Our #OpenWrite Host
Susan Ahlbrand had been teaching 8th grade English/language arts for 32 years in the small southern Indiana town of Jasper. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, writing, listening to music, and spending time with her husband and four kids.
Inspiration
As a writer and a reader, I have always been drawn to patterns of three and effective repetition. So, when I ran across the tritina in the game-changing Nancie Atwell teaching resource Naming the World: A Year of Poems and Lessons, I became instantly intrigued since it incorporates both.
The tritina is composed of 3 tercets and a final line that stands alone.
The pattern of word-repetition is as follows, where the words that end the lines of the first tercet are represented by the numbers “1 2 3”:
1 2 3 – End words of lines in first tercet.
3 1 2 – Order of end words for lines in second tercet.
2 3 1 – Order of end words for lines in third tercet.
(1 2 3) – Order of end words used anywhere in the final line.
Poet Marie Ponsot (1921-2019) invented the tritina, calling it “the square root of the sestina.” Here is one of her tritinas (with formatting used to highlight the repeated words’ placements.):
Process
Some suggest that the writer chooses his/her three terminal words first then build the poem around those three words. Perhaps, a theme is settled on first. Some writers prefer no constraints; others need some guidance. Here are a few word sets if you want help: morning/sun/day; moon/sky/light; hope/pain/anger; love/time/death; wave/bright/wind. Possible themes: fall, death, family, mystery, animals, memories, time.
Susan’s Poem
Mid-Life Crisis
Babies taking all my time, all my energy in the past 1
Frequent snuggles and kisses like a treasured present 2
At times eager for but other times dreading the future 3
Anxious, I feel like I constantly fear for the future 3
Wistful, I tend to yearn for the past 1
Uncertain, it’s so hard to relish in the present 2
Lonely and sometimes purposeless in my present 2
Adult children and grandkids await in the future 3
Hoping those years will be informed by the past 1
Longing for the past, unsettled in the present, anticipating the future.
Your Turn
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
An Oral History: COVID-19 Teacher-Poets Writing to Bridge the Distance
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I can’t seem to remember why I started
I also can’t seem to get a grip on how I feel now
It’s inescapable and it has me trapped here
I’m not sure that even if it lets me leave here that I will actually leave
If I could just muster up the courage to remember why I started
Then everything will have to be okay, I whisper to myself “get up now”
I have to get up or I will never do it and the time is now
It has to let me leave if I fight to not be here
I can see light and I somehow remember why I started
I started for a life, I’m doing it now to further mine, and I know I can leave
Naydeen,
Hang in there! When I read your poem, I think of myself during my 6-1/2-year journey through college. I struggled through many of these thoughts. For me, I’m glad I saw the light and continued…
It’s been a good journey. I love the resolution in your last line too. The freedom you have to make the right decision. Brava!
I want to do it all.
At 60, I am still 16.
Why does it have to end?
Each day I’m closer to the end.
Yet I am no different at all
My heart is 16.
I spend my days with those who are 16.
Life’s wheel turns me to the end.
Is this all?
All I ask is to hold 16 until the end.
Allison,
I totally get this and often wonder how at 61 I feel as young as I did at 16. Life is funny that way. It’s good to know someone else shares this feeling.
Allison! This is great. Let’s all hold 16 until the end.
Allison, wow! I’m in the same club as you and Glenda. This:
That would be a satisfying way to be able to finish. Thank you for the mirror today.
Allison,I love how much you love life from the beginning towards what you think the end is.
sixth period
standing at the window watching the screen
framed students add notes to Padlet about reading
a simple question opens details about my students
after reading their peers’ assertions, students
share praise about the diction discovered on the screen
sometimes their peers’ writing makes the best reading
today presented them with new ideas for reading
and matched with differing opinions from students
their spirit, energy and personalities filled the sounds of the screen
my quiet screen left little reading but the spirited words of my students
I love how your poem blends what we all love about teaching (the connection) with the surreal and hobbled reality of teaching in a pandemic.
Yes, Jamie. Such a sweet picture of your day, and specifically sixth period. That is a great title. It really gives a snapshot. And the three words you chose–only in a virtual learning chapter due to a pandemic! This is a great primary source for our history these days.
Susan, thanks for this writing exercise. ?
Wake up, prepare for the students, how fast can I inhale the coffee
Stressful days, Covid exhaustion, how soon can I drink a margarita
As I lay down at night, I need liquid sustenance, can I have sips of water
My flowers feel neglected and beg for water
My secret to successful roses is to mix soil with grounds of coffee
I enjoy reflecting in my garden while sipping a watermelon margarita
Fridays, after work, I reach for a lightly-salted rimmed peach margarita
Saturdays, I am sure to replenish my bottles of sparkling water
Sundays are reserved for the second or third cups of coffee
Add flavored cream to the coffee, have a daily margarita, before bed have a small glass of water.
I appreciate the playfulness of this tritina. In the first two lines I could already feel the stress rising, but by the middle of the second stanza I was savoring that margarita with you!
Agree!
Seana, I love all the connections to liquid throughout this poem. All seem to be life sustaining from the coffee to the water to the much loved margarita. I’d love to have one now!
coffee, margarita and water – a holy trinity, what a fun way to see this form through, your final line – just what the doctor ordered
What a joy to read your litany of liquids! This poem pleased my ear, my mind, and my senses on multiple levels!
Hi Susan, thank you for a new pattern for me to use today. I started writing at the crack of dawn as soon as I registered for tonight’s NCTE’ National Day on Writing event. Began perusing Twitter and saw the #WhyIWrite and instantly knew it would be today’s focus for my poem. I wrote 2 stanzas and then felt lost and confused, Zoom started, principal wanted to “chat” and here I am TEN HOURS LATER, finally finished the last stanza. I hope I have time to read others’ poems tonight, the webinar begins in 10 minutes. I hope others will be able to catch the conversation with Jacqueline Woodson.
Sorry, I’m pouring my world onto this page. Your poem speaks to me, the mid-life thing is something! I love the first stanza most because that was when babies bring us so much joy. Thank you for sharing your past, present, and future.
#WhyIWrite
© Stacey L. Joy
With sunrise, pen and journal, I wonder why
We suffer in a free country? Where am I?
Is there a poem or a story our nation must write?
Will my students find refuge in our time to write?
Or will some not understand the how or the why?
Hand them the power of the pen, why shouldn’t I?
This is the time to be a revolutionary, but will I?
Quarantine demands time to write
maybe one day I’ll know why
Boy oh boy do I get the finished 10 hours later part of this. I’m impressed that you got it in. I also like how your end words are also your theme and title – it makes me think of a golden shovel poem and it’s an idea I may have to borrow, first for myself and then to introduce to my students.
But why am I just realizing I didn’t even finish with the stand alone line? OMG.
Stacey, your opening stanza question is so provocative. Why are we suffering in a free country? I have often been dismayed by a lack of enthusiasm some students have shown about writing. To understand the power of words is revolutionary. I feel so sad after reading this as there seems to be so much at stake right now in our nation. Thanks for sharing your amazing and provocative poem!
Stacey, I love your Why I Write poem, especially all the questions. It’s so important to ask those questions. It was a busy day for you, so tomorrow you’ll write that last line! 🙂
Stacey — The urgency and rollercoaster of time when how we document and how we get our stories down is so clear here. The questions seem to pump at us…”but will I?” and the history that needs to be made clear through what we write “demands.” Every time you write, folks pay attention, my friend, and so write, keep on writing, keep on. There’s a balm in the power of your pen. And I so appreciate it. Susie
Susan, thank you for another word sudoku! This was a fun challenge. I wrote a little ditty just now– as I was busy making videos for student presentations today. So, I am here for some more artful inspiration. I have never heard of this form before…but as my husband does his Sunday puzzle…I will work on one of these!
Our Flag
The top stripe is always Red
Taking turns with twelve stripes White
A star for each state rests in Blue
Vigilance and Justice stand for Blue
Hardiness and valor represent Red
Purity and innocence are star White
From ocean waves capped with White
To mountain towers shadowed Blue
Sunrise to sunset orange and Red
We salute the flag, our red, white and blue
Linda,
I love that your poem focuses on the flag as a unifying symbol. I struggle to fly it given the way the ?? has bastardized it.
Linda,
I love how you wrote what each of the colors symbolize for you. My favorite lines are in the second stanza. Great poem!
Tuck this one away for that new work on Civics!
I saw a rare sign in my neighborhood while walking my dogs. I decided to introduce myself to this like-minded neighbor.
Any Functioning Human
Political signs dot lawns, proclaiming to any
Passerby—right vs. left—a functioning
Endorsement of any but one fellow human.
How dare she mark this dream home a human
Shelter apart from flag wavers where real functioning
Christians live. These “suburban housewives” any
Right standing, flag -waving MAGA functioning
Recognizes belongs in spaces less worthy human
Occupancy. Should we doubt her patronage, any
With eyes knows any functioning human will do.
—Glenda Funk
You got me to grin at the title, Glenda — though I know it is not humorous. Just so clever right from the start. I love that the title worked like the golden shovel poem, too, with the words finding their place at the ends of each line. “How dare she mark this dream home a human” — that line has me lingering.
Peace,
Sarah
Oh, I do love how you can take anything and put it into a poem. Well done. Any functioning adult indeed!
Glenda — You are revved up, girl! Way to go! “any functioning human will do.” Indeed! I’m there! I walked in my little neighborhood too, and was struck by the newly emerging political signs that follow suit with your experience over there in ID! Hot damn! Is there hope!? You are too much fun! Yea! Thanks. Susie
Oh – fingers crossed! And I appreciate how you turned the title phrase into your end words – and I double appreciate your biting wit. Any functioning human will do, for sure.
So great, Glenda! Love that you grabbed these three words and created this gem of a poem. I live in a community where “Any Functioning Adult” is a frequent sign on lawns these days (and a comforting sign for me). I imagine it looked like a mirage at first, where you live!
The turmoil roils around us, a horrible dream.
To return to bygone days seems merely a hope.
How do we move forward when decisionmakers refuse to act?
Can’t they remember how their mothers taught them to act?
I want to wake in the morrow learning it’s all been a dream.
But I’m no fool- that’s a hapless hope.
Anger and frustration will pivot into hope.
The many dark, despairing days will drive me to act.
What a simp I was, letting someone else define my dream!
I will hope. I will dream. I will act.
Wow, Mo! This is beautifully written and makes a lot of hopeful sense. You chose the right three words for this Tritina.
Mo,
The questions but even more so the punctuation marks work like alerts to shake my eye from going into the whites pace, bringing me to the next line to listen to “I want” and “I’m no fool” and “what a simp” and then “I will” with anaphora — so moving.
Sarah
Mo — The “turmoil” is so real…I right there with you, wondering how “decision makers refuse to act.” I blows me away. I’m going to dwell on the last tercet that offers the “pivot” and hope that such a shift comes to my own hopes. I love the affirmation of that! Thank you! Susie
Oh, this is cool! I love the play of dream, hope and act. And, I like how it ends with a charge into action. Nice.
“Hapless hope” – fabulous. Indeed, can’t decisionmakers remember how to act? Manners and all -? It does seem like a “horrible dream.” Your tritina is powerful and that last line, a mantra for each day.
Oh, Mo, you did do some brain workout today! That last line is beautiful and powerful. A wonderful summary of your tritina today.
Susan, your tritina so conveys the very real sense of uncertainty as time goes on – babies do grow so fast, and the interim of “now” – as in these days, especially – is so unsettling when one feels “purposeless” and powerless. You captured that yearning for purpose… let me say this form is a new one on me! Never before attempted. And – Ponsot’s verse is gorgeous.
So. I wish I had the gorgeous stirring in me at the moment, with such words as break/frame/cold or past/present/future or ocean/salt/life (may need to work on that one…), but what I have echoing in my head is “Why I Write” for National Day on Writing. It did occur to me that there’s a series of three in the date (10-20-2020, three 20s) and when I started dabbling, the lines came out to nine syllables (3×3)…
-Why not. I leave it to you, Dear Readers, to decide who “you” is.
I think by now you’d understand why
we’re part of each other, you and I.
I’ll wait for you awhile. Then I’ll write.
I show up when you don’t. Still, I write.
-yeah, it’s hard! I don’t really know why
but I keep on trusting you, don’t I?
Are you mine? Am I yours? What am I
without you? Nothing, unless I write.
So here I sit, waiting…you know why.
You ARE my why, my love – why I write.
Fran, your poem reminds me of the years my now husband and I exchanged letters while we were in college in different states. This was pre-cell phones. Dorm rooms didn’t even have phones in them! So, we had to write. He did…regularly…and made me feel guilty and special all at the same time. I hope your poem expresses why he wrote.
Fran, this is just lovely! It works on so many levels. I adore the fact that you are leaving the “you” for us to decide. I am picturing our beloved writing community and how it has really turned into such an amazing and multi-layered support sytem for so many of us. Your topic Why I Write is quite clever!
OOOooo, Fran– This play of I/why/write is terrific. I love that I can think this in so many ways. The “why we write” is a powerful force. Deep inside it is so often inexplicable…but “love” or “my love” is surely a piece of that puzzle. The love could be a person, the love could be a muse, the love could be the fire inside….whatever it is, you have mastered a wonderful tease of wordplay. And, just for me, I love the notion that “you” is a force, and I don’t really care if it’s literal or an internal beast that pushes. Keep on writing, Fran! This is lovely! Thank you! Susie
Thank you and I will whisper here (shh!) that “you” IS writing, itself. In honor of the day. 🙂
This is pretty and meaningful…”you” must be your muse or, a muse. What a neat swirl effect your words have. This is why I come here….I see so many different and smart takes on one idea. I really love the nod to the reader to figure it out.
Fran, what a memorable poem for National Day on Writing. I’m so glad you shared all the “threes” in your poem, Why I Write–including the date. This is super. “I show up when you don’t. Still I write.” That is a good reminder to me, as I have been think about inspiration lately, and I should just jump in and take this line to heart.
[Note: Please, this poem is not meant to offend. I toiled with sharing it and opted to post. Susie]
“…I miss you.”
Her words ricochet in the abyss between us, her bible;
they hang there suspended, a judging ember meant to burn
till all that’s left is the echo
of what we were before the walls hemmed, hurling words into an indeterminate echo;
tiny bridges, forays into “the weather,” but always back to handy verses, her bible,
rekindling a slow, uneven burn,
a slag of graying ashes of our two hearts in a smoldering burn;
mending words just a mirage, a mere amber echo
of a relationship built not on trust but on some duty to chalk one up for her bible.
I quietly back away, retreat from the echo, salve the burn with the leaves of her bible.
by Susie Morice©
Susie – I do not take offense. My husband’s been a pastor for thirty-three years and both my boys are in the ministry (one in music). I say all that to say this – some people do fan their Bibles for “judging embers meant to burn”… lots of deep pain in these lines, but oh – that last line, retreating from the echo to “salve the burn with the leaves of her Bible … wow, that unexpected turn. It’s all hauntingly beautiful.
Wow Susie. I feel so much pain, longing, and sadness when I read your poem. I t seems like there is a longing for a relationship that might have or could have been. The rhythm is wonderful. My favorite line is “a slag of graying ashes of our two hearts in a smoldering burn.” So well done.
“a judging ember meant to burn,” is such a powerful line….and then we get to echo. Wow.
No offense taken. There are some beautiful lines to describe an ugly situation.
Susie, oh my gosh, this is just gut-wrenching. The images of fire throughout chill me. I can feel the pain, the burn, the distance growing from the conflict rising. Your line “till all that’s left is the echo” is so desolate and full of grief. Yikes, I am totally riveted. Thank you for sharing this incredible poem!
a slag of graying ashes of our two hearts in a smoldering burn;
mending words just a mirage, a mere amber echo
of a relationship built not on trust but on some duty to chalk one up for her bible.
Oof. Gut-punch of a moment, of knowing and feeling something else behind “nice” words. The repetition of the word echo gives me a feeling of emptiness and space between and around this relationship.
Susie, thank you for trying your hand at the Tritina! And for deciding to post it! This is so vivid in its details with its “words ricochet[ing]” and its “walls hemm[ing]” in to the “smoldering burn” of the two discordant hearts. (I’m glad I tried my hand at Susan’s exercise today, and I hope you’re glad that you did, too! And I also hope that this doesn’t prove to be your last Tritina.)
Susie,
Lately I’ve tried to focus more on THE Bible and not THE Bible thumpers. I know the type you reference. I don’t thing God ever intended his word to be used to construct an “abyss” or build “walls.” I love the repetition of /m/ in the line
. It evokes an image of pursed lips. If I tell you everything I love about this poem I’d rewrite it all.
Susie, your title speaks loudly. Thank you for sharing your poem and your heart today. Your words are deep and stabbing and give any of us who wields a Bible a rich reminder of how not to do it. “walls hemmed”, “hurling words”, “indeterminate echo”, “tiny bridges” but then “handy verses.” Oh my, so many rich images. Thank you for this today.
Lately, I’ve been really interested in forms with repetition, but I’d never heard of this one. I love it. Simple & complex all at the same time – it seemed perfect for seasons and pandemic days that seem to repeat themselves.
Fall
Mid-October and still no killing frost.
The tomatoes still strive towards red,
heedless of the Fall.
Around the vine, leaves fall
As the trees, preparing for the inevitable frost
shed yellow, orange, gold, red.
Earlier and earlier every evening the red
sun descends toward the horizon, its fall
portending what is to come: frost.
Nightly, I beg the frost to allow one more shimmer of red before white death falls.
Amanda, this is a perfect fall poem! I love how you’ve played with the words you chose. And that white death? BRRRRRR!
This, Amanda – “Nightly, I beg the frost to allow one more shimmer of red before white death falls” – so beautiful. The ice cometh… but for now, what glorious images of fall, your “tomatoes striving toward red,” those leaves, and that sun descending. Savoring the moments, while bracing oneself – the air of chilly expectancy is real. Lovely rendering.
Beautiful….what a great topic for this form. The colors really POP at the end of the lines.
Wondering
What fun writing poems about memories,
Thinking warm thoughts and reminiscing,
Wondering, is there a difference? Are they the same as recollections?
These seem colder to me, black and white photo recollections.
I feel better thinking and writing about memories.
Thinking of good times feels like reminiscing.
My Mother’s birthday is this week, and I’m reminiscing,
Viewing our family albums, this beloved visual set fo recollections.
She’d been ill for years; we didn’t think we’d have good memories.
Ah, photos sparking recollections s, reminiscing good times, do spawn good memories.
Anna — I love the 3 words that you chose. And your distinguishing among them is strategic and good stuff. My fave is the notion of “reminiscing,” as it has a movement to it, a sense that you can wander around in it. I love that. Thank you! Susie
Anna, I love your three words – they are each a poem unto themselves, I think. The idea of weighing them for their nuances – fascinating! ‘Reminiscing’ does have a a warm, enveloping sense, kind of flowing… ‘recollections’ does have a harder sound. Hadn’t thought of that word as having a tangible possibility – photos can be ‘collected’, after all – and how I smile at the idea of preferring to write about memories. Me, too. Your words are stirring my own …
This is lovely…and a nice study of your three words. It’s comforting to have those good memories. I’m so glad you have good ones of your mom, especially this week.
Morning moods fill me with the need for coffee
Not ready for the day till the room is filled with the wonderful aroma
Even in the mid-afternoon, I need something to keep my energy from falling
I always have some in hand whenever the temperature begins falling
Nothing can bring me comfort and warmth the same as coffee
Sometimes I could just carry it with me so my life is always full of the wakening aroma
When I am ready for bed, I can still remember what led me through the day, the aroma
Trying to fall asleep is when I realize that I fed my addiction a little too much of today, coffee
Now, the wonderful craving that kept me awake all day is still with me at night, keeping my eyes from falling
I fill each day with coffee, I need the constant comforting aroma, it’s the only way I keep my hopes from falling
Love it! I just had a nice cuppa de-caff before bed. And, I’m already thinking about the first cup tomorrow morning. Comforting aroma—so true.
Jessica, I can so relate to your poem. The need for coffee is an addiction I may never break and I know the feeling of having too much caffeine and consequently lose the valuable sleep I truly need. Your last line pulls the entire poem together so effortlessly. Hoping your spirits are high today!
A little poem in honor of National Sloth Day to honor the sloth in me.
Just Breathe
Sometimes I forget to honor my natural tendency to be slow.
I forget that I’m the freaking poster girl for Slow & Steady,
and that I have no desire to be a participant in the race.
This endless, frantic, needless race
leaves me depleted, gasping for air – my slow
responses morph into paralysis, making me long for steady.
In order to regain my steady
stride, I retreat from the entire race
and breathe into my natural, healing rhythm of slow.
My slow inhale and steady exhale remind me that there is no need to race.
I love this! I tease my youngest son about being a sloth – but he’s steady and utterly dependable. “No need to race” – how much better off we’d all be to remember that life isn’t a race. “Retreat from the entire race” – masterful!
Ha! Sounds wonderful….maybe if I don’t drink coffee like Amanda I can slow down enough to enjoy the pace of a sloth.
Susan,
Thanks for a delicious prompt today! Your use of “past, present and future” to frame a midlife crisis was very effective. I resemble that poem! Your prompt came on a really busy day for me, so I’m up late because I didn’t want to let it go without giving it a shot. I’m definitely going to revisit this, but for now it has to be good enough. (Anna, I can’t stop using allusion, but maybe it’s not allusion if I mention Kafka’s name. ) Anyway, I’m just going to leave this here…
Reading
Do I choose or am I chosen by reading?
Sometimes I am lifted out of myself, with a stab
To my heart. Unexpected riches that grieve.
Riches that turn into empathy as I grieve
The axe for the frozen sea within is my reading
As Kafka wisely said books are to stab
Not to make me happy, but to stab.
Books to affect me, allow me to deeply grieve
It is not for the faint of heart, this reading.
Quick pain of the stab and subsequent grief comes from reading.
Susan, I love the process of reading that you show here.
“It is not for the faint of heart, this reading” is so relatable because only some can handle certain experiences with books.
Denise, thank you for sharing this! (I read “The Metamorphosis” every year with my students. So good and so heartbreaking. ) Why do we do this to ourselves? Lol. We’re wiping away tears from one book as we reach for another (hoping the new book will give us “the feels” like the previous one did).
Your first question line is perfect….as is, “allow me to deeply greive.” This is such a neat topic for this form. Well done.
Wow, love your description of deep reading, powerful reading. This line “Not to make me happy, but to stab.” – yes! Books that stick, impress, linger long after you put them down. Great play with your three words!
Denise,
I’m thinking about how we often find the right book at the right time, or so they say. Perhaps books choose us when we allow ourselves to choose them. That is, open ourselves to them. Sometimes a book magically appears by the way it jogs a memory and sparks a thought I want to explore more. Could we read and learn w/ out that Kafkaesque “stab”? I don’t think we could.
The Diner
The booth’s torn pleather seat snagged my tights.
If we waited for another, it’d have been the same.
Cracked Formica, lipstick-stained mugs– the rhyme
in our one-sided lecture on a Zen, art, cycle rhyme.
Song and verse to which I twirled the ripped tights,
listening to a life lived in his mind without us. Same
story in sugar-filled teaspoons stirred in tea, same
except my heart was speaking between clinks a rhyme
of a life sipping coffee around coral lips, unraveling tights.
Tight until I disrupted his rhymes to speak, We are not the same.
Sarah, I am totally awe-struck by your poem. It is like a beautiful work of art brought to life. The imagery of this poem is so striking. I was completely pulled into this scene, knowing the type of booth, the coffee, the cracked Formica table top you describe, while fidgeting with your tights. I especially loved the line: “listening to a life lived in his mind without us” because it has me wondering who is with the speaker. For me it seems like either a parent who has not been present or a professor or colleague who you have tried to connect with but just cannot because of differing viewpoints. Plus, it feels like the speaker’s opinion is not valued so when the final line is delivered, it carries a tremendous punch. I’m just so fascinated by the whole poem. Kudos!
Sarah — I am struck by the opener…walking into the diner…the booth, “pleather,” “cracked Formica”… all of it…the lipstick on the mugs. A “one-sided lecture” takes me to moments when my dad dominated all discourse…I I was left twiddling…”twirl[ing] …tights” and “listening to a life lived in his mind without us.” Oh man…that could so easily be my dad. It maybe was your dad too. Those family repetitions that hang over us, letting us know “We are not the same.” Indeed…we are not…I am not my dad (thank heavens) and you are not the one-sided lecturer. You have a such a gift to craft a visual and sensory scene and draw me in to the deep relationship that unfolds in just a few lines. Woof! Wonderful! Thank you! Susie
What a story woven into these stanzas. I really like how I leave this poem with “We are not the same.”
I want more of this! I feel as if I just got a quick peek into an extraordinary story, and then someone grabbed the book from me. That final line, “Tight until I disrupted his rhymes to speak, We are not the same.” – wow, that is an ouch…there was foreshadowing in the “one-sided lecture,” and “listening to a life lived in his mind without us,” but, ouch. This was not a coffee chat that would happen again, I suspect! Tell us more!!
Sarah,
Oh, this evokes memories of similar Americana scenes of worn diners w/ those scratchy, ripped seats and the way they host conversations. These images you’ve crafted emphasize the difficult revelation “we are not the same.” I love the way a scene such as this needles at an important idea and the discomfort of it.
Susan, I have never written a tritina before and found it to be quite challenging. I recently watched a documentary about women in prison in Oklahoma called Grey Matters. Many of the women shared how ashamed they felt, etc. The documentary occurred because of Ellen Stackable’s program Poetic Justice. One thought that was expressed was how writing helped them make the unspeakable, speakable. Anyway, this is just a sliver of my response.
So many people make mistakes
When they are young and hopeless
Bewildered, broken, and abused
Vilified, frightened, angry, abused
Bars open to confine mistakes
Forgetting to heal the hopeless
Suffering, ashamed, afraid, hopeless
Endless days; silently abused
Abysmal eternal mistakes
Mistakes birth hopeless people often abused
Barb Edler
October 20, 2020
Barb,
I am looking at this form differently after having just written one because I was thinking a lot about punctuation and how to punctuate this form. I am struck by your semicolon!
Endless days; silently abused
Just this line is so powerful with the word choice and the semicolon calling for connection and separation.
And thank you for being a part of Poetic Justice!
Peace,
Sarah
Oh Barb,
this pulled at my heart strings, you make me want to hold all of those you are writing about. We need to help those who are abused, hopeless, and understand that they too make mistakes. Thank you for the amazing words!
Susan, thank you for this fun brainteaser of a tritina! I enjoyed your poem, too, thinking about the many passages of parenting. These words in your poem really spoke to me, “Uncertain, it’s so hard to relish in the present” – uncertainty [especially, at certain kids’ ages, not knowing what is happening when they are out of sight!] can usurp our ability to be fully in the moment.
Not entirely certain how I ended up with my rather playful tritina; here goes!
My comfort food is simple: peanut butter,
preferably crunchy, smeared on whole-grain toast,
accompanied by a hot cup of green tea.
I have never had much taste for iced tea.
My Georgia in-laws, it’s their bread and butter.
They joke, if I decline their tea, I’m toast.
Lately, I am feeling cooked like toast,
scorched on both sides, steeped like tea,
walking on eggshells, flipped facedown in butter.
14 days. Peanut butter on toast with tea, please!
Peanut butter on toast! My favorite comfort food. In fact I have it nearly every day, except I prefer sour dough. And crunchy peanut butter—yay! My husband prefers creamy and I say NO WAY!
I love this stanza:
Lately, I am feeling cooked like toast,
scorched on both sides, steeped like tea,
walking on eggshells, flipped facedown in butter.
Oh, I know the feeling. Take care and eat more Pb on toast!
Maureen, I love the playfulness tone throughout. I especially enjoyed the line: “They joke, if I decline their tea, I’m toast.” It helps emphasize how certain familial things can be taken quite seriously. Hope you’re okay as your final line makes me wonder if you had to quarantine. I enjoyed your poem! Take care!
This was so cute and playful! I loved the simplicity of the foods you selected: butter, toast, and tea. I had a lot of fun reading this and the first two stanzas definitely made me smile.
Ah! I eat about a jar of peanut butter a week, but I eat it on a granola bar with coffee, but I used to love it on toast.
I love this detail: scorched on both sides, steepled like tea. Perfect with the alliteration of o followed by ee.
Sarah
Maureen, this is so clever! I love the way you incorporated different expressions (their bread and butter, I’m toast, steeped like tea) into your poem. What a great way to play with the words!
Maureen,
Holy Cow, are you in quarantine? Are you okay? The way you take this simple snack and the casual enjoyment of eating and sipping tea only to turn this gesture to something serious and relational is magnificent. Then that last line is a real gut punch. Wow!
Oh my goodness, no! Not in quarantine. It’s 14 days from the election! That’s what is making me stressed! Sorry to worry you. You are right – 14 days is an immediate trigger for COVID these days.
Susan, thanks for sharing and teaching the tritian. I loved the pattern of this form.
“Listening to podcasts on the drive to school”
His diction, cadence, and out-there-ness emulate the Beats
Of her time. He worships his heroine: Patti Smith.
Embodying an overdosed, burned-out era–she remains effervescently timeless.
This school route: only a year and some change, yet timeless.
Good mornings I travel feeling exhilarated, upbeat.
I eagerly anticipate our studies of words and wordsmiths.
“Wild horses, couldn’t drag me away,” croons Smith.
Feelings of doubt, inadequacy, rage, and surrender–timeless.
This year’s circumstances leave me, unwillingly, off-beat.
The beat of Smith’s timeless poetry scores my resistance.
Love the way you played with your three words, using them in entirely different ways – Smith & wordsmith; Beats, upbeat, off-beat. Very clever. And timeless remained…timeless! I was struck by this line “This school route: only a year and some change, yet timeless.” I love how something shifts from being new to being ordinary/routine…timeless is a lovely description of this change.
Laura, wow, I absolutely love how you create your listening experience and drive o school and connect it to today’s world compared to Patti Smith’s poetry, etc. The music, and play on words are so striking and perfectly share your emotions and message. Beautiful!
I am struck by your wordsmith-ing…such a clever way to meet the needs of the form. Keep fighting the good fight! Words are power! (As your poem and Smith’s lyrics prove.)
Laura,
I love this space of being with you on your drive with the reflections and lyrics woven across the stanzas but also the time that presses on this poem as a whole from the past to “this” and the “year” and the “timeless poetry scores my resistance.”
Love this,
Sarah
I like how you move from the podcast to your drive to school and then back to the podcast and into your world – we are what we listen to
Autumn:
Crisp, brown and red leaves surround our home.
Home, surrounded with the smell of pumpkin and crisp apple cider.
Surrounded by family and friends, in our home, watching football and enjoying the crisp weather
Crisp, brown and red leaves surround our home
Love the repetition of crisp – this is such a fall feeling!
Kaitlin, your poem offers such a wonderful feeling of autumn smells and warmth of family!
I love the word crisp. I never thought about how aptly it applies to fall. Yes, fall is crisp! I love that crispness. But my dry skin doesn’t! Lol
Kaitlin, such a comforting poem about fall. I love the description you provide!
The Strange Idea of Continuous Living
Despite the mess of us, the hurt, the empty,
we face another season
with celebration and plans and hope.
We rake leaves, hang wreaths, bake muffins in the hope
that we can fill the empty
spaces left unresolved and unfulfilled and unsettled in the vernal seasons.
We unpack sweaters, scarves, decorations, preparing for the winter season
ahead–the darker days, the longer nights, the colder months. We hope
we can fill our tables and bellies and homes that have lain empty.
We pray that this season yields fruits and blessings, no more empty hopes.
**title and first line borrowed from Ada Limón’s poem “Instructions on Not Giving Up”
I really appreciated this poem Betsy — the way it brings hope in the dark: both dark times and the fact that we are entering into winter which is darker as well. I really liked your use of specific lines like “We rake leaves…” and “We unpack sweaters…” the details really help!
I love all of the allusions to all of the elements of fall we know and love, “raking leaves, hanging wreaths, baking muffins” and how we should still look for the little things, despite this difficult year
I have just become acquainted with Ada Limón; I must look up this poem now! Your poem is beautifully mournful and hopeful. This line, in particular, illustrates this juxtaposition: “ahead–the darker days, the longer nights, the colder months. We hope” really illustrates the potential for ominous, the dread we are all feeling…and how much we need hope. You move us from dark to hope, really, to prayer – which is all we have, ultimately, yes? Thank you!
When I first heard the Ada Limón poem on the radio (read on an episode of “A Way with Words”), I almost wrecked my car it was so beautiful. It is one of my new favorite poems, and I cherish it especially during the spring season when the buds and leaves erupt so suddenly (and I am filled with the warmth and hope of spring). I was inspired by her lines to write a response poem…from this different, almost opposite season.
Betsy, I enjoyed this! (especially the sound of “leaves” and “wreaths” in the second stanza and all the “un”s in the following line leading to the “v” in “vernal seasons”). And I had to give a shout out for “A Way with Words” and Ada Limon (I don’t know how to do the diacritical mark in this text box.). I have just recently “discovered” both of those gems!
Betsy, what a lovely poem so full of sadness. The loss of hope and trying to maintain some kind of normal comes through this poem for me. Words like “unresolved, unfulfilled, and unsettled,” precisely conveys a deep sense of loss. Your imagery is also striking and evokes a feeling of emptiness, while also longing for something substantial and sustaining.Your last line is powerful and provocative. I can so relate! Thank you for sharing! Thanks, too, for sharing the poetry link.
Betsy,
I stopped at this line and found myself moved quite deeply:
celebration and plans and hope
I read it as “plans for hope” initially and was struck that I feel like I have to plan for it – that I don’t really have it now because I don’t know what to hope for, I can’t see it.
And then the ending
no more empty hopes
That is staying with me, wanting my hope to fill up or for someone else to fill it because I am not sure I can right now.
Powerful,
Sarah
Erica,
This is lovely.
I appreciate how you model unique line breaks in order to have the terminal words follow the pattern.
Your details capture fall beautifully.
Pandemic Gardening
Sequestered at home trying to find things to occupy time
I have watched my friends and neighbors
turn into budding gardeners proudly posting photos of their crops.
A widespread fertilizing growth of flowers, vegetables and other crops.
“Moving the dirt beyond the flower beds,” say the neighbors.
Some report a new hobby and a life sustaining skill in time.
Trying to entertain themselves, these soil-toiling neighbors.
Is the dirt full of chemicals? Must have organically grown crops.
Thinking about where the carrots or beets come from this time.
These engaging neighbors provide fresh, edible crops in a pandemic time.
What a fun little slice-of-pandemic-life poem! I really enjoyed reading this and the thoughts about neighbors and their gardens.
Susan,
I love this image
Clever and sounds pretty, too.
Sarah
This was such a fun and relatable poem. I was also guilty of creating too many outside projects for myself during this time.
I must tell this group and especially Susan, Anna and Sara for the prompts this week. I thought if I got up early each morning and wrote as the first thing to do, I would be fresh and do well. However, I have learned it is not the case. I wrote another TRITINA following the earlier one. I am learning!
Mundane Lyrics
My early morning lyrics are often mundane.
A profound poem requires a good mood
or being wide awake – an active brain.
Don’t write with morning’s groggy brain.
Down a cup of java jolting the mood.
Inspiration coming to break up the mundane.
Muse, cast a spell to enliven my mood.
Send electric currents and thoughts to my brain
Control the words not to become mundane.
An afternoon brain enlivens the mood and certainly dwarfs the mundane.
This describes perfectly how we need that jolt of caffeine or a muse to get going. This morning I wrote with a very groggy brain. I wrote in bed with no coffee and I felt like I just muddled through it. Maybe that’s ok because it’s part of life and who we are. And there’s no escaping the mundane.
Susan,
I am cracking up at your second effort because I often feel the same. I attempt to write right away in the morning, barely remembering what I create. Then, I wish for a muse and and alert brain to better guide me.
I’m impressed that you’ve created two well-done tritinas in such a short time.
I love your first line of the second stanza – widespread fertilizing growth feels alive, ending with some report a new hobby like the newperson to pandemic time – a nice reflection on this period
A New Normal
By Nancy White
Fall arrived in a heat wave and still I wear my mask
Trick-or-treaters stay home, we all hide.
No groups of goblins gathering. That’s forbidden.
Most normal fun—forbidden.
But, I will wear mouse ears with a festive COVID mask
And make my grandson laugh (we’ll make believe it’s fun to hide.)
Rage and fear and helplessness, things I choose to hide,
Down deep I’m petrified and some days I have to let it out and cry (hoping that’s not forbidden.)
All behind that damn mask.
I’d really like to set fire to that mask,
Then open my doors, run free and not hide,
in a beautiful, cool place outside—where nothing is forbidden.
Nancy, I love the way you weave in the unexpected (previously hidden!) joys that we are discovering now. The image of you and grandson is so sweet in spite of this untraditional Halloween season. The last stanza is exhilarating and I also can’t wait for that day to run free!
Nancy, you capture the ups and downs of our journey together here. The small uplifting moments (mouse ears for your grandson’s laughter, make believe) remind us that those open doors are waiting for us. We need that hope. Thank you.
These words are so personal in trying to have fun, hide and make the best of trick or treat while closing doors to COVID. Yes, one day we can burn those masks and run free.
Nancy, “that damn mask” does need to be set afire! It gets in the way of everything, but you have so sweetly reminded us that it can’t get in the way of laughing with grandchildren! Open the doors and let the outside in!
Nancy,
These lines struck me for the content and the sound:
I think the rhyme makes it more palpable, maybe less painful to process in some way, but the ideas here are so true — helpless, hide, petrified. All of this is happening inside but I really do want to let it all out.
Peace,
Sarah
Nancy, you’ve captured the weariness that we all feel and what we long for – “a beautiful, cool place outside — where nothing is forbidden.” One day…
Nancy, I love the end of your poem! I feel the need to be freed, to welcome with open arms friends and family. “Damn mask”describes my feelings to a tee!
Nancy,
I can never get enough of poems that capture our Covid reality.
I truly love the irony shown in this line:
“Trick-or-treaters stay home, we all hide.”
What a lovely poetry form. I had fun finding ways to make the words appear in the different lines. I actually decided to combine this invitation to write with this month’s Ekphrastic poetry challenge. Feedback would be appreciated before I post it there of course 🙂
Love Along the Lakeshore
We gathered at the shore, stacking stones.
Smooth as eggs and speckled grey and black,
we tossed some and they glided out of our palms like birds
across the water they flew startling a nest of birds
into flight themselves, much lighter than our skipping stones.
One, two, three — and the rocks sank even as the fowl flew black
shadows against a cerulean sky, slowly turning dark blue to black.
I reached for your hand then, my touch as light as birds
and you entwined your fingers with mine, fitting together as piled stones.
Suddenly, the stone weighing on my chest took flight — black doubts flying away like birds.
Erica! This is beautiful! The imagery of the stacked stones (fingers entwined) and birds in flight (your touch) is perfection. You gather and connect (stones like eggs, sky blackening and black doubts) before giving us the packaged bow in that last line. I love everything about this!
Yes, I am with Jennifer here. I love the imagery – the strong sense of place that we could find, can find when we begin to look for it.
Sarah
This is so visual, Erica. I really can see the cerulean sky turning dark blue to black with the black birds flying and the grey speckled stones. I found myself right there with you and feeling the lightness of the debts flying away.
I can see, hear, feel each moment in this poem. Brava!
I love the way you write and speak about. nature- “across the water, they flew startling a nest of birds,” “shadows against a cerulean sky.” The imagery is so clear in my mind!
Erica, this is so good! The reader skips across the lines like those “speckled” stones. There’s a real fluidity and ease to this piece. Well done! Thanks for writing (and sharing) this.
As others have already noticed and remarked, your use of imagery is crisp and clear: “tossed” and “glided,” “smooth as eggs and speckled grey and black,” “black/shadows against cerulean sky.” I am struck by the image of the “entwined” fingers that “[fit] together as piled stones”…this line made my own heart skip a beat as you turned the reader’s gaze from the natural images to the human interaction. Finally, that last line–with the metaphor and simile combination–ties all the imagery and nature/human elements into one tight bow (to echo Jennifer Jowett’s observation). Thank you for sharing your poem with us!
Erica,
Thank you for adding your genius to this challenge. As I read this poem, my mind just calmly flowed over the words. There is such a beautiful, lyrical feel to this poem.
I am especially grabbed by “Black doubts” and the image of them flying away.
Erica I get the feeling this may have been one of those first hand holds where there was a little risk involved – which makes it heart fluttery like the beating wings of a bird!
Thanks to all involved in October’s writing challenges. I have loved them all.
Hard, plastic, gun-metal gray
2×3 feet space to write
Rack below for books or feet
Rhythm moving through your feet
In Chucks fire red, white, and gray
To keep time with thoughts you write
On white board in black I write
About meter, beat, and feet
In the “Elegy…” by Gray
Gray, I write, beautiful feet
Katrina, the movement of your words this morning is both energizing and peaceful. That image of the red Chucks keeping time with thoughts captures the vividness of the rhythms. I love that last line!
Katrina,
This snappy poem is filled with on-point descriptions.
Thanks for adding your flair to this challenge.
Your poem tells my story a few years ago. Now my kids are adults and I have two grandchildren and my perspective has shifted again. Each stage brings about new and challenging stuff. This was such a challenge, but luckily I had some time this morning to breathe and work on it. I turned on the Zen meditation timer on my phone after my watch told me to breathe and there you have my theme. The challenge I gave myself was using a 7 syllable count for each line, septercets.
Meditation Tritina
Even a moment of breath
calms my mercurial mind,
opens to creative time.
Losing the constraints of time,
I inhale my deepest breath
taming a crazy-spun mind.
Control is my peace of mind
when I know I have this time
to fill my being with breath.
Breath is mind-balm for me-time.
Margaret, wow, I can feel the rhythm of this poem so well. While reading, I could feel the urge to calm my mind, to find the necessary breaths to relax, and to provide the necessary me-time to remain sane. How great it would be to feel a sense of control and balance right now! I especially loved how you were able to so gracefully tie your three key words together at the end. The effort to use septercets paid off!
Margaret,
I love love love your term “mind balm” and it’s the perfect way to describe breath.
I, too, have a “mercurial mind” and frequently employ breathing exercises to focus myself in.
Thank you for taking something very meaningful and personal and applying it to this challenge.
This reads like a meditation. I really love the idea of breath “taming a crazy-spun mind” – I see smoothness out of chaos. Lovely.
Susan, I’m not going to lie: this was a challenge. Lol. Thanks for that! (And it’s always fun to tap into mock outrage on occasion, too.)
Writing Process
There’s usually a method to my madness. Look, I’m not averse
to counting syllables, letting my fingers bob up & down, playing
linguistic gymnastics, but imma bout to have a full tilt break down
here. It’s simple: drink coffee, pick up pen, write. This, lets me write down
the bones, as it were, or trip the light fantastic (Milton’s metaphor playing
on dancing which might seem contrary to my point about verse
which is exactly my point about verse I wanna make.) I’m not playin’
here, and I’m not Milton, so it’s no fun cramming my thoughts down
a trash compactor, so shut the eff up Frost when you talk about verse:
“Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.”
I love that you took a Frost quote and used the words for this poem. It’s brilliant, clever, and funny! “it’s not fun cramming my thoughts down a trash compactor” is a great metaphor for compressing thoughts into the frame of a poetic form. You nailed it!
Scott, this is clever and witty and fun – I am sure Frost would be rolling! I need this on a TShirt to wear to work these days:
imma bout to have a full tilt break down
Oh, what fun! The lightheartedness is needed, and I would have never even thought to put that combination of words together —- like really surprisingly refreshing unexpected socks for more than two feet!
Scott,
I love the playfulness you exhibit with this inventive poem. You use slang, yet quote Frost and reference Milton. Culminating with that quote was clever indeed.
Thank you for employing your unique flair to this challenge.
Holy mackerel, Scott — This is exactly how I felt all morning! I was …WHAT? You want me to do WHATTTTT? And here you are, smackin’ out another doozie. I so appreciate that you used that indelible voice of yours to deliver a totally delightful Tritina… OMG… this was my first and likely my last tritina. But I love this, and the cruel form actually pushed you to hammer out a beaut. My favorite lines:
I laughed out loud and am still laughing! LOLOLOLOLOL!
You incorporated some great rhythm, this piece is dense with allusions that I still need to take in.
“but imma bout to have a full tilt break down” seems to be the phrase of the day that we can all relate to!
Scott,
There’s nothing wrong w/ finger counting. It has served me well more than half a century! Love the tone, the frustration you experience being boxed into this form. I’m on to your style! Forgive my sadism! Fun nod to “Writing Down the Bones.” I love that book. And thank God we don’t have to channel our inner Milton. That SOB was downright mean to his daughters.
9-1-1
A child at the age of nine
Stood alone in a group of one
In a plot she could not have won
Much like Alice in Won-
derland, when the clock struck nine
The fairytale returned to chapter one
A solitary stage, a soliloquy of one
Told when the battle’s lost and won
A journey ended: sonnet nine
Nine months gestation – a solitary one – no form of thee won.
Oh, Jennifer, your poem is heartbreakingly beautiful. There are so many metaphors and meanings here in 9-1-1, and the use throughout of the numbers nine, one, and won. Peace.
Jennifer, the sadness is still ringing –
“In a plot she could not have won.” Oh, how devastating for this child. I love your clever use of nine and won and one – it’s a heartbreaker, but a winner all at once .
Jennifer, this poem really hit me hard. The opening title helped prepare me for the sheer sadness of this poem. I am in awe of how brilliantly you were able to convey this loss through your choice of words, which for me felt very fast paced with a sudden grounding and devastating end. Tears!
Jennifer,
My heart and brain are provoked deeply by this poem. And I love, love, love the inventiveness of dividing Wonderland up in order to use WON effectively.
I will be revisiting this poem to digest it again and again.
Thank you for lending your creative touch to this challenge.
Susan, this prompt challenged me to write down something, anything, and let it be imperfect, and it brought me to a happier place. Thanks for the suggestions/inspirations – my groggy brain needed a hook this morning.
Sunny
Black cloud sky at 6 in the morning
Grumpily grieving the later arrival of sun
Do I have enough rest for a crazy, grinding day?
I scurry, grabbing cheese and crackers and coffee and water and yogurt and planners and books and that article and charger and phone and laptop and the other charger for the day
Will I remember to step out to the porch to drink in this crisp October morning
With purple-pink streaks of cloud dancing around the sun?
A friend took daily pictures of the sun
(She called her Sunny) to praise each day
To the end, she appreciated each morning
On this dark morning, I choose to pause with cheerful Sunny to welcome the day.
Emily, what a sweet poem! I love that long line in the second stanza of all the things you are scurrying and grabbing for teaching. Then the lovely reminder to step out and take a drink of the beautiful morning. I love that you chose to pause with cheerful Sunny! What inspiration for me today.
I love this sweet poem, especially the last stanza, “A friend took daily pictures of the sun (she called her sunny to praise each day, to the end she appreciated each morning.”- What a great way to show gratitude for each day
Emily,
This captures the early morning stupor I often find myself in. I really love the how the long line matches what you are doing:
“ I scurry, grabbing cheese and crackers and coffee and water and yogurt and planners and books and that article and charger and phone and laptop and the other charger for the day”
especially “the other charger.”
I feel inspired to pause and welcome the day tomorrow, since it is our last day on vacation.
Em — This is so lovely…the pausing is the part that I love most…in such a flurry to start your day, you pause… beautiful. I wouldn’t have thought “morning/sun/day” could pull up such a wonderful poem…yet here it is, “crisp” with a memory of the friend’s daily pictures. So lovely. You must send this to the friend! A wonderful birthday gift! Hugs, Susie
Emily what a great way to start every day by appreciating And feeling gratitude. You do a great job of showing us the hurriedness and all the things that we must gather on our way out the door and how those things take more priority sometimes than stepping back and being grateful for the things that don’t go in our arms on the way out the door.
Susan, thank you for a fun new form today! I’m going to seek out Atwell’s book Naming the World – it sounds like a charm. Your poem today tugs at my heart and brings back both long ago memories of young children and recent memories of grandchildren – – – and…. the unconfessed joys of an empty nest! Thank you for investing in us as writers. I began my Tritina with two borrowed lines and one twisted line from “Mink” by Mary Oliver:
Melting
the pink sun fading away to the edge
for me, it was the gift of the winter
which was still in its frozen coat of snow
a plaid-flanneled husband, scarfed in the snow
a wife watching warmly from window’s edge
of the woods’ balsamy-scented winter
a crackling-hardwood-fire cabin winter
where rugged muscles chop wood in the snow
to keep the fires burning-(love on the edge!)
passion’s edge in winter melts hearts of snow!
-kim johnson
I think the proper response to this is “mm mm mm.” 🙂 Nothing like watching someone you love do something that will help you both to make one melt. I particularly responded to
just sets the scene with gorgeous sensory details. I love everything about this! The warm window, warm wife, the snow scarf, balsam woods. Cozy and lovely.
Wow, such a beautiful untold story is in this poem, Kim. I love the image of the love melting the snow. Some really visual images–crackling hardwood fires and rugged muscles chopping wood. Nicely done.
Whooohoooo for this fire and love! I don’t often read/see poems that speak of this kind of love anymore. I guess that’s a sign of the times or maybe my eyes just don’t see them anymore. It’s what the world needs, that’s for sure.
I fell in love with this stanza because I can see you and feel you watching with loving eyes and heart:
I hope your husband enjoys your poem as much as I do. Thank you!
Kim, your use of the three words here, the feel of them falling so naturally at the end of lines, is masterful. As is the idea of melting. Such a beautiful poem. And not too, too late to share for Sweetest Day!
What a sweet poem — makes me wish it was colder here to truly appreciate the wintery atmosphere.
I loved the imagery of “the pink sun fading away” and “a plaid-flannelled husband” is a clever use of description.
Kim,
This is simply wonderful. The repetition doesn’t feel forced at all. I love the images you create. My fave part is “still in its frozen coat of snow.”
Thank you for being the first to take on the challenge and you did so very skillfully!
Kim — There is a huge comfort in this poem. The beauty of nature is one part of that, but it is the witnessing of a “plaid-flanneled husband, scarfed in the snow”…that you took the time to notice, to observe through the window… aah… I miss that kind of love. Beautiful. Warming…like the “hardwood fire.” I just let out a huge sigh. 🙂 Thank you. Susie
Thank you for the wonderful prompt, Susan. It will give my brain quite a workout today!