Inspiration: Emotional Memory
I’m always haunted by memories, especially those associated with emotions such as grief, betrayal, and hurt. I know these are negative emotions, but part of healing is accepting and acknowledging their presence in our lives.
Poem Process
Choose an emotional memory. It can be a memory associated with happiness and joy, or one that is associated with heartache, grief, and so on. Allow the memory of the moment to lead your thinking. Don’t hesitate with emotion.
Once you write, read your work aloud. Sit with the writing, then add or strike words and sentences that do not portray the moment accurately.
Travis’s Poem
Betrayal
Betrayal is a cold day—
frigid and damp,
red leaves merging with the white fog of winter.
It’s deep and dark and full of
decay,
a mountain formed with crags and
steep slopes.
It’s a goodbye when you were promised a host of hellos,
a stoic glance that moves you to tears,
because that face was once full of warmth.
It’s the end of music, when the needle moves back to its rest,
And the turntable stops and silence is
victor.
Betrayal crushes and courses and unthreads anything mended.
It steals trust like a dirty thief and has the audacity to ask for more.
It provokes,
ensnares,
and ruptures happiness,
and continues to hum to a delirious rhythm.
Travis Crowder, M.Ed., is a middle school English/Language Arts teacher at
East Alexander Middle School in Hiddenite, NC. He has taught for ten years and has experience in both middle and high school levels. He currently teaches 7th grade ELA and social studies, and works with the gifted and talented students in his school. He and Todd Nesloney co-authored Sparks in the Dark: Lessons, Ideas, and Strategies to Illuminate the Reading and Writing Lives in All of Us.
Memories form cages
Moments where
a you
Is trapped
Forever
At four, spilling
hot chocolate in the
Livingroom
Then banned to drinking
In the kitchen
Like a baby
A month later
in the lawyer’s office
feet sticking straight out
from the stuffed chair
The long curling cord of the phone
stretching the miles between us
“No, I don’t want you as a daddy”
Repeating what was coached
The snares of time
are circular
like the love affair
Between Moon and Tide
Waves approach
recede
Overwhelm
But some memories
are tiny rafts
where forgiveness
Floats
The next week,
our last visit
It was us, the Park
and the Kansas sun
When the slide burned my legs
you bought bags and bags of ice
Which turned into the
Laughter I live in
“Sketch of a Bad Day”
For my own peace of mind
I’m doing this now
Taking a break to create
And to break apart
The emotional exhaustion
Of every day
This is better than a cold drink
On a Summer beach
The rum and sand sifting through my teeth
I’ve got a vacation
In the palm of my hand
When the tired specifics
Are spanked and sent to bed
Sans supper
Or dessert
The happiest I’ve ever been
Was sitting on steel chairs outside cafes
Watching people walk dogs down reflective sidewalks
With my favorite girl in the whole wide world
I like live music
I love to hear her laugh
I must be blind
To not think of her all the time
Yesterday was ugly:
Its breath was a bog
Its teeth like bones that landed wrong
Its eyes like some horribly repetitive radio song
I must be blind
I must be blind
I must be blind
To not think of her all the time
Highway Therapy
For years I’ve cashed in some chips
and shelled out some time for cheap,
highway therapy;
at my fingertips,
on my radio dial,
I gear up
a roadtrip playlist
for long days on pavement that
recalibrate my attitude;
driving alone down Sturgill’s long white line,
familiar rhythms rise and fall with the undulations of I-80,
propelling me over and back across the Platte
while I belt out every lyric I know
and only corn and soybeans
can hear me
throw on my twang,
tap time on the floorboards,
slap the steering wheel
when I hit Ronstadt’s note —
I AM Linda in the bayou on that note —
witness Emmylou walkin’ all the way to Birmingham,
recognize Merle waitin’ for a train,
feel Hank’s cold, cold heart,
and ache that Patsy’s out there walkin’ after midnight.
Fading in the rearview are the dusty roads
of my fussin’
that my worried mind
is slip-sliding away.
by Susie Morice
Your poem as Americana all over it w/ the rhythms of iconic singers and the road trip trope. Having driven across I-80 a number of times, I recognize those born and soybean fields. I feel as though I’m riding shotgun and tapping out the best w/ you. Memories.
It really has been my way of shaking off the cooties of those times when I get too much inside my own head. It’s fun that you know that trek across the plains. I go to WYO for music every summer…great therapy! Thanks for riding shotgun! ?
You captured the freedom that comes from driving. Is this an age thing? Do kiddos now experience this feeling?
You brought the kindling,
and I brought the tinder.
We lay in a pile of stones.
Soon there was a spark,
infatuation ignited. It burnt hot
until it burst into promises.
We fed our log cabin love religiously
until suddenly ambition smothered the flames.
Now all that’s left are the ashes of you and me.
Oh no! I did not want the sensual heat of the literal and metaphoric fire to fizzle into ashes. “Log cabin love” is such an ideal ic, Rae image.
2:55 AM
Shrill ring
rips me out of sleep
“Hello”
“Hello?”
A wounded gasp
Repeated words
Barely recognize my sister’s voice
“Daddy’s dead.
Daddy’s dead.”
Questions stumble
When?
How?
Where?
Mother?
Why?
We gasp together
across the miles.
Root systems
ripped away.
We float
adrift
in our agony.
Your phrase “Root systems / ripped away” struck me as the perfect diction to capture this tragic moment. Thank you for sharing.
Hygge
Hygge
peaceful protection
of a cozy cabin
In a brazen blizzard
I chose “hygge” as my OLW a couple years ago. Your three sets of alliterative words replicate the inherent idea in hygge. Comforting.
I was reluctant to write about grief, but I was inspired by the others who were brave enough to tackle it.
The Void
The sentence has been given
And now we know.
Should there be relief in that?
So we watch eyes wide open sometimes
And other times we blindly ignore
Those tell-tale signs.
We spend time; hold space.
Trying to savor those moments
Though they are bittersweet.
Half-prayers are uttered–
Bestow peace and order.
Take this burden.
Followed by pleas for
More time,
miracle healing
And when it’s over
Emptiness–is it relief or
Is it the life-sized void left behind?
Your poem channels much of my thinking these days. I like the ambiguity in “sentence” and the universality of wanting more time.
This isn’t real life
This isn’t happening to me
You’d never betray me
I stare at the screen
The message memorized
But I can’t believe it
The bee that stings me doesn’t hurt
But the message tears me apart
We plan to meet
It’s a misunderstanding
You will tell me it’s not true
Everything will be fine
My mind races
Unfocused
Unappreciative of the sunshine and summer warmth
A cloud has rolled in
A storm rumbling inside my mind
Driving to meet you
Mind still racing
Heart aching
Wondering, what if it is true?
You pull up next to me in the lot of my apartment
I confront you angry and confused
You tell me it’s true
My heart breaks
into
a million
pieces
I end it right then and there
Never more sure
Aching but knowing this is what I have to do
You drive away
I’m left with the shattered pieces to pick up
Frozen
All we had is gone
What do I do now?
I like the ambiguity in your poem, the sense of loss that accompanied many of life’s experiences. Your stream-of-consciousness approach works well for your subject.
puppy’s greeting
baby’s giggle
son’s hug
daughter’s love
friend’s care
stranger’s hand
An answer to a prayer forgotten
Blossoms floating on an orange-scented breezes
Whispers dancing on feathery cheeks
Squeals rising from outdoor playgrounds
Sunshine peeking through dirt-laden clouds
Joy lives in the noticing
Those little moments can hold so much joy. The simplicity of your poem illustrated your theme beautifully.
Oh, Amy, I so love the four lines of “blossoms floating” and “whispers dancing” and “squeals rising” and “sunshine peeking.” This brings nature into such proximity, intimacy alongside the actual humans in your life! Thank you.
Thank you for sharing! I love the last line “joy lives in the noticing” as the specific images you painted like in “orange-scented breezes” and “dirt-laden clothes” show that every detail is important and noticed.
The concrete details at the beginning replicate the way memory functions. Then you do something very clever: use longer constructions for present joys. Nice!
Your last line is so powerful – joy lives In the noticing. What a powerful reminder to stay plugged in and savoring the moments of our lives as joyful occurrences.
The Few, The Proud
by A Proud US Marine Mom(debm)
There is a WAR going on…
We argued. We begged.
We fought. We bribed.
We battled against battles
harsh words divided us
over the fear of a violent lands
swallowing sons from their mother’s dreams
the few, the proud
Recruiter sitting at the dining room table-
Uninvited.
Intruding on discussions of college tours and essays
Recruiter’s claim of
“the elite fighting forces
no higher honor”
chanting the core values…
HONOR
COURAGE
COMMITMENT
is the future you saw
the few, the proud
College acceptance letters unopened
college tours cancelled
you had already decided
Selflessness to Serve
COMBAT
ARTILLERY
INFANTRY
is the future we saw…
the few, the proud
Gone…summer’s innocence
a naïve HS graduate boy
“broken down” and
diminished by the Superior Drill Sergeant
letters home filled with
tactics, successful maneuvers
harshness and failures
seeking strength from home
commitment
despite the bitter sting of
homesickness
the pride that sang from every letter
settled in our heart
acceptance of a humble man
a Marine was built
The Few, The Proud Mom and Dad
Six months of boot camp dragged on
The yellow footprints
where you stood
vulnerable and scared
committed.
Graduation Day came.
The first sighting of our boy
marching as a man
the flag flying high
Pride reflected in your stature
standing straight
filling your 6’7’’ height
bravery beaming from your brown eyes
admiration pulsating through our bodies
A United States Marine.
The highest honor,
The FEW , The PROUD!
Oh, Deb. I feel your poem so clearly. My son is Army, 101st Infantry and currently serving in Iraq. His journey to soldier wrecked my heart more than once, but the thrill of his growth is something only military parents may understand. God bless your son — and you!
((((Amy))))
Being a military parent has been a roller coaster ride-with several challenging deployments- especially his early tours in Iraq. At the time of my sons deployment there wasn’t any military families in my area to understood my sleepless nights and need to avoid the TV. To channel my anxiety, I became a liaison for the chain of command and military families-providing emotional support and news from the troops. It was here I truly begun to understand how dedicated and humble these soldiers and families are. I met many beautiful families and witnessed hardships and tragedies in and out of war.. My son is now stateside as a civilian- doing well but war does take it’s toll.- a crisis a country still has not fully acknowledged. My best to you and your family God Bless your son. Stay strong-you are both in my prayers.<3
Deb, This line hit me: “swallowing sons from their mother’s dreams.” The sound, alliteration, and the imagery communicate so clearly your worry and fears. And then you circle back to that in the final lines of your poem with “admiration pulsating through our bodies,” and I see how the dream came true, is able to keep becoming now.
Thank you- It was an incredible moment of pride and fear intertwined as he stood before us on the parade ground that graduation day.
I know the emotions you feel from hung two sons who served in the U.S.Marine Corp. I would have sold my soul to keep them from making that choice. I hope your son is thriving. Both my sons did yours in Iraq, and it was particularly brutal for my oldest son. Please thank your son for his service. And thank you for your sacrifice.
Thank you for your sons’ service and yours as well. We serve with them. You are an incredible mother to have raised such selfless men- yes coming home is a blessing but the demons of war are unescapable.
Good Woman
Today, somehow I knew.
So I went to the home
to visit, to sit with her.
This day, somehow I knew.
Seizures stole her dignity
leaving only her will;
the last of her being.
And then there was, the pain.
The pain, the morphine nurse would
ease the pain, assuming
her end. But she refused
respite, and the pain endured.
The second dose should do it,
as the morphine nurse with
sober eyes betrayed. She grasped
the air and sighed “no more”.
I held her hand. Her lungs
whispered submission, then
lay unburdened. I held her
hand. Goodwill, good woman.
Your words put me in the room with you… the pain heartache the fight-submission. Your use of punctuation is very powerful. My deepest sympathy… and Im left reflecting on your last line Goodwill good woman – yes Goodwill gracious you. <3
You captured a truly difficult moment in your poem. The line “Her lungs whispered submission, then lay unburdened” suggest that she had peace. I hope writing this offered some healing too. Thanks for sharing.
steve, thank you for bring us into this moment alongside you. I think this is what is so amazing about our poetry community on this blog. Poems position us alongside one another to bear witness to teachers’ lives, moments of their lives that are veiled from one another. I have a sister-in-law, just 50, in stage four lung cancer: “stole her dignity” and “pain endured” and “whispered submission” and “lay unburdened” are heart-wrenching moments alongside “I held her hand.”
Thank you so much for sharing this powerful and I’m sure painful memory. I really appreciated the line about “somehow I knew” and “I held her hand” as it shows the powerful love for this person.
In your poem “morphine nurse” has an “other” quality, as though this is not a human administering the drug. The length of the poem reinforces the length of the battle, but the last stanza is best w/ the personification of “lungs,” as though they are detached from the body, and the repetition of “good.” The word “unburdened” suggests a release that death can bring. Peace to you, Steve.
Oh, you capture the spirit of love in letting go here! The lungs laying unburdened and your words of goodwill show that death comes both unwanted and desperately wanted at the same time. Your images are beautiful, especially the hand holding.
I was 16 when my father died. I think about death often as a literature teacher and as an aging human. I’ve been reading a lot of books about end of life care and decisions.
“Sonnet for the death that awaits me”
Each year life’s journey toward death draws closer
Extraordinary measures grant reprieve
Impending passing after grows bolder
Time portals close as sliding through a sieve.
And I a future Corpse walk through this life
Beneath each Stone the dust of pasts I find.
Reality of this world’s daily strife
Still bright sun blinks, a changing fickle mind.
With that last Volta in repose I lie
Locked inky box displayed before my kin
Parades of people passing say goodbye
Versed in my life they contemplate what’s been.
Today from comfort I must still arise
To take one step toward my final demise.
Glenda, First, beautiful picture! The line “time portals close as sliding through a sieve” is stunning imagery. I actually looked up the definition of sieve: “a utensil consisting of a wire or plastic mesh held in a frame, used for straining solids from liquids, for separating coarser from finer particles, or for reducing soft solids to a pulp.” The image of time separating, reducing into something helps is both terrifying and comforting like your last lines “still arise” and “final demise.” So much to ponder here. And, I am so sorry for the loss of your father — what memory of him do you most hold on to?
My father was a reader, but he was also blind, having lost his sight five years before his death. I wrote about the most important memory I have of him last year. At the time he was struggling to read as much as he could before his vision failed completely.
Descending Sight
Descending the stairs
I peer through blue frames,
Round the corner, and
Notice my father
Posed at the dining room table.
His shoulders rounded,
His face inches from the amplified bible,
A magnifying glass in his left hand
Poised between verses and cloudy eyes
He drinks the words.
I watch the fingers of
My father’s right hand
Glide across Isaiah’s words,
Prophecies, predictions, visions:
A promised sign, release from darkness.
My father doesn’t see me.
Soon he won’t see the glass, the Bible, the table.
Darkness veils the light.
Impending blindness amplifies
Descending sight.
Thank you for sharing this, Glenda. I so appreciate your consideration of his experience. I am not trying to imagine my father in his last days — who refused to live with us, who checked himself out of a senior apartment to return to his own place (in secret). He “descended,” too, but I spend more time thinking about my loss that his experiences, and this poem helps me rethink, resee. (Sorry that I made this about me.)
I think I make every poem about me. Aren’t we as readers supposed to make connections. My father “ran away” from the Arkansas School for the Blind. That’s the story I’ve lived w/ many years, but the past couple years it’s occurred to me he didn’t run away but returned home because there was no money to continue his education as a blind man. I’m wrestling w/ aging and a bit obsessed w/ it these days.
i love to write in fixed forms especially rondeau and villanelle, but the sonnet is very difficult for me. yours is beautiful in content and form. your realistic acceptance of the inevitable is stunning in its honesty. “And I a future Corpse walk through this life
Beneath each Stone the dust of pasts I find.”
seems death is to be the common theme today.
I think the lovely imagery here may haunt me. I tried to pull specific lines to comment on bit cannot. Beautiful.
Your poem is absolutely beautiful! I’m so sorry about the loss of your father. I lost my mother three years ago and started with death today but couldn’t get that poem written – I so admire your portals closing like a sieve and parades of people passing to say goodbye. Those words are so apt and fitting! Thank you for opening your heart!
Glenda – It makes a lot of sense to use a measured vehicle like a sonnet to unfold your thoughts about time slipping away. It does make us consider our mortality as we age. Just five years ago I rarely gave my demise a thought—that has shifted a great deal. It still surprises me. I’m hoping our prompt for tomorrow pushes us to think about the other end of our lives! LOL! Thanks for sharing your very honest poem. Susie
Travis, thanks. This prompt has helped me process memories of recent family deaths of a sister and a niece just a few months ago, as well as that of my mother who transitioned a few years earlier. The poem that follows blends memories of the last days with all three.
Waiting for her to die,
Should we be happy or sad?
Should we be sorry or glad?
No more treatment.
No more meds
Those physicians have lost their creds.
No more stuff,
She’s had enough.
“Let me go!
You all must know
I’ve had a good life.
I’ve been a good wife.
And a loyal mother.
“I’ve been a good sister to each dear brother
A little demanding, yes that is true,
But, I’ve always been there for each of you.
“Unhook the tubes.
Detach each wire.
Bath me and put on a fresh gown.
Comb my hair and lay me back down.
It’s time for me to retire.
“I’m going home
No more to roam.”
Should we be happy or sad?
Should we be sorry or glad?
Anna, I am so sorry for your recent family deaths. Thank you for sharing this poem with us. The line “detach each wire” resonates with me as I recall the passing of my father a few years ago. It is a long story, but I remember feeling detached — out of body– for a few years unsure of how to feel, happy or sad, sorry or glad. Gratitude for this, Anna.
Sarah, thanks. It always amazes me to learn which lines resonate with different readers/listeners and to read/hear what literal words evoke metaphors for emotional and/or physical memories. Just another reason to let texts do their own talking. Allow readers/students to make meaning based on their own experiences and observations.
The wind howls:
Pull down the shades.
Shut the drapes.
Wrap the blanket
around your shoulders
and rest.
Rest those eyes that’ve read thousands of words.
Rest the mouth that’s both wounded and loved so many hearts.
Rest the mind that’s created
stories and excuses.
Rest
until I kiss your eyelids to join the world once again.
Are you rested?
Raise the shades.
Open the drapes.
Thank the blanket
for keeping you warm.
And love.
Love those rested eyes that can bear witness to lives lived.
Love the rested mouth that can heal others with word.s
Love the rested mind that can create prose and verse.
Love.
until I kiss your eyelids to rest again.
* I was inspired by Travis’s first line “Betrayal is a cold day” and thought I would try to anthropomorphize wind giving me permission to nap between my junior high job and community college job yesterday. Chicagoland is very windy, and I was beginning to blow away. Here’s to naps!
Your personification of a howling wind seemed to be a negative thing. However, by the end of your poem, it was clear you were glad to hear the howling that invited you to rest. This reminds me that sometimes when we think others are “howling, hollering”, they really may hold us dear to their hearts and may just be urging us to take care of ourselves.
When I wrote this, the wind was howling, and it felt annoying because I was so tired but resisting rest. When I read it now, I wonder if “wind whispers” would better capture the way the wind cared for me when I could not. Hmm. Thank you for your reading of this.
I’ve been working on gratitude lately, so your line “thank the blanket” struck me soundly. Such a seemingly simple thing, a blanket.
Thank you for sharing! I love the line “love those rested eyes that can bear witness to lives lived” because it makes me realize the importance of rest and how self-care is necessary when also caring for others.
I’ve read your poem several times throughout the day and keep returning to both the exhaustion of teaching and the rest that rejuvenates. I’ve been in that roll of teaching all day and then teaching a university course at night. The need for rest is real, and it’s the single greatest factor in my decision to retire this year. I’m tired.
Thank you, Glenda. Congratulations on your retirement. I understand the exhaustion of navigating physically and emotionally between institutions. Last year, the pace landed me in the ER. Just when I think I have the stamina to endure, I am reminded (dramatically) that I cannot do “it” all.