Today’s writing inspiration comes from Susie Morice, writer and editor. She is a consultant with Santa Fe Center for Transformational School Leadership and the Institute for School Partnership at Washington University in St. Louis. Susie is also a Teacher-Consultant with The Gateway Writing Project, a former public school classroom teacher for 30 years, and a poet, who is the winner of Member-at-Large Best Poem, 2014 – Missouri State Poetry Society contest.
Inspiration
Rituals/Traditional Moments. We generally all tend to certain rituals or routine acts that seem to have a sort of comforting rhythm, a familiarity. Often these involve traditional details and props that help smooth the edges of the moment. Our daily lives are full of universals: those “aha” types of “yes, that’s something I do, we all do,” those resonant acts that take us through a moment. It might be as simple as bathing in a tub – we swish the water from side to side, distributing the water temperature till it feels just right and we can lower ourselves entirely into the tub. It might be that moment at home plate as we screw our bodies into that stance and haul the bat up and in ready position for a swing as we connect our eyes to the ball in the pitcher’s hand. It might be the never-miss taking of your child’s hand at the curb as you set across the street. It might also be an almost ceremonial act, wherein you play an expected role in an expected environment, following the protocols passed down generation to generation. This prompt may find both the ritual that rings familiar yet also puts you uniquely in the middle, making this both typical or familiar as well as unique to you and your perspective.
Process
- List a few rituals/routines/traditional acts in your day, in your life –perhaps 3 or 4 – things in which you are an active participant.
- Find a listening ear and jabber with that person about 2 of those rituals/traditions. Let that person jabber about his or her rituals/routines that percolate up into the discourse. (I am a firm believer that discourse prior to writing is a powerful prewriting act.)
- Settle on one ritual/traditional moment that seems to take the lead in your heart and mind.
- Make a list of as many words and phrases that come to mind as you can, recounting all the “stuff” that is present during this moment – concrete things that help this moment take shape.
- In a separate list note the repeated comments that might surface.
- Add colors and sounds that are part of recreating that moment.
- Play with all your senses.
- Traditions typically matter most to those who came before us. Yet, as you step into the tradition, let yourself unwrap and become a part of the moment…or not! It may be that you grate against the ritual, finding agitation instead of comfort in a tradition laid before you.
- Have fun with this. Your poem might unearth a comforting scene. On the other hand, it may expose a tradition that needs to break its hold.
Mentor Poem by Susie
THE BUZZ
On cold afternoons when the grey muted
the line between earth and sky,
the line between January and February,
when being indoors, away from the snow, made sense,
Mrs. V’s dining room redressed itself:
sewing baskets,
scrubbed hands,
silken threads and scissors,
red pin cushions,
straight pins, needles, threaders,
thimbles on bony fingers,
soft batting and embroidery transfers,
the steady, halcyon buzz
of recipes, canning, chores, all-electric kitchens;
of french knots, double running stitches, bullion roses–
silken threads through cotton, Monet strokes of precision needles
carrying pastels through the cloth, looping in and out and over each other
till the gossamer ribboned itself into patterns of lilies and irises and curlicues.
At five years old,
anointed, initiated, given
a chair at the edge of the quilt–
a little girl in this women’s purlieu;
instructed to backstitch in pink,
I followed the faintly traced lines
and listened,
french-knotted
and measured.
I watched the spectacles propped on ends of noses,
handkerchiefs tucked into belts,
the squinting eyes,
the admiring fingers smoothing over the stitch rows.
In handmade printed dresses and crocheted cardigans,
elbow to elbow,
the women of Warren County stitched
with a sureness of hand
and a certainty of purpose,
and I felt the buzz
of the bee.
Your Turn
Scroll down to the comment section and write your poem. It need not be long nor follow the prompt. Just write whatever is in your heart or on your mind in any form it takes. Then (or before), respond to at least three other writers using any of the sentence-stems offered below. Check back throughout the day to read the response to your writing (and smile).
It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,
Those Saturdays in December.
Unable to sleep in,
No matter how tired I am.
It may be cold, but I am cozy and warm,
wrapped up in my robe and fuzzy slippers.
Sitting by the tree with just the Christmas Lights on,
Enjoying the darkness, the peace, the quiet.
This quite, peaceful time restores my soul.
How I enjoy the most wonderful time of the year.
Colleen – You captured a winter day in a big way! How comforting. Restorative indeed! Susie
A New Ritual
How are you feeling? it asks,
‘It’ being a bubble on my phone screen.
I open the app
And circle around Not Good, Okay, Good, Great.
Next, add Feelings.
I scroll through the words, trying to find the right ones for today
I’ve never thought of nurturing as Powerful,
Or alright as Peaceful,
Or creative as Joyful,
But that’s where they are found.
I add hungry and singing in Other,
Because as far as indicating my mood goes,
Those are clear identifiers.
Did I drink enough water today? Or grab breakfast as I ran out the door?
I count up my realistic hours of sleep, and ask
Does walking to and from classes count as Exercise?
Five minutes is all it takes,
To check in with myself and prepare
To take care of myself and my students,
Because we are plants with more complex emotions.
Eliza – I feel the harried sense of your life… on the run between classes, looking for a tally on “my realistic hours of sleep,” wanting to count the dash between classes “as Exercise,” and realizing that “we are plants with more complex emotions.” That just really rings true for teachers…on so many levels. I think the part that I like the best is the whole notion of finding an emoticon that captures the complexity of all those feelings — such a stop-and-pause kind of consideration. You paced this piece so well to bring forth those in congruencies. So glad I came back to this page to find your poem! Thank you! Susie
Last year a knock on the door
Woke me from an uneasy slumber
Believing you were coming home
I never dreamt I would find
Two officers at my door
Eventually informing me
You were never coming home
Now I wake to a numbing weight
Daily exercising my best to bury it deep
Reminding myself to love
To forgive; to live with purpose
To believe you’re in a better place
Carefully I straighten a homemade ornament
Cherishing it more than ever
Because at its center is
Your brilliant child’s face
Now the day begins with
Wearing a necklace with your fingerprint
Dreaming of hearing your musical voice
Singing, “Oh, Mama Mia.”
Imagining your warm embrace
Wishing I could have
Eradicated your demons
To have wrapped you so tightly with my love
That you would have never chosen to leave
Wow, Barb. Your poem brought tears to my eyes. The grief is so easy to relate to. The numbing weight and cherished ornament really spoke to me. I am so sorry for your loss.
Oh Barb, your details are so sharp: “Mama Mia” and the fingerprint necklace, the two officers at the door. I feel your poem on a deep and personal level. When a poet is able to make beauty out of pain, I am moved deeply. Thank you.
Barb — This is so heartbreaking. A loss that comes with the faces of officers at the door, is just incredible. In this poem, though you’ve “buried it deep,” your loss is so heavy (that “numbing weight”). I can feel the power of dreaming for another chance at “hearing your musical voice,” and it is just so hard to battle back those “demons.” You’ve shared a struggle that is very real and honest, and I appreciate how difficult that must be. Thank you, Susie
Short days, long nights
Bring new smells, old favorites
Burning leaves filter through the vents
Lonely, empty branches try to enter
By scratching the siding to join the snuggles
Short days, long nights
Bring new activities, old complaints
Puzzling on rotation, outbursts of
Checkmate, Uno, or Sorry
Fill our dark, depressed evenings
Short days, long nights
Bring new skills, old pains
Anxious hills taunt drivers
To slowly make it up, down, up, down
The slippery slides of slumbering snow
Short days, long nights
Bring new traditions, old holidays
Every age, every new year, the hope that
Habits, repetitions, rituals will be
a catalyst, continue, or combust
Stefani, I so appreciate the repetition that mimics the ritual theme for today. The first stanza is so beautifully written that I lingered in the lines for a bit: Lonely, empty branches try to enter.
Sarah
The burning leaves filtering through the vents really set the sensory stage for a great fall poem
Of empty branches and games and then the slumbering snow – it all bri ga us right into your moments. The repeating line is so effective and explains the depressed evenings.
Stefani, you make your poem so inviting. The smells and the branches scratching the siding are terrific. The activities you list bring me back to my youth. Is it ok that I kind of want to do a puzzle right now?
Stefani,
The repetition of “short days, long nights” is my favorite part of your poem. Wonderful details in the list of games and the seasonal change that also changes how your family spends those “short days, long nights.”
Stefani, I really appreciate the second stanza. “Short days, long nights / Bring new activities, old complaints / Puzzling on rotation, outbursts of / Checkmate, Uno, or Sorry”. It took me right back to moments where I had game nights with my family at home. Especially the sorry portion. I also like the anaphora of “Short days, long nights” and “bring new / old” and it’s a nice parallel. Overall a very beautiful poem. Thank you for sharing!
Stefani – Another dandy! The repetition works very well here, reminding me of the layers of life that come with winter. At first I’m smelling those leaves and loving those autumn acts outside. I raked leaves yesterday. Then, I’m chuckling with the board games and float back to my own indoor nights with my sibs. Sweet. The driving on the snowy road just gives me shivers, as I’m then sent to my own trek next week as I watch snow settle in on Missouri today. Eek! And that powerful last line “catalyst, continue, or combust” lays it out there. This interesting idea that the rituals, indeed, move us and yet not always in predictable ways. Neat! Thanks for sharing! Susie
My mother’s mother’s mother
woke on Christmas mornings
delighted to find an apple in her woolen stocking
and at the toe, a shiny penny: 1890
My mother’s mother
wiggled her arm deep into her stocking
to clasp walnuts, an apple
and at the toe, a shiny penny: 1915
My mother
emptied her Christmas stocking
on the braided rug next to the stove:
apples, nuts, and best of all, a candy cane.
At the toe, a shiny penny: 1940
My acrylic stocking was emblazoned with Santa’s face.
One year it held a plastic camel tethered to a steel marble
that when dangled over the edge of a table
caused the little camel to clatter his little camel joints
and totter along like a little wind-up toy.
At the toe of the stocking, always a shiny penny: 1965
My children’s stockings were stuffed
with chocolate oranges, lip gloss, LIndor truffles,
earrings, tiny motorized helicopters.
And because no one ever bothered to remove
the pennies from the toe, they accumulated.
One year a child pulled seven pennies from the toe of her stocking,
laughed, and left them on the floor: 1995.
Allison, I love the way you approached this prompt! The way you show the passage of time is just beautiful. And so true! We want to do so much for our kids, but it’s hard to know if we are doing the right things. I’m glad you appreciate the past!
Oh, Allison, what a treasure. I love how you cleverly used the dates on the pennies to contextualize the years and the traditional
Stocking gifts. You coined a beautiful poem!
Oh, Kim, you crafty girl you! “Coined a beautiful poem”! Sharp as a tack! I love that! Susie
Allison, the first line made me smile, and I love how you used that to frame your poem. The year at the end of each stanza resonated with me in that a number quantifies but fails to tell the story on it’s own. Your verse and rhythm bridge these years with so much meaning.
Allison.
I love the way each penny reinforces the tradition of filling a stocking w/ simple treats reminiscent of the year. I gave my children Christmas stockings well into their adult years, so this tradition—which my dysfunctional family did not practice—became my favorite part of holiday gift giving.
Oh, Allison – This really touches my heart. You set this poem up with such great craft. The repeated mothers — such a cadence that carries me right to those toes. To walk through those years connected me to you immediately and in such a warm and loving way. But the shifting in the tradition as the pennies and their meaning are different has an ache to it—left them on the floor—that changing act is a small tug but a tug none the less. You did this so masterfully, bringing the sweet simplicity forward and then digging deep into the sock to feel things shift. Brava! Good to see your poem here this morning! Sorry I’m late to respond…I had a birthday dinner last night. This ol’ girl turned a decade marker. Yikes! Hugs, Susie
This is beautiful! I wound down the years with you! Oh, how I wish I had thought of this tradition for my children!
Allison, I so enjoy the way you share how you have continued a family tradition. The dates at the end of the stanzas work so effectively to show not only the passage of time, but also what is valued. At the end, I feel a sense of loss and sadness even though the child is laughing.
Can I respond in poem form?
My mother’s mother gathered all gifts
Meant for Christmas
On the Saturday after Thanksgiving.
It was a ritual of sorts.
First my father would unlatch the trunk of the car
Whereupon my mother would meticulously sort through the
Festively-wrapped packages
She paused, as if to consider their worthiness
Then piled them into our upraised arms
To carefully stack under
The just-decked tree.
An hour later,
My mother’s sister’s family
Followed the same ritual.
Meticulous
Pausing
Commitment.
One year, in the early throes of
Alzheimer’s
My mother’s mother unwrapped her gifts
Perfunctorily
And set them aside.
She told me, as she handed me a wrapped package,
‘You’ll like this one.’
The tag read, Aunt Jean.
My mother’s mother
Faced with the anxiety of secrets
In festively wrapped packages
Meticulously unwrapped each one
Paused to consider
Then made a commitment of secrecy
As she wrapped them back up
Stowed them neatly under the tree
And awaited our joy
On Christmas Eve.
Oh Nancy! Your response is a GIFT. I am touched that my poem sparked this from you because what you’ve done here is so good. You have layered slices of tradition with the confusion of Alzheimer’s, and secrecy, and commitment. I loved this.
Allison —
I love your poem. I love the progression from mother’s mother’s mother to your children and your inclusion of the years with colons to carry us from then and through the years. Thank you for sharing this.
Mornings on the Funny Farm with Boo Radley
Lick the corner of Mom’s right eye to wake her up.
Paw her hair when she mumbles,“Good morning, Boo Radley,”
It’s time to go out!
Jump down off the bed,
Shake, and click toenails all the way to the front door.
Turn 20 circles while she walks across the living room.
Wait for brother Fitz to pee on the gardenia bush. Sniff around.
Pee on top of his pee to be the Funny Farm Territory King.
Run inside and beg Mom for a cheese bite.
Watch while she packs sandwiches.
She drops pieces of ham every time.
Run to the bathroom when Dad’s shower water goes off: time for blue jeans pants leg tug of war.
Lick my chops so he’ll fill my people cup with fresh water.
Drink it down so Fitz doesn’t get as much.
Dig the red ball out of my toybox and growl at Mom.
Run from her when she tries to take it.
Wait around the corner
with my front legs guarding the ball on the floor, my white wagging tail straight up in the air.
Growl again and wait for her to move a muscle. Take ball, run, and jump on the bed.
Listen for the crinkly cracker wrapper.
Run to the kitchen for breakfast with Dad: graham crackers and yogurt.
Try to get more than Fitz.
Every. Single. Day.
Peek around the corner for a wet towel or stray sock to steal.
Rummage through Mom’s closet and chew tissues or receipts from totes.
Blame it all on Fitz.
Listen for keys.
They’re leaving for work!
Dentastix time.
Push Fitz off couch to be first in line.
Listen to the “You Boys Behave Today!”
sermon.
Every. Single. Day.
“No pooping on the floor.
Guard the house.
No barking at the deer and squirrels.
No chewing shoes.
We’ll check in on the camera at lunch and say hello.
You boys behave.”
Watch the cars go down the driveway.
Look for a good place to poop on the floor so I can blame it on Fitz.
Dig to China in Dad’s favorite chair, turn 20 circles, and repeat.
Take a nap.
Bark at squirrels and deer.
Chew Dad’s slippers.
Leave them by Fitz’s bed.
Howl LOUDLY at the camera when they say hello
because
I love them more than Fitz does.
Sit by the window and be a better watchdog than Fitz.
Reflect on all the ways I take care of these two people I rescued…..
OMG, Kim! You really make me wish I had written my poem about how Freeway, my Lowchen, wakes me up every day! Instead I went with the calm part of my morning. Your poem makes me think of the calm before the storm of my mornings. Dogs- we love them, they love us, but it can get a little crazy. Your poem made me laugh and smile all the way through it!
Kim, a joy to read this vibrant, lively account of your rescues. That every line began with movement revealed helped me sit alongside you as you observed these two. Clever. Pure joy.
Kim,
LOL! I think our dogs are from the same litters! “Dig to China in dad’s favorite chair.” Check! “Run around in circles twenty times.” Check! The list goes on and on. We make special trips to Costco for the dogs’ ham and Dentastix. Love Boo Radley’s point of view, too. Love every detail of your poem. As one dog mom to another: I’m glad we’ve been rescued.
I love how we get a sense of the kind of personality that Boo has just by reading his daily routine! Especially love the kind of sibling rivalry he has with Fitz and how that carries throughout the piece.
Oh, Kim! Love it and love Boo. You mentioned him in another poem awhile back, so it was fun to walk in his 4 shoes, so to speak. Boo is a younger or more spry version of my old Watty Boy. But the rituals are so similar. I start every single day with that face to face connection and the walk to the door. I loved taking this stroll through your doggy day…I just began mine a couple minutes ago and all this resonates so perfectly! The playfulness and the love are swelled up in your poem, and I’m loving that. Thank you for a terrific launch to my day here with Watty. Susie
It seems kind of silly when I think about it
but, it’s MY ritual, and I like it.
In fact, I may need it.
I get up with the dogs long before the sun peeks above the horizon.
They wander the yard for a few minutes regardless of the weather
checking to see who has visited us during the night.
I put on my tea water and fill a bowl with yogurt or cereal,
whatever is around. It really isn’t that important.
The dogs race through the door as they hear me prepare their food.
They eat.
I eat.
My tea steeps.
I can almost smell the caffeine in the Constant Comment.
I grab a few chocolate wafer cookies- my treat for the day.
I sit on the couch while they fight to sit on my lap,
my feet on the coffee table and a blanket protecting us from these frigid midwestern mornings.
I open the iPad and peruse the news
trying to wrap my head around the insanity that is our world.
This is how I steel myself for the day-
a few quiet moments
warming my insides and clearing my head
before the insanity of being a middle school teacher changes everything.
Mo, I too like quiet mornings to myself. I appreciate the calm routine of your poem before considering the chaos that a middle school classroom might bring every day. Enjoy your Monday morning routine tomorrow.
Mo, I ALMOST wrote about making my morning coffee and finding my way to MY chair. Our details are different but the experience (and need) is the same. I cherish my pre-sunrise time to center myself, steel myself for the day. Thank you for holding up a mirror for me.
Alison and MO – I’m enjoying that several of us are predawners. It remains my favorite time of day. Susie
Mo, it’s amazing how much similarity our poems share – the dogs, the mornings, the yogurt. And we both have our day changed with the chaos of school. I think we could be sisters.
I love your steep/tea…peruse/news.
I wish my own dogs would go out regardless of weather – mine think the rain will kill them. Give me some pointers on this and how to have a more peaceful morning! Love, love your poem and need a Freeway in my life!
Ha! I don’t usually read other’s poems until I’ve written mine, but I also live the similarities I see. FYI I have three dogs and one is a bit of a diva who doesn’t like to go out when the ground is wet. I find I have to get up earlier and earlier for my moment of zen! We’ve had Freeway for almost a year. He’s a nutball, but we love him!
Mo, I so appreciate this glimpse into your life. Thank you for welcoming us into this sliver of your life as you “steel” yourself for the day. That word resonated with me and I kept, keep thinking about steel and steal. The armor to prepare us for the day and the need to steal time, space for our self.
Mo,
Your morning is so similar to my own. Time constraints today precluded my adding a stanza about the dogs! And “a few quiet moments / warming my insides and clearing my head” speak perfectly to “how I steel myself for the day—.” I feel connected to you via your poem.
Oh boy, MO, I hear ya! That ritual of claiming some calm before the storm of middle school is so real. I had some very similar ritual acts when I was in the throes of my 30 years in the classroom…we do as you suggest “need” those repeated acts. They take a modicum of insanity out of our worlds. I really enjoyed the tea smell and the dog checking the smells in the predawn yard. And the blanket in the cold to face the news. So rich. I totally was there with you! Thanks, it was a lovely visit! Susie
Mo —
I love how your poem reads so naturally. And I feel like I am right there spending a moment of your morning with you and your dogs. Something about short lines always get me “They eat. / I eat. / My tea steeps.” I love it.
Susie, I love your poem. It reminds me of the novel “How to Make an American Quilt.” My favorite part is the personification of the dining room and and “when” clauses that open the poem and set the weather conditions ideal for quilting. As always, beautiful.
“November Awakening“
It begins with a purr and
The jingle of a bell as
Hero scurries across carpet,
Commences her morning kitty rituals:
Paw licking, chest jumping, prowling
Along night stands and dressers before landing.
or
It starts with a rush of air
Escaping my love’s bipap as
He rolls onto his back and stretches a
Protective hand toward me,
Checking to see if I’m awake,
Careful not to disturb my slumber.
or
Some silence whispers to Me,
Nudges me from Mr. Sandman’s dreamy
Sleep, reminds me to peek
Past stiff muscles, monotonous routines to
Await fall’s crisp wonders and
Greet sun and shadow on this new day.
—Glenda Funk
Glenda,
My friend, so good to see you again in verse! Thank you for sharing Hero and the bipap with us today. Such a glorious and yet ordinary awakening that, in its rhythm and music and routine, is nothing short of extraordinary. “Sleep, reminds me to peek/Past stiff muscles, monotonous routines to/Await fall’s crisp wonders..” Lovely!
Sarah
Glenda, what vivid images! Fall is a magical time for me, perhaps because sleep seems restorative at that time of year. I love the way you make the mundane seem wonderful.
Glenda,
I like the multiple versions of “tradition” and that comfort of variation, yet repetition. I appreciate your lines, “Checking to see…slumber” considering those small touches as a tradition of love and respect.
Oh, Glenda, I GRINNED to picture bipap-man reaching his hand over to see if you’re awake! Mo wrote about morning too, and I almost did. It seems that mornings are the most hopeful time to revel in routine–before the unknowns of the day come a’knockin’. I like how you connected the various ways your day may start with the similarity threaded through your November awakenings. Thank you for a lovely poem!
This: “ He rolls onto his back and stretches a
Protective hand toward me,
Checking to see if I’m awake,
Careful not to disturb my slumber.”
That’s the part that is so real – the hand that seeks the love of his life to know she’s there yet not wanting to wake her if she’s sleeping. I adore this!
Glenda – it was fun to be greeted by your kitty … I had cats and dogs all my life, but I haven’t had a kitty in quite awhile. So this took me back. And I love those cats paws ?! It was so sweet those connecting sounds and gentle touches between you and your hubby I miss that I particularly like the lift of the last stanza as you “peek past” those achy parts and invite the new day. A true loveliness here Thanks for this peek! Susie
New/Old Rituall
Pick up a pen
Find paper, notebook, journal.
What are the rules? Are there any?
Write.
Feelings, concerns, wants, needs
How much? When?
Uncomfortable. This is silly.
Keep trying, scribbling down my thoughts.
Reflection. This paper is not a mirror.
Or is it?
Continue – practice.
Ease is coming.
I begin to see why.
Relax, this is for you and only you.
My journal my release from the world.
Tricia! I so appreciate your use of questions here. You invite us into your uncertainty, maybe doubt. It is so difficult to trust what feels so abstract in the process. By your journal reveals at once the possibility and evidence of progress! “Ease is coming!” Love that.
Tricia,
This is the thing that makes writing such a bugaboo, isn’t it! There are no rules. Your poem captures the fits and starts of writing. I feel the frustration!
“Pick up a pen”–what a great way to start. I so often tell my students (a la William Stafford), we don’t go to the page because we HAVE something to say; we go to discover what it is we have to say. Picking up that pen when we don’t feel compelled to (which is usually), is such an act of bravery and trusting of the process. “Ease is coming, I begin to see why” is lovely. I loved this poem.
Oh, Tricia – This is the ritual, this journaling, that is such a calling. You are so capturing the various questions that come with the act. My favorite…is it a mirror. That you ritualistically log those thoughts is priceless. They become seeds of possibility and a powerhouse to moments down the road, reminding you that you are living a remarkable life. They will be your story one day, carrying the rhythms and pattern of your heart. That is such valuable time spent. It might not feel like that on a given day, a mere dandelion plucked and in your hand, but when you back away a bit, you see the field of beautiful yellow, and it is so much more. This poem moved me. Thank you. Susie
Tricia —
I love how short and sweet this poem is. I tend to say too much; I think you say the perfect amount here. And so concisely. It is also very honest and I think that if students really know that their journals are for them and can be a release, they will look at them very differently.
My Nana’s Kitchen
Jam packed
10 x 10
Painted in holiday memories
Turkey
“Help me pull the bag of guts out.”
Stuffing
“We have to burn the toast first.”
Rice Dressing
“Use the grinder for the onions and peppers.”
Candied Yams
“Have you seen my marshmallows?”
Ham
“Stick the cloves in.”
Green beans
“You need to eat your vegetables.”
Mustard Greens
“Everyone loves my greens except you.”
Mincemeat pie
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
Icebox cookies
“Stir the batter the right way!”
Fudge
“It has to melt all the way down.”
And her fizzy foamy fruit punch
Mixed with rainbow sherbet
Pineapple juice
And 7-up
In her antique punch bowl
“You better not break my cups.”
My Nana’s kitchen
Steeped in
Love
Family
Recipes
Life
Where I wondered
if her cigarette ashes
ever fell into the greens
and the pie
Or if the food stuck to her dress
was from last year
or from when my mommie was little
Where I couldn’t question her
because it was not appropriate
I had to trust her
because she was my Nana
Stacey,
I just love how you introduce us to Nana and bring her voice and rhythm to this verse. The echo of action to dialogue is so beautiful, and that she is talking to YOU is even more beautiful. The ending with the description shifts the perspective from inside to outside as we hear your insight, lessons learned, details of your relationship as you “trust” and see “food stuck to her dress..from last year.” Love this.
Stacey,
The dialogue is wonderful. I can hear the kitchen voices and clattering of pans and utensils as I read. I’m also reminded of my grandmother, who fought w/ aunts about how high to turn up the stove, and my step-grandmother, who always had a cigarette dangling out her mouth as she cooked. I learned so much from both. ❤️
When I see “Stacey Joy” I know I will get a wallop of a poem. You did not disappoint. Your turn at the end invited us into the mind of the little girl hearing all of the directives. And when that little girl (so honestly!) wonders about the cigarette ashes and food stains on the apron, I want to swoop in and hug you and Nana both. Lovely.
Stacey – You did it again! Plopped me right down in Nsna’s kitchen and had me laughing at those admonition and mantras. I could just hear her! So funny and so lovingly connected. Several things really work: the couplets give the energy of that kitchen real punch. Good choice. The punch just made me laugh out loud — we’ve all had that punch— but I could see her shake a finger…better not break my cups! Ha! The cigarette ashes and food stuck are just priceless bits as a kid observed a powerful elder. I just LOVED this. You bring us right into your heart and life with these images! Super. Thanks, Susie
I’m awake.
Again.
For the fifth night in a row I can’t sleep.
My husband is already breathing heavily beside me,
his rhythmic breaths, the occasional creak as the house settles into its own slumber,
and the slow passing of a late night driver
the only sounds.
Most nights I reach for my phone—
a bad habit.
The white light chases away any sleepiness left
in my eyes.
Other nights I am stubborn,
and I lay on my back,
trying to empty my mind.
That’s when the intrusive thoughts creep in
like the crisp image of an ax swinging between my eyes
No, my mind can’t be trusted to be kept empty
So I have to fill it.
I make my nightly journey through a lush forest
created by my mind.
A brook babbles and chittering birds chirp
as I slowly work my way
to an unknowable destination.
And it is only then
that my mind
can freely drift
to sleep.
Emily I can so relate to your poem! The line where you say your mind can’t be trusted to be empty , is so powerful!
Emily,
I feel every aching, waking moment of your insomnia. I, too, have the bad habit of reaching for my phone. The image of the house settling into its slumber is my favorite part of the poem and a reminder that I often feel as though I’m the only one getting no shuteye! Well done.
Oh, Emily, I love the line “make my nightly journey through a lush forest”! I have to create a path for myself when my mind will not land and let me sleep. The journey to anything seems to trick my brain into some purpose. Thank you for sharing this, and I can also relate to the husband breathing away — sometimes it sounds like a dissonant symphony mocking me.
Emily,
Thank you for sharing this discomfort with us. I kept rereading the line “…ax swinging between my eyes” and interpreting it differently. Sweet dreams tonight.
Yes, Emily! I love the line that the mind can’t be trusted to be empty! You nailed the problem of sleepless nights we experience so often!
Emily – You captures way too many of my own night’s struggling against the demons that keep a mind roused. I particularly like the way you juxtaposed the steady sleeper right next to you…that contrast really heightens the difficulty with being way too awake. Very effective! The line “my mind can’t be trusted” is a homer in line as you battle back. I so appreciate that we have a connection here through the notion of battling for sleep. I’m loving that you find it through “a journey,” suggesting it is there and we just need to step onto that path. Thank you for this! Susie
Susie, this is divine and wholesome – a great way to introduce a spirit of thankfulness and tradition this month. I enjoyed the some sort feel of your poem – the eyes looking through lenses, the hands feeling the stitches. I also adore that you were that five year old who became woven into the fabric of strong tradition at an early age!
Sensory feel – not some sort of feel. Internet is out at the farmhouse – and the phone has a mind of its own.
Kim — 🙂 Thanks! I’m anxious to sit down now and read what has emerged on today’s prompt! Susie
This is so funny! When I read “some sort of feel” I thought “Wow, that’s an interesting way to say it”!
she said she’d start praying for me again like she used to when i was little
we live three thousand forty five miles away from each other
and i live my day four hours ahead of the day she lives
we talk on the phone every day
she said she’d start talking to God about me again
i need her to
we talk about
what we’ve done
and what we’ve said
and what we’ve read
and what we’re working for
we talk as she climbs the same mountain every day
in the morning before the sun heats her back
or in the afternoon before the sun sinks back into the night
we talk about
my dad
and my future children’s dad
and my future children
and their names
and their eye color
and their head shape
we talk about
my brother
and my other brother
and my sister
and the dog my brother named oreo,
the dog we lost last year
we talk about
my good friends
and her good friends
and the way they carry us through life
we talk about
how i need to be better about eating dinner
and lunch
and breakfast
we talk
and as we talk she looks up granola bars and protein shakes online and orders them to be delivered to my house the next day
we talk about
the heavy rains
and the snow falls
and the sunny perfect days
we talk when i’m in the bath tub
or driving home from work
or walking around school
or when i should be studying
we talk about
my brother’s bloody, stitched up eye after a big basketball game
and my nephew’s little teeth coming in
and my sister’s boyfriend’s change of heart
we talk about
what we should have done
and what we could have done
and what we didn’t do because it wasn’t right
we talk about
the small town that we grew up in
and that i’ll return to live in one day
and the new house being built down the road
and the old lady that lives by the mango tree that we love that is still alive and still old
we talk about
the hard things
and the happy things
and the things that are happy and that are hard and that matter
she said she’d start praying for me again like she used to when i was little
she said she’d start talking to God about me again
i need her to
Kekai! Thank you for this introduction to your family in this sweet refrain “she said she’d start talking to God about me again.” The anaphora repetition at the start of the lines “and what” adds a beautiful rhythm, melancholy in tone for me. While it is in present, it feels past. You have me wondering. I look forward to your next poem.
Kekai, I am literally sobbing. I’m not sure if I am hormonal or feeling the feelings deeper than I should, or if your poem is a message from God to me personally.
I could elaborate but it would be against the point of a comment box.
I will say I love that she will pray for you again like she used to when you were little because we all need someone to continue to pray for us. I will say that I wish she could pray for me too.
I’m still sobbing. Thank you.
Kekai — What a litany of connection this is. The repetitions bring home the ritual, almost like a mantra, of who you two are together…tethered here by a phone line and a shared history. I like that so much. In my closest folks we talk about this as a sense of sista… a connectedness that picks up even after long lapses and is perfectly in synch. You’ve captured a deep love here, and it makes me feel so warm and good about both you and “she.” Some lines made me smile, and some made me well up: oreo…funny name and I just love that; sun sinks back into the night — sweet image; talking to God about me again/I need her to — yeah, I really get that sensation. We need all the help we can get. Thank you for sharing such an intimate conversation. Neat poem! Susie
Kekai,
This is a wonderful poem. I hope you share it w/ your mom because it honors her and will be a beautiful gift. I love the repetition of “we talk about” and the way you frame the things you discuss w/ a promise of prayer.
Are you a student or instructor at BYU? I have many former students whom I adore studying at BYU.
Hi Glenda, I am a student at BYU. I will be student teaching next semester and graduate in April. Are any of your former students in the English major? Much love.
Kelli, this is positively beautiful! What an image of your conversations – and her prayers for you!
Kekai, I seriously love your poem. Your references to having (your mother?) praying to God and you needing this is so very powerful and makes me see that life is never easy. What I love the most is the rhythm of your poem, and all the ways you catalog your conversational topics and when you speak. Overall, the poem is so thought-provoking and shares the familial ties that keep one going and returning to what we love and know best in life. Kudos!
Macaroni Salad
I am twelve years old,
Sitting in the kitchen during a summer afternoon
My dad
Home for the weekend
Cooking macaroni salad
Water bubbling in the pot
Blub blub blub blub blub.
Steam is rising and
I momentarily push my face into it,
Feeling the heat waft up and wrap itself
Around my face
My ears
My cheeks and eyes
Feeling the vapor
And the warmth.
He’d give me a plate – we didn’t have a cutting board
Just old plastic McDonald’s plates
From my Aunt
Carrying deep incisions from the summers of macaroni salad
Vegetables lined up like soldiers
Green olives,
Celery,
Onions,
Green Peppers,
sometimes Cucumber
It’s three degrees hotter as my dad opens the kitchen window
And you can hear the sound
Of celery
As it is cut on the plate
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Kindra, I love his visit to your childhood and how you’ve introduced us to your dad. It is so sensory, yes, and vivid, indeed. The deep incisions resonate with me as a sign of well-used dinnerware. I know this and get it. Love how the ritual is in the making not the eating. You beside your dad.
Kindra — Mmm–what a bonanza for my senses…that steam on the face… oh yeah, that is so real. The onomatopoeia in whacking up those veggies and the “blub” of the boiling noodles brings me right in your kitchen. I’m getting hungry just sitting here. You’ve crafted this with a keen sense of taking me to the heat and the sounds and the comfort of having your dad do this act of delight and love….cooking up a favorite. Watching members of my family cook is an act that resonates deeply with me. There is so much love around the kitchen when that preparation is so known and full of ease. I really like this a bunch. Thanks! Susie
Kinda, what a beautiful image – vegetables lined up like soldiers! Love this making of macaroni salad!
Kindra, I was drawn to this title because macaroni salad is MY signature dish! And indeed, I throw in whatever I have (“sometimes cucumbers”). Your poem does everything I want a poem to do. I feel that vapor on my face. I hear the blubbering macaroni water. I become the child in the home that used a McDonald’s plate in place of a cutting board. I see Dad open the window. Cutting celery (thwack, thwack) is a heartbeat. Thank you for this lovely poem.
…the buzz /of the bee….stunning last words to a gorgeous, detail rich poem. As the daughter of a sewer this got to me emotionally. There is a lot of ritual for some sewers. This is delightful. Thank you.
Thank you, Linda! I appreciate that this connected for you! Susie
Susie, I am excited about our new challenge! I love your poem.
When it began I saw a birthday party or a celebration simply because I decided that line between January and February would be that event.
Then it magically became…
“Mrs. V’s dining room redressed itself:
sewing baskets,
scrubbed hands,
silken threads and scissors”
And I was transported to my own grandmother’s table. She was a seamstress and the red pin cushion holds memories and traditions in itself.
I love how you painted the picture and captured the feelings, sounds, and beauty of quilting.
This is precious and lovely in so many ways.
All rise and sing.
Please be seated.
I wonder if the early ceremony
of my life
ordered my words and
commanded my movement
so that I will never know
which rituals are mine
and which were given.
Is the way I wash my face
from the assembly-line training
with my siblings?
Is the way I open and close doors
from my fear of waking my
exhausted mother?
Is the way I close-cough when sick
from shame ’cause “we don’t
have time for colds”?
Is the way I say “no” so quickly
when offered help from
never knowing the ceremony
of trust?
And now I wonder how to
dismantle ritual
craft ceremony
and from what those
words and movements
will emerge.
Sarah, wow!
“ordered my words and
commanded my movement”
pulls me into a sadness from my childhood. Those feelings of a child in constant control. I’m left pondering, trying to move forward but feeling stuck and forced to be quiet.
Then:
“Is the way I open and close doors
from my fear of waking my
exhausted mother?”
And I’m recalling even today how quietly I do the same.
This poem mirrors much of my entire existence. What do I do now? I will begin to dismantle ritual and search for more trust.
Lovvvvve this!
OOOoo, Sarah — I really hear these questions rattling with introspection. That you’ve detailed these with so few words and given them so much reality and life is wonderful. I felt that “ceremony of trust” in particular, as it isn’t easy to come by sometimes. The use of repetition carries weight with this topic — excellent choice! I’m pausing now to consider my own rituals and am wondering “which …are mine and which were given” — great line! To “dismantle ritual” is a powerhouse of an act. You always manage to go deep with such elegant phrasings. The voice of the first two lines is so utterly clear… and sets a stage for the depth of your questions. I really like this! Thank you for another glimpse into Sarah. Susie
I think the heart of your poem is found in the last stanza when you say “now I wonder how to / dismantle ritual” and I thought that was an extremely powerful line. I think oftentimes we wonder how to dismantle rituals we don’t agree with or we stand rigid against. This can be in our own lives or in the general landscape of the world.
Beautiful poem.
Sarah,
I embrace this critique and questioning of ritual w/ every fiber of my being. The questions you pose are sharp and make me wonder about my own rituals and habits. Love this opening:
“I wonder if the early ceremony
of my life
ordered my words and
commanded my movement
so that I will never know
which rituals are mine
and which were given.“
Oh, those questions about the origins of our quirks and rituals! Now you have me wondering how many Is the way I…..questions I could ask about my own ways of doing things. I know one thing, though. The way I buckle up every time I drive anywhere is definitely from fear that It wouldn’t take a wreck to send me to the hospital if my mother saw me driving without a seatbelt. I love your way – of pondering, of questioning, of writing!
I love the question lurking behind “which rituals are mine / and which were given.”
So many of the things I do are unconscious habits that developed from my surroundings and OCD-tendencies about how things should be done. The punch-code lock on the front door of my parents’ house has a very specific rhythm that must be followed as you pull the handle toward you, or else the lock will not turn.
My sister and I are very close and often have the same reactions or habits that are pointed out whenever we are together with friends. It’s these little things that make me laugh and roll my eyes as I think of how I would explain them to an outsider. Deciding who to trust with these silly little rituals, and how to trust that I can make ones of my own.