo
no crying
feeling like
I want to squeeze you blue
bury my face
in your chest
but even here
our father daughter
rules apply
no emotions worn
on sleeves
no matter
the burst
in mind
Emily, you beautifully stitch together a wedding scene through such careful detail to clothing. Furthermore, you focus not on the bride but on the father and the bride’s relationship to him.
I just love the line, “I want to squeeze you blue” and the way it relates just how you felt at that moment.
Emily, I have visions of the back of a wedding venue at the start of the aisle, you and your father arm in arm, with the chords commanding the guests to rise and that moment – – that very sacred moment – – that hearts stop and life changes in an instant. Oh, I love how you wanted to squeeze him blue and bury your face. What a moment! Thanks for sharing your precious memory with us!
Wow! I’m so happy you have a way to show your emotions in poetry. You are a strong woman Emily! I loved “feeling like I want to squeeze you blue” that’s such a perfect description of daughter’s love for father. I wonder how much he also wanted to squeeze you blue? Adorable.
The Way I Felt
when she squeezed me hard
with both arms wrapped around my waist,
tiny muscles shaking,
trying to snap me in half,
time stopped.
Only love and forever and fatherhood
made me feel
like a champion of the universe
floating over Mt. Olympus,
like the Man of the Year
holding the most coveted trophy of rubies and gold,
like holding the winning lottery ticket worth millions,
like the scent of strawberries and cotton candy,
lifting me up into the heavens.
Shaun — this is so heartfelt and beautiful. Those “tiny muscles” and “strawberries and cotton candy” just exude that little girl. It is such a precious thing for a dad to write about his little one. Put this in her favorite book and save it for her. She will treasure it at a time when the surprise of finding it will stop her in her tracks. Thank you, Susie
Shaun, what impressed me most about your poem is your use of similes. The description of your feelings descended from grandiose to commonplace, and in so doing, you reminded us that these feelings are not just for the divine, for the rich, for the lucky, but for you – a mortal who can be carried away by the scent of strawberries and cotton candy. (The cotton candy especially works for me, LOL). I just love those last two lines.
Shaun, it’s amazing what a “squeeze hug,” as we call them, can do for the spirit. You really capture the feelings so clearly with “Man of the Year,” “champion of the universe,” “holding the winning lottery ticket.” Our children have a way of making us feel those euphoric feelings of love, don’t they?
Shaun,
I love how your words made feel how you love being a father, especially the first two lines. I hope you read it to your daughter and save it forever.
Shaun—I just love this. The joy, the pride, the scent of strawberries, the champion of the universe… wow.
So precious! Nothing better! Love your description of how she makes you feel!
The way I felt
when I rolled him over
and changed his diaper
as he lay dying was unexpected.
This was my father.
I stood by his hospice bed
touched his face
and kissed his forehead
and said, “I Love you Daddy.”
I saw a tear escape his eye
and I held his hand
I cleaned his privates
Put salve on his bed sores
Feeling like
sandpaper scraping my heart
offering up smoothed edges
I wanted to see him
shoot a layup
drive the green
teach an algebra equation
just one more time
Because the way I felt
as he took his final labored breaths
was gratitude
Debbie, thank you so much for sharing your poem. The detail brings a vividly clear experience and I love how so many senses were brought to attention.
These lines – wow! Scraping at my heart for sure.
Debbie — Your intimate images with your father in his “final Labored breaths” just took me right to a parallel moment in my own history. Being there, you shared those last touches … it was so struck at the tenderness of your poem. The lines
really did it. Thank you for sharing such a touching poem. Susie
Debbie,
This poem moves me to tears. It reflects the deep love you have for your father, his teaching you algebra, his playing sports I know you also love. I just want to hug you and make this pain disappear. The poem reminds me of my own father and the way life requires children to parent their parents. Sending you love, my friend. Thank you.
—Glenda
Debbie,
Wow. Your words transported me back to when my mother was dying. Thank you for sharing this with us. “Just one more time,” I think is what all of us wish for when a loved one is dying.
Debbie—so beautiful. So full of love and pain. The contrast between who your father was and the father you were caring for…I get it, the gratitude. And I think you for sharing it with us.
The way I felt when you read my journal:
1. Betrayed. I always let you have your secrets.
2. Surveilled like a teenager whose mother had invaded her room or a prisoner in a panopticon.
3. Panicked because I wrote so many horrible things about you.
4. Angry. That was my burning trash heap, and you had no right.
5. Like you had ripped my tongue out and all of my words with it.
6. Jumpy and paranoid. Now I have to look over my shoulder.
7. Like you really knew how to put me in my place.
Deann, you do a great job portraying your sense of betrayal. I particularly liked your line “you had ripped my tongue out and all of my words with it.” very powerful.
Yeah, who hasn’t had this happen… Ugh. That last line hurts so bad to read and be left on – but then, that’s the point, isn’t it? Ouch. Yuck. Brilliantly captured. The listing works well here – a way to “contain” the emotionality of it. Whole worlds split open by such a violation, yet, the organized, defined, list. Nice.
Deanna, your descriptions of emotional upheaval with the violation of your journal being read reveal your feelings so succinctly. I like how you used a numbered list to show all the levels of emotion and feeling. This was such an effective technique for showing – not just telling, but showing.
Kim,
Your poem had so much emotion in such a concise form. The phrase “And I understood” made quite an impact as it not only portrays those moments of clear realization but also creates a real arc in the poem. I truly felt the movement of understanding and the sense of love and loss.
My poem today is inspired by a place I had planned/hoped to be right now. It’s truly my happy place.
The feeling of wholeness
put on as a down coat,
weighty
encapsulating
protective.
I forgot this setting can
help me transcend to Myself.
Has it been a year? Two?
I listened to
the low swell,
crescendo of the crush,
rushing retreat.
I turned, close-eyed, to the warmth.
I smelled the palpable calm and
remembered this
yearned for feeling
of presence.
Kale,
Your poem transports me to places where I’ve experienced solitude that renews and strengthens my soul. Love the “down coat” metaphor. Favorite lines:
“the low swell,
crescendo of the crush,
rushing retreat.”
I long for the ocean, especially the Oregon coast with its rocky shores and crashing waves. Beautiful poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Kale,
Your words put me in my own happy place I hope to be in soon. I noticed that you use your senses which makes me think that’s what made me feel what you feel. You made me think about possibly incorporating my senses in my writing. Thank you for sharing!
Kale, that feeling of protection, safety, comfort in the feeling of coziness is a place of great peace. I love the weightedness – like my weighted blanket. As I read it, I thought of all the gratefulness of being at home during a pandemic. Many may be getting tired of it, but I think about all the cruise ship crews that are still stranded on ships and unable to get to places of comfort. I think of how I feel when I get lost in a strange place and have to take deep breaths to keep from hitting panic mode. Your poem captures that great feeling of BEING – in place, in space, in mindfulness, in spirit. And that’s a beautiful place to be.
Sister is sslleeppiinngg .
Does this go into microwave?
Why all butter we have is salty?
Can I use the muffin pan?
Why It is still in powder from?
I did use the stick of butter.
The oven is waiting.
My Zzboy is baking cookies. 🙂
and The sister is still sleeping.
I can hear that slow, hushed sslleeppiinngg! And this is making me want to bake some cookies. Poetry that spurs readers to action is the best kind. I love that this captures that moment in time too.
Thank you. Sister did wake up when she breathed the just baked cookie flavors in air. Having the said cookies waved in front of did woke her fast 🙂
I love the imagery of this – I feel like I am in on a secret and that a small baking disaster is in the making 😉
Let’s see.
Salted butter? check
9 hours rather than 9 minutes baking time? Check
Realizing the error and correcting the time? Check.
Waking up sister with waving cookies in front of her? Check
yummy cookies backed in muffin molds? Check
Shared at lunch table with family & Devoured with milk? Double check
How I felt when I was asked to be driven home by the boy I had a mad crush on . . . . .
Jack
Everyone is teasing me,
my face sizzling and my body tingling,
“He is going to ask to drive you home!”
Not possible for God’s sake!
He is Captain of the Hockey Team,
Class President , a Senior, for God’s sake, and a HUNK,
And I’m . . . . . . . a nobody!
Pure thrill shoots through my veins.
I can hardly concentrate on the Young Life meeting
Is it even possible?
I only live two blocks away.
No, I caution myself, it’s not going to happen.
Then why are you holding your breath?
BREATHE for God’s sake!
Maybe — please, God, MAYBE.
This meeting is taking forever
And my stomach is so tight
it feels like I have a charley horse
. . . . . maybe
Everyone is leaving and my heart drops to the ground
with a painful THUD
Walking out with the gang,
we congregate out front for a moment,
saying our good-byes.
He’s in the car now . . . his Dad’s green Plymouth
Everyone, it seems, is piling in
Don’t cry . . . don’t cry now for God’s sake!!
Then it happens.
He leans across the seat with those gorgeous brown eyes, and,
from the Passenger window asks me,
“Do you want a ride home?”
Deer-in-the-headlights moment, stunned
I forgot how to inhale or exhale,
I can hear the blood pounding in my ears.
As casually as my emotional rollercoaster will allow I say,
“Sure”.
“Here, sit next to me”, he says warmly.
Breathe, Judi, dammit – just breathe!
One-by-one he dropped everyone else off,
and even though I only lived two blocks away,
I was the last.
Magic.
Judy,
You capture a young girl’s emotions sto well and speak the universal language of unsureness (is it even a word) of a young, gawky, high schoo girl.
Please tell us next chapter in the story.
Such a fabulous look into our teenage selves – I think we all have some version of this story. You capture the emotions and thoughts so well!
Judi,
This was a fun read for me, thank you for sharing! I could feel the excitement and the knots in my stomach for you, I even sat straight up and leaned closer to my computer because I got so into it. Thank you for sharing!
Terror in the Upper Pee*
Tumultuous terror is the I felt
when I learned
the post you wrote was not fiction but true.
Frights and fears flowed from madness to sadness
pulling me under like those currents pulled you.
Stupified sadness is what I felt
When I learned your kayak had capsized out of sight of viewing eyes.
Frustrated with social distancing your jaunt with a friend could have been the end.
The water was freezing that day. There was snow on the ground and few folks around.
Your friend in the kayak ahead looked back
She saw you’d not rounded the curve.
Right then kayaking was no longer fun; she had the sense to call nine-one-one
and thankfully help came to serve.
Jubilant joy is what I felt
Once the currents of fear and frustration had passed
You’re alive to the tell the story, replaying details so grim and gory
After wandering for two hours alone in the wood,
You learned the folks in the Upper Pee are helpful and good.
Tumultuous terror then jubilant joy are the ways that I felt
Envisioning your kayak flopping like a toy.
When the currents are strong, away from the throng,
God was with you all along.
You did not give up. You did not fold though exhausted and cold.
Your terror turned to joy! You did survive!
So now I write this poem of thanks. My daughter is alive!
*The Upper Pee is the Upper Penisula of Michigan where my daughter just moved to attend college at Northern Michigan University. She’s an experienced kayaker, but things were different that day.
Oh my goodness! I can feel your mother’s heart! “Your terror turned to joy” is such a powerful emotion.
Anna,
WOW! This is a harrowing experience. I love the tension you build in the first part of the poem and felt your fear. So glad your daughter found the helpers and is safe. Thank you.
—Glenda
Anna — You built a sense of dread that just cut a solid edge at “not rounded the curve.” Oh, gads, what a frightening experience. The sense of moving water carries the poem in a very real way…the sense of movement is here…both the scary parts of water…what you can’t see beneath the surface as well as the movement to another place with the current. Whew! And as so often, you have delighted us with the rhymes that move to bright notes toward the end (survive … alive). A poem of thanks indeed. Susie
Anna, I am so thankful for your daughter’s safety! Your poem definitely describes a mother’s heart of thankfulness for survival of a mishap. My brother and I kayak frequently when I go home to St. Simons Island, and as experienced kayakers, we are always grateful for a kayaking adventure that is smooth and enjoyable. We once got stuck out in the marsh when a storm was rolling in, and it was terrifying. I’m so glad your daughter got the help she needed – – and that Mom’s heart is okay now. I always love the way you use rhyme scheme. Enjoyed the alliteration – – jubilant joy, tumultuous terror. My blood pressure leveled off there at the end.
Kim, I’m so sorry for the loss of your dog. The repeated lines “tail thumped three times” were so powerful in their finality. There is no replacement for a loyal pet.
Also wanted to thank you for this form you picked. I actually used it to rewrite a scene in a verse novel I am writing.
My poem is fictional.
The Way I Felt
was empty
when you forgot I was still here,
when you forgot you had another daughter.
living, breathing, bleeding — I’m right here!
Why wasn’t I enough?
Alone. You left me with my
blurred sister memories
tugging at my heart,
memories that left me
choking back angry sobs,
in the night stillness.
Alone. You left me,
the entire house aglow,
waiting for you to wrap up work
waiting for you to fold me in your arms,
to tell me I still mattered,
but you never did.
Why wasn’t I enough?
Alone, you left me, night after night,
tangled in webs of nightmares
with no one home to hear my
midnight screams
Tammi, I read your poem before your introduction. I was so happy to go back and read the introduction afterwards. I am crying, thankfully not for you, but for this sweet character who doesn’t feel she can ever be enough outside of who she was with her sister.
The repetition of Alone is really powerful. This stanza really shows it.
The earthy “waiting for you to wrap up work” juxtaposed with the transcendent “waiting for you to fold me in your arms” is so beautiful.
I’m guessing this prompt has really improved this verse from your novel. Well done.
Oh my dearest Tammi, I can feel your pain and it touched me so deeply, which is what a great poet does. Your verse:
Alone. You left me,
the entire house aglow,
waiting for you to wrap up work
waiting for you to fold me in your arms,
to tell me I still mattered,
but you never did.
brought back such memories in my own childhood — I see “the entire house aglow” as your metaphor for your soul . . . beautifully written. Now, please pass the Kleenex!!
Judi
Tammi — This is a powerhouse of a poem. The sense of loss, the repeated questions just barrel right through the heart. The “night”-ness of it is so fitting…that sense of being left in the dark… “nightmares” and “night stillness” “night after night” and “midnight screams.” Oh man, this is just a wallop. You brought forth such a strong voice in those repeated questions… the repetition seems to hold a father accountable. This is a flood of feeling that I know had to be hard to re-imagine today. Thinking of you with a big hug as you bring something that is very real to a lot of young folks…. keep writing!. Susie
Tammi,
I’ve had so many students who have struggled with the abandonment of a parent and your poem makes their pain so raw. They do end up feeling like they are never enough. So sad.
I Will Not Shop in Victoria’s Secret
It was the evening before Valentine’s Day.
“Aaaiiiiiaaaiiiaaiiii!”
I screamed, “Stop that guy! Someone stop him!”
Clutching the flimsy dressing room curtain
to shield myself,
I stepped forward into the shop
to witness the man
in the grey pinstripe
three-piece suit
zig-zag through the
racks of silky panties, chemises, brassieres,
and disappear out the door into the mall,
while women poking through sizes
gazed up, stared
blankly at me
in paralysis,
or was it ennui?
“Do something … stop that guy …he just grabbed me!
Oh my god, stop that guy!”
As if in slow motion,
those women looked back at me,
frozen in place.
“Ma’am please calm down, stop yelling,”
a clerk admonished me.
“Stop yelling?!? That man in the suit just grabbed me!
The guy in the suit…the grey 3-piece suit… just grabbed me!”
“Stop. Please be quiet,” she mumbled at me
with her hand over her mouth,
“you’re upsetting our customers.”
Heart pounding, tears welling,
I yanked on my clothes, grabbed my purse
stared at the long, flowing white nightgown, my wedding night gown,
as a stilettoed saleswoman shuffled me and the gown to the counter.
“Calm down, you’re alright.”
“I’m not alright — that man grabbed me!”
I looked down at my breasts and my crotch,
held my purse over myself as if it made any difference,
hid my violated body parts,
arrested my voice to a mumbling,
“That man grabbed me.”
“You will have to calm down.
You are upsetting other customers.
That’ll be eighty-nine dollars.”
My mouth dropped open, I am sure.
What? Oh my god, I fumbled in my purse,
handed the long-haired, make-up-troweled,
plastic face my credit card,
and she shoved my nightgown
into the Victoria’s Secret labelled bag.
And I zombie-walked, darting looks
behind me,
in both directions down the long atrium-lit hallway
to the exit,
mute women staring at me
as if I were a giraffe
standing among the Lilliputians.
What did I loathe more:
the assaulter
or the women keeping Victoria’s secret.
by Susie Morice©
Oh, Susie! I’m not sure how to praise an event that angers me. But there is so much to appreciate here. That last stanza and the effective word play. The description of the “make-up-troweled plastic face,” the repetition of the “calm down” so as not to upset the customers, those last ending words of yours, the comparison of the giraffe among the LIlliputians, the grey suited man juxtaposed against the flimsy nightgown, the setting of this action, did I mention that ending? (E Jean Carroll kept coming to mind). I’m so sorry this happened.
Susie, what a poem. What a memory. I was absolutely riveted throughout and the ending packs a punch. When you kept up with the transaction in the midst of this double assault, I sense your poem taking on the incredulity of that scene and the anger and violation you felt:
The description of the cashier and that synecdoche of “plastic face” is priceless and for me a new favorite of your work. She shoved the nightgown into the bag. Of course she did.
A giraffe among Lilliputians is so strong to describe how conspicuous they made you feel.
The ending question is the icing on the cake. You have shared a difficult story with the hindsight that allowed a touch of sardonic humor. Brava!
Susie, how incredibly horrific! You have really brought to life the humiliation of the moment. The behavior of the customers and workers becomes the focal point and really build most of my anger towards them. I really like your play on the name of the store at the end of your poem.
I am so angry! You summed up my feeling perfectly at the end.
“What did I loathe more:
the assaulter
or the women keeping Victoria’s secret.”
Oof! Thank you for sharing this terrible moment in your writing. I felt as if I were standing right behind you as you described the scene of events. I wish I were, so I could back you up. Or chase down the guy. Or holler at the sales person.
This ripped at my guts . . . . . I was so angry — your final verse:
What did I loathe more:
the assaulter
or the women keeping Victoria’s secret.
this summed up your incredibly beautiful, rich poem.
Susie,
I have so many responses to this harrowing experience. What an ordeal! Why did you buy the gown when the women in the store failed to help you? That’s my first response. It’s rhetorical because I know this is often what women do: Keep Victoria’s Secret. Good for you for getting outraged and continuing to make your voice heard: “that man grabbed me.” Victoria’s Secret has a tainted culture and you take a good swipe at the business culture. The dialogue cuts and smacks against that culture. I echo Debbie’s comment about word play. Well done, friend. Thank you.
—Glenda
What a clever way to share this terrifying, frustrating and horrifying story! What a pervert that man is – I won’t say ‘was’ – and how sickening that women would respond ‘you have to calm down’…surreal, seriously. Love your play on words in the last line, so much!
Dang! This is brilliant. The constrictions between your acceptable behavior and his unacceptable behavior. Wow!
Kim, the three tail thumps is a powerful beginning and at the end, we too knew and understood what it was time for. It was a good mentor poem, along with Reynolds’ poem. I can see this format has lots of potential rememberings. I’ll revisit it. Thank you.
The Way I Felt
when my dad died
was befuddled.
My dad was
a hundred miles away
taking a shower.
My mom and the young ones
were at Grandma’s house
for the weekend.
My sister and I stood
under the window
listening to a conversation
we were not invited to.
Mom and Grandma sobbed.
“He was so young.”
My sister mouthed,
“Scotty?”
Mom and Grandma
drove away with her brother
Uncle Bruce and Aunt Lola.
We were left with
Aunt Lola’s sister.
“Aunt” Dorothy
would have to do
to break the news to us
and take us home.
Denise, it’s hard to travel with so many through these losses today. You bring another feeling to them – the befuddlement. These lines are especially impactful in their visual effect and the feeling evoked:
While chosen for truth and not purpose, the name Dorothy pulls thoughts forward of Oz and that other world you felt yourself. Hugs.
Denise,
The lines “Aunt Dorothy would have to do to break the news to us” got me thinking about how unfair news can be delivered to us because it adds to the moment that is already so heavy and heartbreaking, I’ve been there too often. We deserve…I don’t know how to word it, but it definitely doesn’t help us work through what we already are dealing with.
Denise– Holy cow, this is so real. The two sisters listening at the window (I’ve been there) and digesting the reality of what was happening. The distance in the poem is a powerful tool… it accentuates the disparate feelings of the loss… everyone is sort of in the wrong place and out of kilter. What a complex memory distilled here in so few words. “‘Aunt’ Dorothy/would have to do/” — oh man. What an emotional, sad time. Thank you for sharing something so personal. Susie
This is a sad and painful story; dare I say, I hear ‘ignorance’ in the way the adults in your life handled this very tragic death … leaving someone less connected, less familiar “to break the news to us/and take us home.” Children deserve so much more openness and honesty. I hear Fred Rogers – “If it is mentionable, it is manageable.” Wow. What a tough way to hear of your own father’s death. How beautiful and courageous that you could put your feelings into words. Thank you for this!
The Way I Felt
Losing you
Was worse than losing all the friends and family who died in the last year
And there were many
Never felt that before.
Never allowed myself to.
The way I felt reminded me why.
You haunted my dreams
You haunt my reality
You took over
My mind
My body
My spirit
My past
My today
My tomorrow
The way I feel won’t go away
The way you took over me will go away
Summer, Oh! the power of one important person is really evident in your words here. Adding the past, today, tomorrow definitely shows the full extent of the impact. But it’s your last two lines that speak strongest to me – it gives the power back to the speaker, allowing the other’s takeover to end.
Jennifer,
I originally had the last line in past tense too but then changed it with some hardcore backspacing. Thank you for sharing your thoughts!
Summer, thank you for sharing this powerful image of loss. It does, for a time, take over everything. You have expressed this in all the short lines–“My mind / My body / My spirit / My past / My today / My tomorrow” But as you say in the last line, you know you will get to the other side and not be completely consumed. I’m so sorry for your loss of this special person, as well as the too many others.
Denise,
Thank you for sharing your thoughts! I’ve learned to look forward from hearing from you here!
Summer — I enjoyed the structure of this poem. The brevity and repetition in these lines were powerful.
You took over/My mind/My body/My spirit/My past/My today/My tomorrow —
Tammi,
Thank you for sharing your thoughts!
Summer, this poem speaks so tragically and beautifully about this loss. “My past My today My tomorrow” is humming in my heart.
Emily,
Thank you for sharing your thoughts. You really have a way with words, when I read them, I feel them! 🙂
The way I felt
when I disappointed you
was not a first.
Felt it most days.
I stood in your television
screen that night
looking for forgiveness
feeling like
I wanted to
dig
six feet deep to
burrow my body to
cover my sin in
a quilt of earth, let worms
cleanse my shame
fertilize my guilt
so I could be reborn
with the virtue
you demanded.
Oh Sarah, I love the stanza leading into “fertilize my guilt”–what sensation this holds. The idea of “reborn with the virtue you demanded” holds power in me as a child and as a parent. Thank you for this poem today.
Ps-did I miss a tutorial about using the fancy quotes and bold words? I saw many are doing this in their comments. Please teach me!
It looks so smart, right? If you use the “b-quote” tab across the top of the respond section, it will create the quote graphic for you.
When you type your comment, you can use the “codes” above the comment box to indent or underline or do the “b-quote” or block quote. Just select what you want in the fancy quotes and click the b-quote. You can also select a line you want to indent and select the “ul”!
Sarah, there is so much that impacts here. The word burrow in lieu of bury against the image of six feet deep, a kind of sheltering and hibernating until things get better. I’m envisioning the child in between the parent and the glowing TV screen (and all the images that brings to mind from 70’s movies – Close Encounters, Poltergeist, etc. Those last lines are the lynch pin here – the reason for the feelings. Wow!
Oh, Sarah, what power in your words and images. The television a distraction to the forgiveness you sought. And the image of the quilt made of six feet of earth “to let worms / cleanse my shame / fertilize my guilt” is so telling that the absolution was always hard coming. The final image of wishing to be reborn with enough virtue to please is poignant. Thank you for sharing your heart today.
Sarah,
Wow! Love these lines “a quilt of earth, let worms/cleanse my shame/fertilize my guilt” – so visceral and poignant. The intensity of this poem is amazing.
Sarah, I love the way your images are both suffocating and comforting. What a hard balance to strike with a loved one, especially when one of you has disappointed the other.
These lines stopped me into a pause …
“I stood in your television
screen that night …”
So evocative and an anchor for the words before and after …
Kevin
Kim, I love the end of your poem and the poem’s narrative. You show what happened so well. Losing our beloved pets is so difficult. I love the movie A Dog’s Journey as it has the perfect end. I’m also a huge fan of Jason Reynold’s work and The Long Way Down is such a powerful text. My poem is just sheer grief. It helps to write these emotions out, and to cry buckets while I write.
The Worst Day
The way I felt
When you died
Was
Pulverized
Punched numb
A victim of Pompeii
A walking corpse
Rotting
Among the dead
That night
The sheriff wouldn’t tell us where
You chose your end
But the worst part was that
I never saw
You again
Not one more
Kiss
Not one more
Hug
Now
All I have is ashes
And photographs
And trophies
And mementos
And no
Grandchild to give
Your treasured past to
My grief is a banshee’s howl
Endlessly echoing in canyons
Deep
Reverberating silently in my head
I bite the bit hard
Searching
For what happened that day
Knowing no one tried to investigate
I constantly pray for answers
No one gives
My guilt is an abyss
Of broken records
Of wishing I should have
Could have
Would have
Magically
Saved you
Losing you
Feels like an
Endless inferno of
Blistering hot lava
Scorching my insides
Blinding my vision
Stumbling stupidly I try
To find
A way to live past
The day they told me
You were gone
If only you
Had said goodbye
Barb Edler
May 18, 2020
Barb,
I am so sorry for your loss. You bring us alongside you to grieve with the imagery here. Pompeii is an apt metaphor for a world destroyed by loss.
The final lines thought “if only you/had said goodbye” makes me wondering if the I and you merged at the end here.
Sarah
I feel the pain and am also crying buckets! Very powerful!
Barb, this is powerful and heart-wrenching. I am sorry for your loss and thank you for sharing your vulnerability with us through your words. I want to hug you and this poem. Thank you for sharing this today.
Barb, hugs to you. I’m so sorry this happened. I was brought to tears more than once while reading. These words really got to me:
Leaving us at the end with the words “if only…” makes that loss all the stronger.
Barb, our hearts go out to you this day that you chose to share this story. I’m so sorry for your loss, this precious life. We are crying with you today. I hope you feel some help in the buckets of tears you shed this morning. You are right–sheer grief and the images you evoked helped us feel it with you–pulverized, punched, victim of Pompei, the howls, the guilt, the blistering inferno. Oh, sweet sister, may you be comforted today and every day to continue to live past that day you were told.
Barb – I feel this pain, and it hurts to read your words. I’m so sorry for your loss. So many, many powerful, heart-wrenching lines here. The ones I felt the most: My grief is a banshee’s howl/Endlessly echoing in canyons/Deep.
Barb,
I’m so sorry for your loss. Your poem is devastating.
Barb – Oh my word, the sheer grief is so much more that the 57 lines of your poem. This scratches to the bones. Your words so tightly name the intensity: “blistering my insides” like the Pompeii incineration … the “scorching” and “pulverized” … these are so real in this grief. The lines that hammered me and sent me to tears were hearing the “banshee’s howl/endlessly echoing/in canyons” — the body that can not hold inside the grief lets it loose…you’ve let it loose here, and it is searing and loud. If cyber hugs can help, I am sending them now… they are barreling up the Avenue of the Saints from STL to IA. Thank you for sharing this piece of your heart. Susie
Barb, thank you for your courage and trust, to share this tragedy with us here. I am so reminded of the death many, many years ago of my husband’s brother, and how hard this was for all the siblings and ESPECIALLY his mother and father, always. I pray that you will one day soon not feel “endless inferno of/blistering hot lava/scorching my insides,” though I can’t imagine feeling any differently. Thank you for daring to put your pain into words.
Kim—you tore my heart out and stepped on it with that poem. I FELT the three thumps. Heartbreaking and beautiful. I’m not crying-you’re crying…
Kim, your poem invoked so many feelings in me today. Such is the power of poetry. I felt for you as soon as the dog’s tail thumped three times. I arrived home during high school to our dog who’d had a stroke and lay on the apron of the drive unable to move except for that thumping tail. It speaks a lot about dogs – they will respond to you no matter the circumstance.
My grandmother
took us
on archeological digs
just beyond
the ravine
at the front
of their woods.
We unearthed
pottery shards,
the blade of an axe,
rusted and dull,
a broken mason jar,
forgotten remnants
of an old farmhouse.
Discarded discoveries
that made me feel
fireflies sparking
against midnight
and dandelions
taking wing
over the Terabithian Bridge.
Jennifer,
The more specific, the more connected I feel because I am in that space alongside you. I love this:
I keep thinking about the poem inspirations you gave us a few months back with the aural and the texture. That has helped me get better as a writer, and I see the mastery here in yours.
Sarah
Jennifer, the first two stanzas are plainspoken, but then the third stanza comes in all its enchantment and reveals how these archeological digs made you feel. Magically transported to another world–“fireflies sparking against midnight”, “dandelions taking wing” and the “Terabithian Bridge”. So beautiful. It helped me go with you there today.
Love these beautiful images: “We unearthed/pottery shards,/the blade of an axe,/rusted and dull,/a broken mason jar…” I feel like I am with you one this dig.
Jennifer — Oh yes! The “Terabithian Bridge” — how perfect is that! I love the image of digging with your grandmother, unearthing stories in every one of those artifacts. She was genius to do that with you! I love the image of “fireflies sparking/against midnight” — in fact, in a song I wrote several years ago, I used almost the exact same phrasing (“she’s a firefight ‘against a midnight sky/ a twinkle sparking’ in your eye” … it’s a song I wrote about my friend’s daughter who is growing up out in WYO. Funny how images are so right! I totally love your poem and the joy of it. Thank you, Susie
When I shared The Bridge to Terabithia with my grandmother, she loved it as much as I did, and we renamed the small wooden bridge across their ravine the bridge to Terabithia. My grandfather carved the name into the first plank. She gave me that plank when the bridge was removed just before they sold the house. How fun that we creatively connected with the firefly!
How cool! Jennifer, your grandpa did that kind thing! So cool! Maybe we will both be fireflies out there somewhere someday! 🙂 Susie
Taking wing over the Terabithian Bridge—love this allusion. It’s takes your poem to a whole new level…
Jason Reynolds is a favorite of mine. I passed Long Way Down from student to student who devoured it, so much so that I can’t find it now. I worked with Jason on a panel for NCTE in 2016. He was a magnet to an overflowing room. His manner so genuine and giving.
Kim, your poem is all too familiar. I have seen the flick of the tail, the look in a dog’s eye when it’s time. You just know. They let you know, and it’s heartbreaking.
I am the mother of three daughters. Two of them have had babies, two boys, 17 months and 8 months. Such joy in my life.
The way I felt
when you showed me
the ultrasound.
Never knew love like this.
I held the tiny image
in the palm of my hand
cried
feeling a new world
opening. I planted.
I grew a fertile seed
now planted
in you.
Fingers, toes,
a nose!
Small person
coming to be
my grandchild.
Margaret, your poem is beautiful; the joy resonates throughout. I love the seed imagery, and your ending lines a re sheer perfection. What a great way to celebrate such a wonderful gift of life!
Margaret, this is a true celebration of the joy of a grandchild. I love the image of you holding the tiny image in your palm. The idea of the seed planted with the shift of space to “fingers, toes, a nose!” These words push that image of seed even further
Margaret, what joy (and even anticipation) I feel in reading your poem. I hope someday I will get to have this experience. I love this: “I held the tiny image / in the palm of my hand / cried / feeling a new world opening.” I like how you likened it to planting. The love for your two grandsons is explicit and rich. I’m happy for you.
These are my favorite lines also. We shouldn’t really take credit for these miracles, our own or once removed, but we can’t help it, can we?! <3
I love the joy and love exuding from this poem and the imagery of the fertile seed was beautiful. Enjoy those grandbabies!
Such details make the poem, Margaret … and then: “never knew love like this …”
Kevin
The first
flame of cancer
Melanoma
burned his
last breath
Marijuana
singed the
agony away
Melted
into the couch
in pain
Living
combusted
our eyes glowed
The fiery feeling I felt
confused, naive
still sears
These kinds of poems that lay bare private moments are the most visceral to read because they connect with the reader so personally. My brother-in-law died with cancer throughout his body. He was a smoker, and these “smoldering” images remind me so much of him. He spent many a day “melted into the couch in pain.” And almost set the house on fire a few times! These are the loving memories we keep – seared.
D. and Stefani — Both the beauty of the poem and the shared response about the brother-in-law… you two have really moved me this afternoon. These images are so real… “singed the agony away” … “seared” … I am so amazed at the bonds of poetry. Thank you both, Susie
Your word choice, “combusted, glowed, fiery, sears” are so sensual they burn as I read them. What a tragic experience!
Oh, Stefani, I am so sorry for your loss and for the “still sears.” This is so full of texture, just oozing heat in all its forms — I feel it, the “living combusted” and the singe and melt — like blood, like family that cannot be separated even in this pain.
Peace,
Sarah
Oh, Stefani, I love your poem I like the connection to flames here. The ending stanza is so powerful. I’m especially moved by the lines: “Living combusted our eyes glowed”. The burning pain is visceral.
Stefani — I am so sorry for your loss. Your vivid verbs, “burned, singed, melted, combusted, sears” were so heart wrenching. I feel the fiery pain in this poem.
The way I felt,
you felt,
opposite.
This had a name.
Shooting arcs of sharp pain,
had a name.
Peeling skin without a sunburn,
had a name.
Blood where there shouldn’t be blood,
had a name.
Confusion,
had a name.
This had a name.
You’ll have BRCA1 and BRCA2,
I knew.
You’re getting close to 60,
I knew.
You had Logan at 38,
I knew.
Experience,
has a name.
The way I felt,
this has a name,
what pill do I take?
The way you felt,
this has a progression,
how much time do we have?
A thing named,
breast cancer.
The repetition of “had a name” effectively builds the sense of foreboding. Breast cancer is a beast. If this was you, I hope you are in recovery. The scars of cancer never really go away. Your poem is profound.
Sarah,
This is so beautiful and haunting. The line breaks, the spacing really work to slow the reader and offer a call and response . The “you” and the “I” back and forth, naming and questioning.
Your poem will resonate with others today, and I am so sorry that this “thing” came to your family.
Peace,
Sarah
Sarah, the progression of your poem parallels the questions you share so well. I’ve lost three family members to cancer so I can totally relate to this agony, the questions, the desire to fight the often unbeatable disease. Thanks for sharing your poem today!
Sarah, thank you for sharing this poem. I appreciate the conversational tone you create–this adds power and mystique to your content. You movement of the way I felt and the way you felt is also a very creative use of drawing in your reader.
The way we felt
still feels now later
like unbridled
joy
from our perch
on the porch
as the pooch
zoomed by on
joy
with nary
a screen in sight,
or phone in use,
just pure abandon
in a moment of burst:
joy
Kevin, you had me at “pooch.” That clever little way of using the word “zoomed” and bringing it back to a far happier context than its COVID-19 context put a smile on my face. Perch, porch, pooch – A burst of joy! The dog, and the poem.
“Perch, pooch, porch” pop with joyful bursting sounds, like your image of the running dog. Fun to read!
Kevin,
I am a sucker for internal rhyme and lots of alliteration and assonance — vowels repeating make my heart sing. And how lovely to see the joy here. I suspect today’s poetry will be such a range of emotions. We write what we feel but what we need, and knowing we have an audience, we are also inviting connections and reflections. This poem made me smile and invited me to read aloud, hear the sounds of perch, porch, pooch!
Sarah
Kevin- It was a joy to read your poem! I can close my eyes and happily visualize “the pooch zoomed by on”j! Thanks for the smiles!
Kevin,
Thanks for the snapshots or shall I say Kalidoscope of moments that bring us joy. Our pooch alos loves to zoom by though at times, I wish he will calm down 🙂
Thanks you for your lovely poem on this gloomy day.
Best wishes.
Purviben