Jennifer Jacobson is the author of award-winning children’s books including Small as an Elephant(IRA Young Adult’s Choice, Parents’ Choice Gold Award), Paper Things (ILA Social Justice Award, NTCE Charlotte Huck Honorable Mention)and The Dollar Kids illustrated by Ryan Andrews (ABA IndieNext List and Bank Street Best Book of the Year). She is also a former teacher, a literacy consultant, a writing coach and the author of No More, “How Long Does It Have to Be?”: Fostering Independent Writers in Grades 3-8.
Inspiration
As a writer of fiction, I’ve long believed in the power of what Pam Houston calls glimmers or what Lynda Berry calls aliveness: objects or snatches of memory that seem to have more staying power . . . perhaps an electrical charge.
Poet, Marie Howe, asks her students to write down ten observations of the actual world. She doesn’t want observations embellished with meaning, but pure descriptions that lead the mind to new ways of seeing. A keyhole if you will. This is harder than it seems.
I chose Howe’s poem “What the Living Do” as a mentor text, and a poster, hanging in the window of my local bank, as my glimmer.
https://poets.org/poem/what-living-do
Process
Slow (the Pam Houston way): Capture glimmers as you go about your daily life. Explore one or try combining two and see how they play off of one another.
Faster (the Marie Howe way): Write down ten observations of the actual world. Just describe. What do one or more of these observations spark? Go there.
Fastest (the Lynda Barry way): Write ten nouns on ten slips of paper. Turn one over. That’s your word. Jot down ten memories that word elicits. Write a poem about the memory that feels most alive. (Watch the video for a more complete lesson.)
Alternative: Revisit epistolary poetry. Write a poetic letter (as Marie Howe and I did) to someone who may never read it.
I Thought I Saw You by Jennifer Jacobson
Mom, I thought I saw your picture
on a poster.
You were younger and wearing your public smile.
It was my favorite.
I don’t recall you beaming at me in that way:
drawing others to you. Like bees to nectar.
I try. Really, I do. But mostly I conjure
a knowing smirk.
“Come now,” it seemed to say:
challenging my honesty,
my authenticity.
Perhaps that’s fair.
I created a false self,
a false mother (all butterflies),
a false life?
I was afraid to look too closely
at the real one.
Even now, staring at this poster of an imposter,
I want to feel like a girl who’s lost her mama.
Instead, I’m back in my designated spot
beside you
on the faux leather couch.
You curled up,
sipping your drink on the rocks.
Me, recoiling, repelled by the sourness
of the souls of your feet.
Or early mornings, while you stood over me, hairbrush in hand,
yanking my ponytail tight.
I held my breath to avoid inhaling
the perspired odor of your last cigarette.
Years later, I still held my breath,
as I stood by your bed.
Your last words to me:
“Where are your brothers?”
Write
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
It’s not really the Tower of London,
just a plaster five-inch gift shop replica
that sits on my desk.
I only know it’s made of plaster because it once fell,
and there is still a chip in the base.
I’d never been to London when my student and best man gave it to me.
He won a scholarship to study in London, and I couldn’t have been prouder.
I’ve since seen it, the actual tower, but it wasn’t the same.
I guess it’s because I can’t share the experience with him.
We can’t sit down over a pint and talk about the Thames and the clouds.
The last time I went to his house, he wasn’t there.
Only sorrow and emptiness.
Dear Online Learning,
I realize that you are not a novelty, by any means.
You were the method by which I obtained my teaching degree.
But, it is so different having to be on the creative side,
rather than the user side.
I now have become the producer of online instruction, and
to be perfectly honest, this is hard.
I can only imagine how the parents of my Scholars must feel;
having to learn to navigate apps, usernames, passwords, and downloads.
Online Learning, are you here to stay?
Will this continue as the new landscape of education?
I hope not…I miss the smiles of my Scholars…
their hugs, high-fives, and hand shakes.
I know this is not your fault, Online Learning.
You are the result of something so sinister
that no one could have ever fathomed would occur
in our lifetime.
I guess, though, Online Learning, when I look on the bright side,
Many of us are learning new skills.
COVID 2019
Tonight, we lit candles
It was no ordinary
Candlelight vigil
It was personal
Some would say
Business as usual
But NO
These are our heroes
Frontline workers
Stand in line and take risk
They give up their freedom
To be cadged with the enemy
Corona Virus
COVID 2019
Where did you come from?
Disrupting our normal
I want my life back
I want my freedom back
You have jailed the whole world
We have become prisoners in a global cell
You are not welcome in our lives
You are an intruder, a murderer
A Global Pandemic
Catastrophe
One day the world will be rid of you
You will become only a memory
You will lose your power
You will be concurred
Melissa,
I know exactly what you mean. It may seem like we are trapped in our houses, but this will end. I also understand wanting your life back.
Winter Nights by Jenny Sykes
Reminiscing about
Cold winter nights
Situated beneath our large bay window
My nightgown tightly wrapped over my knees
As I shimmy myself perfectly
Into position
Legs scrunched up into my chest
“American Girl” and “Baby Sitters Club” books
Lay piled in stacks beside me
A slow series of slight raps and taps ascended from the basement
My baby brother scanned the room
Then snuggled closer to Mom
I smiled
As warm air ascended
My nightgown became a balloon over my knees.
The heat provided comfort
The light outside the window was dim but
Caught sparkling crystals
As they fell from the sky
Peering up into the night,
My eyes would catch a flake
And track its journey
As far as I possibly could
I always seemed to lose it though
Somewhere between the Arborvitae bush
And my sleepy eyes.
Each fell in such a distinct manner
Some large and fluffy
Some barely even there
Snowflakes disappear
Warm air expires
Cold winter nights
Dreaming and reminiscing
Hi Jennifer,
I decided to come back tonight to see what I missed. Your poem is sweet, tender, and light. I love the innocence of your descriptions of you, your brother and mom. I absolutely adore that you chose “sparkling crystals/As they fell from the sky” for the poem’s focus. It’s a dazzling image, fading away as quickly as it appeared.
Beautiful. Rest well.
Jennifer! I loved how this “I smiled
As warm air ascended
My nightgown became a balloon over my knees” took me back into my own childhood experience of “ballooning” over the hot-air vent!
The contrast of the warm nightgown and the cold of the winter nights is striking.
at the table
facing the screen waiting for them to arrive
a candle flickers anchoring me to this space
as they arrive hellos are exchanged
and should we wait another minute to start
weather check-in brought lots of partly cloudys
this is how we talk when we share a table
intentions spoken patience, sustainability
motivation, relaxed fluid, schedule or not
conscious thought visible in faces
in the grid across my screen
so begins the last day of week one in the remote classroom
two show up for office hours
a little English talk about their reading – lots of time
happy to talk to familiar people
easy conversation, hey Ms Langley
the last class is small
class begun with how have you been doing
conversation was easy
we’ve been doing it for months
Kate shared a book talk missed the day class was canceled
a little talk about two stories, energy lacking
now faces frozen in squares
words are easy
but something is missing
HI Jamie,
I’m so thankful I came back tonight to read what I missed. Wow, this is powerful, sad, and unfortunately so real. I especially connected with the last lines:
“a little talk about two stories, energy lacking
now faces frozen in squares
words are easy
but something is missing”
Because no matter how we connect in our virtual world, there is still an obvious emptiness, a missing element, and I would venture to guess it’s the human energy and love that only come when we are in the same physical space.
Thank you for sharing this. It’s perfect.
Those last four lines got me too.
It seems right to make the first stanza, without students, the heaviest. While I try to stay connected to students, it feels like everything else is continuously growing to overshadow that connection or line of communication.
Wedding Day
April 5, 1984
Tiny twinkles
of love
glimmered on his
trembling lip
as he said
I do.
? Lovely imagery and sentiment.
—glenda
Aw, that is just so tender. “Twinkle of love”… very sweet memory. Hope you and your folks are faring well. Sending positive vibes, Susie
Allison,
How sweet and romantic! Happy belated anniversary! He’s a lucky man! This is lovely.
eLearning
The little yellow circle
next to their name
means they turned in the assignment.
they are there.
My heart jumps.
I can’t connect with them
in traditional ways
so I the bulb makes me know
they are there.
My heart warms.
The gradual appearance
of words on my phone screen,
a notification
they are there.
My heart leaps.
An email reaching out or
a respone indicating they read mine
their words on the screen
they are there
Our hearts connect.
~Susan Ahlbrand
9 April 2020
Susan, I really enjoy the joy you shared in this poem. I agree that when we cannot connect with our students it is heart-warming to read an email from them or to see they’ve completed work. Teaching is truly an act of love. You capture that sentiment so well with your closing line!
Susan,
This makes my heart flutter w/ happiness. They are the light, the yellow bulb. Thank you.
—glenda
Susan,
Today I told my students who showed up for Zoom that watching their faces pop up was a highlight of my day. You captured this feeling in your poem. I love how you used the repetition (my heart jumps; my heart warms; my heart leaps) to guide us toward the conclusion: our hearts connect. Beautiful.
Susan, I love your positivity. I hope that I can carry this attitude through my days of looking at dots changing color, messages going back and forth, etc. The repetition of “they are there” is powerful and that feeling has brought smiles to my face this week. Thank you for putting into such lovely words.
Egyptian Rat Screw
Or, ERS
Samuel slammed his palm on the table,
Roaring with his victory like a lion over his prey.
Zach’s body shook with laughter, aggressively
Rattling the table. This game, not life or death,
Yet still so crucial to the livelihood of this moment.
Logan was swirling the green apple wine in her glass
As if there is a cheese that could pair with a jolly-rancher.
She’s watching the escalation unfold. Sam, gloating, pulled
His stack from the tabletop and into his deck, shuffling
To get them all straight, and each of us leaned back down
Into position. Sam flipped his card and the chaos ensued, again.
Seven of clubs,
Two of diamonds,
King of hearts,
Two of diamonds.
My hand sent ripples through the table as it landed on its target –
Unobstructed. I grabbed my stack and laughed, staring Sam down.
As previously discussed, this is my game. Zachary cackled, “watch it,
Samuel, you’ll summon the beast.” He reached over to pat my head.
“I’m not that competitive!”, I tried to defend myself from the accusations.
“You have a scar from it on your hand, Abigail!” Logan screeched from
The kitchen, whipping her body around the corner to stare me down
As if to say, “Abigail, be real here, you’re the most competitive person
I’ve ever met.” Flashing before my eyes, I realize that I am happier
In this moment than I have noticed in a while. Sam’s still throwing
Taunts onto the wobbly coffee table, and the coffee table is
Questioning whether it will make it through another round of this
Ridiculous game.
These are the people I live for
Hi Abigail… I came back to read a few more tonight. I really liked the sense of intensity and competitiveness that you write about here – Sam flipped his card and the chaos ensued, again. I loved the ending personifying the coffee table! Fun poem!
So much of this poem to love – the dialogue, both internal and external, the back and forth between the characters, the table itself entering the conversation. And to be honest, the title alone hooked me.
It haunts me
penetrating my soul
leaving me in anguish
making me feel hollow
longing…
Always there…
The first thing in my mind when I wake up
The last thing in my mind before I fall asleep
The one thing that wakes me up in the middle of the night
wanting to scream, to run away
I cannot escape it
It’s around me, it’s within me
It consumes me
It is me
This took such an unexpected turn! I was waiting for some villain to arise, and this makes me think a lot about how I’ve been treating myself this self-isolation; it’s hard spending so much time with just yourself, but we are not villains, and we are not alone. Just people living in a weird silent kind of chaos. I really appreciate how bold that last line is, and the work that it is doing. It made me feel that shift! Thanks for sharing!
Monica, your poem is definitely thought-provoking and powerful. “Anguish, hollow, scream, escape, consumes” are all extremely intense words. The last line carries such a punch. Your poem captures such a strong and raw emotion that I believe many can relate to. Thanks for sharing!
Wow! Totally not what I expected in the end. I think it is so fitting for this time of quarantine though. I love the final lines, “It’s around me, it’s within me…It is me”.
I needed to write a poem that wasn’t depressing today!
His hot dog breath in my face
first thing in the morning
his internal clock waking me
irritatingly at 5:00 am
precisely
without fail
regardless of the calendar
launches my day with love
Mo,
I loved the way you described your dog’s mind “his internal clock waking me”, dogs don’t really have a sense of time they just know they want to constantly be loved. All the time, like you said “regardless of the calendar”. I enjoyed your little nondepressing poem.
Mo – Your “his” is my Watty Boy’s cousin! The 5:00 a.m. surely is my life! And it is the “love” that hauls my heinie out of bed. Feels good to have that parallel with you, my friend. Thanks, Susie
Mo, this was such a happy and fun read. My pup, too, has an internal-pee-clock — although I’m extra happy it’s not near as early as yours does! Your poem reminds me to be a little more grateful when my boy wakes me out to go potty; he is, after all, doing what I taught him to. This brought me joy!
Dogs are just the best. And they definitely launch a day with love – I love that line so much!Thank you for bringing this smile to my face again. Hot dog breath – ha!
Mo,
Puppy love is the best alarm. Wonderful how our critters both annoy and “launches” our “day with love.” Perfect. Thank you.
—glenda
First of all, let me confess. I had a nasty spouse who had hot dog breath because he ate too many wieners and junk food. However, I have reason to believe, this is not your spouse. LOL ?
I love this for too many wrong reasons. Still chuckling because at least. your hot dog breath greeting “launched your day with love” instead of pure disgust.
Thank you for tonight’s giggles!
I love the simplicity, but authenticity in this poem. How many of us are walking our dogs way too much these days? And I have to admit, sometimes it’s irritating, but I love it.
Did you know that what we call a stylus for writing on our tablets is an ancient writing implement, of a small rod with a pointed end for scratching letters on wax-covered tablets and a blunt end for obliterating them?
Stymied by a Stylus
I ordered a stylus online,
Blame it on COVID one nine.
I couldn’t get out to the stores.
So I ordered, then went back to my chores.
I got what I ordered
But not what I wanted.
I thought I was so current communicating online, most of the time.
Now, as the devices are getting smaller and my fingers are getting stiffer,
I need help. The stylus is supposed to make me work swifter.
I just wanted one of those nobby nosed markers, not pointy like a cone,
To tap the letters and numbers on my tablet and cell phone.
Instead of moving forward with technology,
I’m having to go back to ancient times.
Nothing is really new. The oldies knew what to do.
Sharpen a stick and scratch out the letter.
Use the smooth end, to erase and make it better.
Everything old is new again.
The old fashioned stylus is taking a spin
And creating havoc for me!
I went online, thinking I’d get it time
I wanted to use I to draft this day’s rhyme
To work really fast,
With something that will last
But it didn’t work.
And It wasn’t a quirk.
I just didn’t know
My ignorance would show.
What goes around, comes around
I wish I’d known what I’d need for a phone.
Ignorance about an old fashioned tool
Is making this here lady look like a fool.
Now everyone knows, I’m not all that cool.
Anna, your poem really made me smile, which was just what I needed today. We have really been forced to push ourselves when it comes to technology recently. I have never felt more like a dinosaur than I have in the last two weeks. My favorite line is “The oldies knew what to do.” Thanks for a delight today!
The Tears of My Mind
I had a dream a while back.
A dream where I knew I was dreaming,
but couldn’t wake myself up from because of how real it felt.
In my dream there was no sound,
but from her lips I could tell she was talking to me.
The most Beautiful, Honest, Pure girl I had ever met.
As I watched her lips, and her facial expressions I knew what we were discussing.
It was our future,
one in which we wouldn’t have each other to hold,
where I was too far away to Love her like she deserved.
As she began to cry I did the same.
I couldn’t imagine leaving hr, and yet my subconscious was dreaming about it,
almost as if to prepare me for it.
As my tears got bigger I turned away so that she wouldn’t see,
Immediately feeling her embrace from behind.
I could now hear her words, as soft and sweet as her cheeks,
and as gentle and whole as her embrace.
With her head on my shoulder she whispered,
“It’s OK to let go.”
I turned to hug her back,
But she was gone.
I was alone.
Alone in my mind,
Alone in my heart,
Alone in my tears.
It was then that I sprung from my dream still teary eyed.
I then realized that they were not only tears,
but also the Fears of my mind.
Malachi, this is heart-wrenching and so real to me. I love how easily you draw us into your dream with her descriptions and your conversation. All so real. Then we feel that pain that we all know in our dreams and in our fears.
I turned to hug her back,
But she was gone.
I was alone.
Alone in my mind,
Alone in my heart,
Alone in my tears.
Leaves me holding on and praying for it not to be real.
Chilling and marvelous.
Looking for Signs in Spring
From here
Your favored spot
I watch
Elm tree buds
Frantically waving
I feel
Sun rays
Warming my face
I ponder
Pregnant clouds
Full of promise
I recall
Devil’s Tower, last summer
An ominous wind’s
Keening lament
I stared
At a burnt tree
Frozen in place
Were you calling to me then?
I’ve been waiting so long
For a sign
Today, gazing at the spring sky
In your favorite place
I wonder
Are you loved?
Are you safe?
Barb Edler
April 9, 2020
Barb, the form you created for this piece pulls us along with you…what you see, what you feel, what you remember. I like the repetition of I __ (verb) statements followed by concrete specific nouns and then descriptive phrases. Your short lines break move like the thought or observation itself, quick. I also thought the use of questions at the end of the poem push us beyond the personal to the existential. You’ve left me with a few questions to ponder for myself. Thank you for sharing your poem with us!
Barb, those last three lines!! They leave me wondering who the speaker is writing to in this piece. I had decided while reading that the recipient of this poem had passed on, but those last three lines make me question my assumptions. This is a wonderful piece! Thank you for sharing!
Barb,
The verbs you use—watch, feel, ponder, recall, stared—evoke a longing in the speaker. I recall that “Keening lament” in the wind at Devil’s Tower and a sense of abandonment and lifelessness there I found disturbing. You capture this in your poem. I’m curious about the “you” in the poem. And the ending, “ I wonder / Are you loved? / Are you safe?” Gives me a sense of sadness in its implicit suggestion someone is missing from the speaker’s life. This is a lovely poem, fitting for this moment in time. Thank you.
—glenda
This: “An ominous wind’s
Keening lament”
Who brings the word-combo of “keening lament” to my ear/eyes/heart? Only a poet. Thank you.
Your ending:
“Are you loved?
Are you safe?”
gave me such a strong feeling of heartache. Thank you for sharing raw feelings so beautifully.
I read this several times to really take in the words and the feeling… I love how your lines “I watch, I feel, I wonder”… They made me stop and pay close attention to what followed. I love how you wrote this.
Getting to the Other Side
I made the bed this morning,
stood there in a pause,
proud of myself for bothering —
they say routines
are what get you through this —
I smoothed the mattelassé bedspread
and thought probably should’ve washed the sheets —
meh, who cares —
and pulled two clean towels from the closet
turned on the shower,
and slid under the hot spray;
standing long enough to
let the heat burn my back to a steamy redness,
I exhaled long and let loose a caterwaul
that surely startled Watty Boy;
stepping over his old bones on the mat,
I wrapped my wet body in blue terry,
and we slipped out on the deck,
letting the 40-degree chill
bring my hot skin back to body temperature,
and looked up.
The Supermoon hung in the southwestern sky
like a big ol’ cannonball on fire — still
after hours of measured travel
from the opposite horizon —
and I snatched a glimmer
of what it might be like
getting to the other side
of Covid.
by Susie Morice©
Susie… always a treat to see what you bring to the table. I was right there with you about washing the sheets – meh, who cares? And the keeping of routines that help us all stay sane – making the bed, showering to get energized and ready for the day. I love the idea of seeing a glimmer of hope of getting to the other side. Grateful for your perspective and superb writing! I always learn something about writing from you!
Oh, this is lovely. Love the pain from the hot water that gets totally flipped upside down and forgotten by the chilly air and the super moon…”and I snatched a glimmer…” Fabulous!
Susie, I love the sequence of your poem. The sensory appeal is clear, and I can relate to wanting that shower heat, then the cool, and the thoughtful reflection at the end closes the poem so well. The routine of the day still feels awkward to me and I think that feeling is captured so well in this poem.
Susie,
I read this slow-moving mournful poem while John Perine sang a slow tune in the background. It seemed fitting. I know COVID isn’t the only thing you’re “getting to the other side” of. T gf and you for this reminder we need routines and gazing at the night sky takes us to the other side.
—Glenda
Hi friend,
I am thrilled to have not missed your poem tonight. I love it. Weird how my brain refused to believe you’d go outside in the cold air after the hot shower. Wow, you’re a super woman! I can barely go out the bathroom to the next room without feeling like it’s the arctic. Loved the new routines and details related to the times we are in:
I smoothed the mattelassé bedspread
and thought probably should’ve washed the sheets —
meh, who cares —
And:
I exhaled long and let loose a caterwaul
that surely startled Watty Boy;
And the hope that the “a big ol’ cannonball on fire…” brings to all of us. We will and return, still on fire.
Love it. Thank you for always giving so much of yourself to us.
I ran into the early morning rain,
in pajamas and bare feet,
to grab the newspaper,
before it was soaked.
I jumped back inside
soggy,
cold,
giddy, and
awake.
As a child,
I loved a soaking rain,
water coursing
down the street.
We’d run outside with
plywood scraps from the shed,
and surf the gutters.
I was also
terrified of thunder.
Loud booms
sent me under my bed,
child’s pose,
arms wrapped around my head,
seeking refuge.
In what ways am I still a child?
Why have I
mostly
forfeited the play?
Why have I
mostly
kept the fear?
After the rain,
the wind has raged,
lashing at the awnings,
tumbling the trash cans,
slamming the fence gate.
When it screeched like a tea kettle,
I jumped and
turned to see who was there,
alert.
This wind is the stuff
of my fears.
It isn’t going anywhere.
Not any time soon.
We may not be halfway to calm.
Throw open the door
and go out
into
it.
Maureen, your closing stanza is particularly poignant. Today, in the middle of a sunshiny day, the wind stormed through and it snowed for about five minutes!
We can’t predict before we head out, we just have to go on out into whatever the weather blows our way!
Maureen, I love the progress of your poem. At the end, it feels as though it’s a challenge to yourself. I appreciate the joy you share from your childhood and how you counterbalance this with the fears a storm can have. I really like the action words in the second to last stanza. They are powerful and insistent and set up the close to the poem well. Now, going out into the world is a new challenge.
Maureen,
Do you know the poem “Storm Warnings”? Immediately your poem took me to that one, one of my favorites. Your centering the questions “ In what ways am I still a child?
Why have I
mostly
forfeited the play?
Why have I
mostly
kept the fear?” gives me pause. At what point do we lose the balance? Love this subtle focus on Perspective. Thank you.
—glenda
Maureen — The opener…dashing out into the rain… caught me right away. And then the reflection… the images of you as a little kid…that fear… “arms wrapped round my head” — so visual. You pose a question that resonates: “In what ways am I still a child?” and those very sensory wind words (raged, lashing, tumbling, slamming…) good stuff. As you approach those ending lines, it is the “throw open the door and go” that made me smile. Yes! I like the strength in that ending. Thanks, Susie
The line that really resonates with me is the question “why have I mostly forfeited the play?” It almost works as a rhetorical question and I pose it to myself. I love the ending which commands the reader to “throw open the door and go out into it.”
Introverted personality,
I always longed for my alone time.
Every time I was stuck in a crowd
Stiff, uncomfortable, just wanting to go home
Curl up with a book
And my own simple thoughts.
Now my thoughts are too much alone
I find myself reaching for the phone
Begging for connection that I loathed before
The touch of a hand,
The brush of a shoulder,
Even a hug.
Why oh why did you always want to be alone
Was it because you had a choice to be with people
Was it because you actually wanted to be alone
Now it seems
My longing has changed from one to many
Your poem acknowledges our need to have choice, how choice gives us a feeling of control. This pandemic has called our bluff on this sense of control! This line “Now my thoughts are too much alone” – so true, so poignant, so heartfelt.
Lauryl… I didn’t realize until the pandemic how much of an introvert I really am as well. But I, too, am now longing to just have a chance to go places and be with people again, and your words, “I find myself reaching for the phone…begging for connection that I loathed before” really resonated with me. I am especially sad that we can’t even be with family members. That is the real tragedy of this right now.
Lauryl – You ask the very questions that many of us have been asking. This is an aloneness that Is nothing we could ever have bargained for. “Begging for connection” says it all. I’m struck by how much physical connection is critical. Right now, I’m feeling like that infant that didn’t get held and is forever whacked because of that deprivation. Every day we have to mindfully get a grip…easier said than done. Thanks for this common ground! Susie
Lauryl,
You have articulated a wonderful paradox: the longing for alone time now eschewed during this time of forced isolation. It’s human nature to want what we can’t have. Favorite line: “Now my thoughts are too much alone.” When I moved to Idaho many years ago I encountered a forced, cultural-induced isolation. I had to learn different social norms. I had no idea then how those days would help me now. It’s uncanny. Thank you for saying what many feel.
—Glenda
Several people have expressed similar sentiment…more so jokingly. But, this is real for many. You have total capture how I feel. I love being alone, not liking to be in crowds much. But, when you are forced and have no choice…that’s a different story, or poem, as you has so eloquently written. I pray you find the connection you need.
A Morning Walk on a Crisp Spring Day
A simple conversation:
She’s a self professed enigma,
smirks at her own eclectic musical palate,
straddling between Billie Eilish and Twenty-One Pilots,
she can entertain that conversation with middle school aplomb
she sinks her teeth into the “ring of fire” on Friday,
morphs into an old soul on Sunday crooning Sinatra “her way”
Today she wears a tie and fedora.
A simple conversation:
Strictly speaking, country is not her thing …
the guy,
the dog,
the pick-up truck,
whiskey– nope,
but
there’s the Man in Black …
and musing about rap doesn’t ignite the spark, either …
too fast,
too much rhyme,
why so angry?
A simple conversation on crisp spring day,
ruminating about music.
I learned so much about the speaker here, the likes and dislikes. At first read, I gravitated toward that first stanza – sinking her teeth into the “ring of fire” on Friday – love that. But on subsequent reads, I love that simple conversation of why country is not her thing. The -nope says it all.
Tammi — This is so fun…to stride along with your “ruminating about music,” something I love to do and include in my every day. That you wander from Johnny Cash to Sinatra and rap and “can entertain that conversation with middle school aplomb,” well, dang, that’s wonderful! Your students love that…your friends love that.. I love that! Thank you! Susie
The lines…She’s a self professed enigma, smirks at her own eclectic musical palate…totally drew me in. I need to know more. You have done superb job of detailing her “eclectic musical palate” and what will never make the cut. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this poem.
Inspired by Adam’s use of haiku on Day 7
Sipping mango tea
Always takes me back in time
To my college days.
The ease of a haiku with just a glimpse of insight and image always draws me in. Yours does this so well today. There’s image (mango tea), action (sipping), setting (college days), and memory travel. I’m reminded of Williams’s plums.
Thank you. Because I minored in German, I had opportunities to study in Germany. There was a small group that held meetings at the university where I studied one summer. I never had much money in those days, so the mango tea they offered was a veritable nectar. The smell always takes me back to that small fellowship of students.
Wow. Katrina, as I read your haiku, I was reminded that I, too, would sip (green) mango tea in college…a habit that had slipped away from me until I read this. And suddenly, I’m transported to cool autumn days in a new space with new faces. Thanks for the trip!
I tried the “Linda Barry Way” and followed the suggestion of taking the one chosen word, making the big X on the paper, and followed her prompts from the video to focus more on that moment in time. She suggests coming back to what I wrote after 24 hours. That may or may not happen. For now, I’m leaving it here.
Algebra
By Stacey L. Joy © April 9, 2020
Fall 1975 through 1976
Algebra set fire
between my mother and my joy
I struggled to understand
The value of “x” or “y” or “xy”
None of it made sense to me.
I cried because Mommie was mad
She said I should know math
easily like Pam did
She wanted to cook dinner
drink Chardonnay
and eat Cheez-its
in peace.
She looked at me like
something was wrong
I didn’t know if it was me
who was the something wrong
Or if my algebra
was done wrong
or was everything
and everyone
wrong?
When she got up
and poured another glass of wine
I sneaked a glance at the TV
I Love Lucy, crying again
Just like me, crying again
Mommy sat down again
harder and heavier
Claimed she couldn’t understand
why I couldn’t understand
that “x” equaled 10!
Had “x” always been 10?
Was there any other way
to interpret the problem?
I saw it as an interpretation
not an evaluation or solution
Can we discuss why “x” is 10?
Was it always going to be
her way or the highway?
She ate half the box of Cheez-its
Her wine glass sweated
through three refills
My Kleenex dwindled into
white rolls of lint,
fell on my rubbed-thin homework paper
and stuck to my cheeks
But I finished my work.
I hated Algebra
I hated wine and Cheezits
I hated arguing with Mommie
Because in the end
She would always win.
I love the imagery you use (My Kleenex dwindled into white rolls of lint, fell on my rubbed-thin homework paper and stuck to my cheeks).
Stacey,
Thank you for sharing this poem and your experience. I couldn’t stop thinking about some of the Common Core math strategies and the “old” procedures–and how frustrating that is. I also cannot stop imagining the taste of Chardonnay and Cheezits, maybe the crackers cleanse the pallet???
My favorite lines are, “My Kleenex…my work.” This created great imagery and brought out an emotional response. Thank you and good luck returning to it.
Wow! This really speaks to me. I had the very same struggle with Algebra. To this day I have a strong math phobia. I also had a parent (my father) who couldn’t understand why I didn’t understand. Didn’t believe I was paying attention in class. Wondered why I didn’t ask questions. I remember thinking. “I can’t ask questions because I don’t even know what to ask.” Your lines “My kleenix dwindled into/ white rolls of lint/ fell on my rubbed-thin homework paper/ and stuck to my cheeks” totally described me at that moment in my life. So beautifully expressed. Thank you so much for sharing this!
Stacey,
Math hurts. Algebra hurts more. Lord knows I’ve shed those tears, too. It’s as though you tapped into my experiences w/ math when you write:
“My Kleenex dwindled into
white rolls of lint,
fell on my rubbed-thin homework paper
and stuck to my cheeks
But I finished my work.”
The word “work” jumps out at me because the image of your mom drinking wine and eating Cheezits as you and Lucy cried feels so unfair and like an avoidance of work on the parent’s part. This just breaks my heart, and I want to make everything better for the young you in this poem. Thank you.
—glenda
Oh, boy. Not only do I recall my own days of frustration over the homework I wasn’t quite ready for but I also remember helping my own two kids. Nothing helped me understand my students more than being the parent. I feel for you so vividly through the stanzas, and stanza three is everything. And the second to the last stanza is a close second!
Oh, Stacey, oh, Stacey! You begin with a time and struggle and then takes us into the place, that space where it was felt. And then you show us who was with you in that space. The interaction with others during our struggle is where we learn “wrong” and how one look from someone we love makes us question if it is us that is wrong or if it is their projection of self. (And now I am projecting my moments — of the looks I received growing up making me think I was the wrong — sorry to hijack the response.) And then you move us through your observation and the residue of this memory that rests in your being — “I hated…” and the wrong is forever bound to Algebra, Wine, Cheezits, and arguing. I get it. I do. Thank you for taking us into this moment.
Sarah
Thank you and now of course I love my wine! Just have to go slowly with the crackers. ?
Stacey — You rocked this one! The whole scenario blasts through these short lines — that’s such good crafting — I’m jealous. The math — well, heck, I have about as much math sense as a doorknob…. but the tenacity of grinding through asking meaty questions… in the face of Mommie and the sweating wine glass and “I Love Lucy”… you racked up the details so effortlessly. This reminded me of my mom showing me “the right way” to sew a dart — in a damned A-line skirt in 7th grade (home ec assignment) that I had no intention of EVER wearing. It was not a pretty scene. I adored my mom, but at that age, I hated the whole idea of sitting there taking out the “wrong” stitches and doing it over. I totally love that you asked such a logical question, “had x always been 10.” Perfectly logical question! The contrast between what your mommie wanted to do (Cheez-its, chardonnay, cook dinner) and what you HAD to do (stinking algebra) was so effective. I felt particularly bad that while her wine glass “sweated through three refills,” you were chained to the railroad tracks. Wonderful poem! Thank you! You always move me, make me laugh, or totally surprise me — what a treat! Susie
Stacey, I loved your poem. I have to tell you about many years ago when my kids were little and I was about to take the GRE. I was panicked about the math section and had to explain to them that I needed to study quietly in the basement a few hours here and there whenever I could. My curious 5 year old looked at the prep book and asked so many questions about it. I told him I had to work hard to figure out what X equals. Fast forward a month or two later when I took the test. When I got home he ran out of the house to greet me yelling, “Well?!? What is it? What does X equal?!?” Thanks for bringing that wonderful memory to me today!
Oh, Stacey. You did go into a jabbing and exposing place in your poem today. You jabbed many of us and your own heart.
This right here:
Had “x” always been 10?
Was there any other way
to interpret the problem?
I saw it as an interpretation
not an evaluation or solution
Can we discuss why “x” is 10?
If teachers and parents and students could discuss this, as you longed to do with your mommy, maybe more of us would like or tolerate algebra. I love that you had a simple request for a discussion. A poet’s eye and heart seeing the possibility in interpreting “x”. Why not have the discussion?
The “white rolls of lint” and “rubbed-thin homework paper”. Thank you for putting your emotions on display in this compelling and exquisite poem.
Wedding Ring
The band has grown familiar
After only a few months
When I take you off, I feel a disconnect
Like some part of me is missing
The band may have lost its original glimmer
The wedding day shine has worn slightly
But the bad is still there
With the engagement ring
It reminds us
Of being with others
Of celebration
Of joy
Of family
Of connections
Of love
Every day feels the same lately
But the ring reminds me of what matters
My ring was on my list of nouns for today too, I’m glad you decided to write about yours! A wedding ring carries so many glimmers. I love your ending: “Every day feels the same lately / But the ring reminds me of what matters”. I agree that remembering joyful moments like these is more important than ever right now!
“When I take you off, I feel a disconnect” – such a beautiful testament to one’s wedding vows!
Michelle, Your poem reminds of the reason rings have become the symbol exchanged during many marriage ceremonies,
When ” Every day feels the same …. / the ring reminds me of what matters
Thanks.
Michelle,
things in life can seem too familiar at times that we often forgot about them. We also forget what is important sometimes and must remind ourselves. I loved the ending of your piece “Every day feels the same lately/but the ring reminds me of what matters.”
Dad, your Complete Short Stories of Ernest raise my monitor, so I
don’t strain my neck as I write.
And a backdrop image on Zoom looks just like the mural on your
apartment wall, the forest one
that you borrowed money from me to print while your bills collected
coffee stains and sketches of dreams.
It’s spring again: only I am here not there, here with Ernest & William
not there with abandoned blueprints
scattered across counters and floors because they are always
almost ready to be 3-D.
For years now, I see your mind in my journal scripts, so I
offer you the pen,
invite you to imagine here from there with my hand
until I know what’s next.
Tea. And a seat in the sun. Breeze shifts leaves, a hum —
the drives when it was just
the two of us, no seat belts, broken A/C,
cruising with Simon & G when I’d watch shadows
dance on the dash board.
You’d never say a word then, there. So why here?
In my gestures and fingers, in my gaze and vision
for my own stories, blueprints, and shadows that
here and there, then and now
allow us to finally speak.
Sarah,
I chuckled with your first stanza and wanted to cry in your last stanza. The idea of having needed conversations through objects and after the fact is so disheartening and you captured the idea so well here. Thank you for this poem.
Dr. Donovan,
I really loved reading this poem. It brought tears to my eyes and I could envision every stanza even though I didn’t experience those things first hand like you have. Sometimes people say a lot in their silence, and even more when they are gone. Thank you for sharing!
Sarah, the idea of you offering your dad the pen is just beautiful!
Wow, Sarah, I had to read this over two days. At first I thought it was a puzzle, and it is. The format of some of your lines stopping abruptly and going to the next telling stanza is a powerful way to show the puzzling and complex emotions you deal with. I’m guessing the blueprints for you have turned into a metaphor about the life you now build out of what you had to learn on your own. You offer him the pen in your epistolary but you have to keep writing and fill in the silences. And filling-in you are–in your “own stories, blueprints, and shadows.” Wow!
Sweet Basil
Today I noticed
my sweet basil plant
dying in Bahrain.
Try as I might,
I can’t grow it here
All die.
It brought me back to a
better basil time
a summer in Iowa when
I had a basil bush—
exuberant and enormous,
verdant and lush,
flourishing,
nourishing my pride
as a gardener.
So much life
so it demanded to be brought
inside for the winter.
I stuck the shovel in
and carefully pulled out a
great mound
of silky clay loam,
the black earth
hugging the roots
of my prodigious prize.
I brought it indoors
in a hulk of a pot
and it satisfied us all winter.
As spring approached
I decided instead of one plant
that next summer
I needed a whole flowerbed
filled with sweet basil.
I clipped and trimmed, and
rooted a dozen-and-a-half
successors, so my
fine plant’s posterity was assured.
I carefully planted each one
giving them plenty of space
to later fill-in
and take over the bed
under our kitchen window.
A year’s feasting forthcoming!
pesto
Caprese salads
basil butter on garlic toast
basil vinaigrette
bruschetta
Margherita pizzas
broccoli basil soup
tomato, basil & mushroom frittata
cucumber- and basil-infused water
and…
Never mind.
The bunnies loved the tender shoots
Oh, Denise! I had to do a double take when I saw the basil plant thinking I had somehow posted the picture I just sent my partner of our basil plant! The past few years, when we took our plant indoors for the winter, he died. This year, we took care of it by moving it into the bathroom when we showered and setting it in direct sunlight but away from the cold windows in the winter. I am glad to say it survived. But I am so sorry to hear that the bunnies have devoured the basil in the bed!
I think we will have Caprese tonight!
Love how we can connect in this way,
Sarah
Mmmmm this made my mouth water: “pesto / Caprese salads / basil butter on garlic toast / basil vinaigrette / bruschetta / Margherita pizzas . . . ” I also love the image you create of your basil plant as you brought it inside: “So much life / so it demanded to be brought inside . . . great mound / of silky clay loam, / the black earth hugging the roots” – you make it come alive! Beautiful!!
Denise, your picture and subject drew me in immediately: “back to a better basil time” was the phrase that hooked me! Your memory of the basil bush in Iowa is clear and exact, your knack for details grounded in the specific: “silky clay loam, ” “the black earth/hugging the roots,” the shovel and “hulk of pot.” My mouth watered at your list of basil-inspired dishes, and my heart broke with you over the rabbit-chewed roots.
I, too, spend a lot of time now contemplating my basil plant in the window above my kitchen sink. I start every Spring (except this one) with an array of herbs in the kitchen and on the back porch; they, too, flourish and grow and yield…only to flower and go to seed after too many hot summer days.
Thank you for sharing your poem and basil memories with us!
Denise,
I too am hungry after reading this. I love your lines referring to a “better basil time” and the “successors.” You create a connection between your experiences in a fluid, narrative way.
I would love to see a basil bush! One that lasts through the winter! Sounds amazing. I am so hungry for basil right now…brushetta, Margherita pizzas, yum!
Eulogy
John Prine, I didn’t know you or your music well
But my Instagram feed is filled with mourning musicians
Covering your songs and writing heartfelt tributes.
To be honest, my mind is more focused on
The tragic end
Of the 2020 Bernie Sanders presidential campaign.
And listening to your songs on Spotify
With snow falling briefly but bitterly in April
I tend to prefer you as an old man
With a scratchy cancer-riddled voice.
Are you saying youth is overrated?
Experience and pain
And tenderness and perseverance
Do these things carry value
In this hopeless world?
I’ve been saving every newspaper
From the whole goddamn pandemic
Stacking them up in the guestroom
While baby toys have taken over the whole house
It’s all too much to maintain, John Prine.
What would you sing about
If you were sitting here
Writing random thoughts on a laptop
Listening to a dog snore on the couch?
What will you now lament?
How will you find the time in the afterlife?
Wow, Alex, so many powerful emotions in your poem. I noticed your epistolary poem about John Prine because I didn’t really know him much either. I listened to a whole series of his songs in a Rolling Stone article. https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-lists/john-prine-25-essential-songs-974926/angel-from-montgomery-1971-974936/
I think listened to his songs can improve ones poetry writing. These certainly are not random thoughts: “snow falling briefly but bitterly in April” “scratchy cancer-riddled voice”
Lots to think about here:
“Are you saying youth is overrated?
Experience and pain
And tenderness and perseverance
Do these things carry value
In this hopeless world?”
The juxtaposition of the pandemic newspapers and the baby toys toward the end is a good example of the confusion and emotion in your poem.
Alex,
I so appreciate how your voice works here as you speak to John Prine — it is a confessional you have here. Did it feel good to write this?
I’ve been saving every newspaper
From the whole goddamn pandemic
Stacking them up in the guestroom
While baby toys have taken over the whole house
It’s all too much to maintain, John Prine.
This is such a vivid image of place and angst that captures well the history unfolding alongside daily life.
Peace,
Sarah
Dearest COVID to-do list,
Your presence fills
An oxymoronic weight
On my shoulder
I see you
But glaze over you
Get distracted
By the small black screen
To my left
Or by a prompt
To write a poem
I want to cross off
The rainbow of colors
The words of directives
The lines of inspiration
But time is
Well
Ummm
I seem to
Have extra time…
I’m back, sorry I got
Side-tracked…
With eating chocolate raisins
Brewing nighty night tea
Answering a rhetorical question
Posed by my child
Making more lists
Reading senseless
Nah, definitely useful information
I promise you, I will not crumple you up
And discard you
I will add to you
And mark you up
Until I’ve completed your
Contents, but current
Reality has a simulated model
With completion date: 2021
This is so real! I feel like I’m stuck in a weird time warp right now. The lack of a real schedule makes getting anything done so difficult. And the excuse we always give (“I don’t have time”) isn’t so valid anymore. I love: “But time is / Well / Ummm / I seem to / Have extra time…”
Stefani,
I so loved being alongside you as I moved across each line and through each stanza. My eyes paused, hovered here:
The rainbow of colors
The words of directives
The lines of inspiration
The anaphora of the word “the” offered a place to rest my eyes and slow down to see the rainbow, words, and lines as you moved to your promise: “I will not crumple you up.”
Love that,
Sarah
Stefani,
As I sit here writing this comment, I’m surrounded by lists and more lists, quite often neglected for days on end. I love this: “current reality has a simulated model with completion date: 2021.” This has more potential meaning than we care to think about. I’m glad you are writing poetry in the Covid-19 chapter.
Stefani,
You are not Ali e in succumbing to distractions. I love that so many of the distraction whose call you answer are those offering comfort, such as brewing tea and answering rhetorical questions. Thank you.
—glenda
I do feel this way too. Stuck in a Groundhog Day movie of sorts. I love the movement of this piece, like a stream of consciousness. Last lines “Reality has a simulated model/with completion date: 2021” is definitely speaking truth!
Every one of us seems to be facing this pandemic with lists! Is it our need for some sense of control in the midst of the madness. I love “Making more lists/reading senseless.”
“On learning to focus”
21 open tabs
2 different browsers
7 open apps
7 notification bubbles
Paper scraps, open books, closed books,
grade sheets, recipe books, cards,
insurance statements, headphones,
wrinkled paper from sweaty glasses of water,
pencil sharpener, to-do lists, calendar,
slip of photos from a booth on January third,
clipboards, coffee rings, dog hair
Stack of novels:
uncracked, partially read, completed.
Stack of teacher books
uncracked, partially read, completed.
Subtle breezes shake the newly browned azalea petals.
Insects, birds, children sketch a web of intersecting lines across the windows.
Sunlight bounces on leaves, helmets, brick, tree trunks, asphalt, branches.
Laura, I really loved reading your poem this morning. The scattered focus resonates with me right now. My environment, though I’m in it all day long, seems to have become more and more cluttered. I can never remember what I was going to do or be able to focus on one project at a time. Your stack of books? I have that going on on top of my dining room table. Something tells me it won’t be moved off of the table anytime soon.
Emily, the numbers in Laura’s poem made me think of your upcoming poetry idea, and I thought you would connect to here.
Laura, I love the neat numbers in the first stanza and then how you complicated them with the fantastic list that followed!
Sarah
Laura, life is abuzz in this poem this morning – – evidence of great times (photo booths), of going places (insurance), of wakening (coffee) and working (books), of planning (calendar), of eating meals (recipes), and of noticing the change of seasons (breezes, azaleas, insects). The teeming of life is a call to live it but also to enjoy this time away from the thick of it so that we notice the little things like sunlight!
Laura, you have hit the nail on the head. Surrounded by distraction, there are so many to-do lists! And now with more time to do them (or so I perceive) how is it that nothing ever seems to really get accomplished? Thank you for reminding us to pause, breathe, and enjoy the view out the window. To see beyond and regain our sense of composure and to just focus on one thing at a time.
Great poem, Laura. I love how this listed style tells a story!
Laura, this was fun for me to read and enjoy. I embrace the chaos, the incompletion and completion of it all. The last stanza gave me a sense of relief. It also told me, this is what matters now, nothing else.
Subtle breezes shake the newly browned azalea petals. (Imagining the functions of breezes, shaking off the old to allow room for the new)
Insects, birds, children sketch a web of intersecting lines across the windows. (Every creature does its part to make the world beautiful)
Sunlight bounces on leaves, helmets, brick, tree trunks, asphalt, branches. (The power of our sun to touch EVERYTHING)
Lovely.
Laura, I loved how your words really spoke to the moment of focus and feeling overwhelmed. This is how I feel teaching right now. The line “slip of photos from January 3rd” struck me because I feel myself finding memories from simple things like ticket stubs or receipts from things that were relatively recent but feel like another lifetime ago. Thank you for sharing!
Yesterday I saw
someone seeing red
a fuming firecracker
full of frustration
her victim – the dog
too anxious, too needy
relentlessly annoying
He was all those things before
She had loved him anyway
But things have been changing
Yesterday I remember
she was spread too thin, dangerously unstable
kicked the dog out
spoke unkind words
too impatient, too angry
hopelessly unforgiving
Today it’s quiet
she sits in the calm
he curls in a tight ball at her feet
He doesn’t mind at all
the salty tears
on his soft black fur
Emily, this is what I love about dogs: loyalty. Bless this little dog – – he just wants love. I hope she can find the stability that her dog deserves. Blessings.
I love the stanza “He was all those things before…” It feels like too many people get pets, then yell at them forgetting that they have animal instincts. Your poem is beautiful and sad, thank you!
Emily,
The shift in time from yesterday to today offers space for contemplation and reflection. I love all the details of life as “he curls in a tight ball” and “the salty tears” — the tears got my heart there.
Peace,
Sarah
Emily,
Thank goodness for the unconditional love of our pets right? I adore your poem. The honesty of our human pain being projected onto all the wrong undeserving ones in our paths.
her victim – the dog
too anxious, too needy
relentlessly annoying
Then the shift “Things had been changing” I took it as a warning but also as an inner voice saying things change but do not always stay that way. And surely enough…
He doesn’t mind at all
the salty tears
on his soft black fur
All is well and this the essence of our being today. Thank you Emily.
The last two lines capture the forgiveness necessary during these times (and all times). I especially like the alliteration (salty, soft).
Nail polish,
I love you the same
Okay that’s a lie
I love “Wet Cement” a little more
I remember when I only had 15 of you
back when I could only paint my toe nails,
because my mom didn’t let me paint my finger nails.
I also remember painting my nails….
when my mom wasn’t home
It was a little secret that only we shared
You guys always made me feel better
I think I only have 5 of the original collection
A lot of your brothers and sisters dried out
So I had to let them go
Do you kids remember that time my grandma dropped your sister
She was one of my favorite colors
She was pink, with glitter, and she was perfect
and I took her to El Paso because she was special
Well my grandma dropped her in the bathroom
when she was cleaning and that was the end
I never saw her again
Also do you kids remember when I gave you more brothers and sister
From 15 to 217, the family grew
You kids gave me hope and happiness
You were something I could control in this chaotic world
You offered distraction and beauty
You put color in my life
Thank you.
Naydeen, this is neat to think of your nail colors as your kids! Somehow I have the image of an Easter bunny with colored eggs, hopping around with them, tossing this one, hiding that one, getting more eggs. The family grew – – from 15 to 217? Maybe they really are bunnies…..
Naydeen,
I smiled at the first line and then felt so privileged to hear the way you honor the artifacts of our lives that bring comfort, identity, familiarity, and even distraction. I love the line “I took her to El Paso because she was special” and the way your kids grew from 15 to 217. This is just a lovely tribute.
Peace,
Sarah
Hi Naydeen,
I enjoyed the “little secret” of painting your nails. There is power in holding onto something that brings you peace and joy. Like Kim, I envisioned a rainbow of colors, sparkles, and glitter that “offered [a] distraction” you needed in your life. Thank you for sharing.
Naydeen, your piece resonated with me and my own pre-teen years. Nail polish was my only cosmetic allowance, so I wielded it–bright bold colors, clear sparkles, mismatched or coordinated colors. Black was my favorite, my one real rebellion (my dad made me stop putting it on my fingernails in 8th grade, so it was a regular on my toes!). Thanks for the memories and sharing your poem with us!
Naydeen,
I love the personal connection that you have with something that seems so ordinary to me. Your poem honestly made me want to break out my old nail polish and paint my nails. The story you tell is so envigorating and beautiful. I really enjoyed reading it and thanks for sharing.
Dear Lladro Statues,
You are gorgeous and sleek!
Sometimes I’m so busy
with my life, I forget to look at you
I love you all
though I only purchased one of you.
You’re part of my inheritance
left to me and my daughters
after she died.
When I glance at you, I remember
an earthquake 30 years ago
She came running out of the
shower (without a towel) to hold you up
so none of you would fall and break.
She told everyone about her collection
so several friends would bring them
back when they travelled to Spain.
One day, I allowed my mind to wander
and I looked at the little boy playing the bongos
and made up a back story for him.
I distinctly remember giving him a name, Pablo,
a location, parents, and a sister
then my cell rang and I was pulled out of my
fantastic daydream.
Most of you are in the glass cabinet
but I put the graduate statue on my
daughter’s desk last year when she
finished college.
I felt some type of way
when I saw she hung her tassel
on your hand.
I wondered what my mother would say
then wondered what you would say.
Then I realized you’re just smooth fine porcelain
without a soul.
This poem is so lovely, goes through so many stages. I like the specific earthquake memory, and the identities given to your statues. And the final lines are haunting. Very nice!
Seana, I love all of the sentiments these figurines hold: funny memories, multigenerational connection, creativity, and in a sense — a love letter. I adore the moment when you place one on your daughter’s desk. Not just porcelain without a soul — not at all.
Seana,
I am right there alongside you as you remember the earthquake and then these lines
One day, I allowed my mind to wander
and I looked at the little boy playing the bongos
and made up a back story for him.
I love the way you imagine here and in doing so invite us to do the same.
Peace,
Sarah
Hi Seana,
This poem is special. It has moments of you, your mom, your daughters, Pablo, and of course the tassel.
I giggled because this reminds me of how we have that attachment to something and of course our daughters would NOT have it and would probably say it’s no big deal.
I felt some type of way
when I saw she hung her tassel
on your hand.
I almost hear Pablo protesting about the tassel too!
Great voice in this piece. ❤️
Glimmers – What Barbie Taught Me (By Judy Bryce)
Why was I so attached to you?
A symbol of my childhood
The big, nice dollhouse
Ken, the man of your dreams
Your fashion sense
The fancy, sports car…
The American dream
As idolized by a child
Then the day came…
Swap meet
My brother’s convincing words –
You should sell them,
You’re too old for them
So with a deep breath
I agreed to let you go.
All the accessories
Hand me downs from my previous 3 sisters
Years of growing up together
I set up my area meticulously
Arranging all the dolls, the outfits
The house, the car
Organized perfectly, displayed perfectly
The question gnawing in my gut
Do I really want to sell this part of me?
“Wow! Nice collection – how much do you want for it all?”
He startled me with his question
I didn’t think about selling it all to one person
Much less an older man?
“I don’t know”
“How about $100?”
Confused, startled, surprised – a mix of emotion
“OK”
And in no less than 5 minutes
All of it was gathered and gone…
“You sold all your barbies? For how much?”
I felt nauseous, I looked with fear into my brother’s eyes
“$100”
“What?! All of it? To Who?”
The tears came, “I didn’t know!”
I tried to describe him
I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide
I’ll never forget that moment of regret,
That feeling of stupidity
I think that’s the day I “grew up”
Now I knew what it meant to be taken advantage of
To never fully trust again
I felt “raped” literally
I ran all around looking for him
Hoping I could find him
Telling him I had made a mistake
That moment of knowing…
You can never go back
Judy,
Wow! The symbolism here has me thinking about all the ways women are violated: the false ideal of beauty represented in Barbie, the way men violate women and girls in myriad ways. The lines that sum that up for me are “Now I knew what it meant to be taken advantage of
To never fully trust again”
As the casual story progressed I wasn’t quite prepared for the turn that underpins this poem w/ such tragic consequences. Thank you.
—glenda
Thank you, Glenda! You really understand the deep nature of what the poem represented. When I write, I don’t edit much. I just let the words transpire onto the page. I’m glad you liked it.
Judy, I am so sorry that you sold something that you were not ready to sell before you were ready. Sometimes we get rid of things and feel liberated – – other times we get rid of things and feel violated. No matter where the dolls and accessories are today, one thing is for certain: that man didn’t take your memories. No one can take those!
Kim thank you! You are so very right about that!
Man, this poem makes me feel — in the rawest way. You do such a great job, Judy, of showing us a girl on the cusp of growing up (what to hold onto, what to let go?) and then BAM! I found these words so powerful:
And in no less than 5 minutes
All of it was gathered and gone…
Yup, Barbies gone. Innocence gone. Trust gone. Any shame or regret around this experience? Let that be gone too. That should never have been yours.
Jennifer thank you! I guess the sting still stays with my memory of this, and you are right… I need to let it go!
Judy, such as powerful words. The idea of being “too old for” certain toys struck me. I think there is definitely an age all children, and girls particularly, feel they have to make a conscious choice to “grow up” even though we may not feel ready. I could fee your pain in the lines “The tears came down ‘I didn’t know'” and “I think that’s the day I ‘grew up’ .” Thank you for sharing.
Michelle – so true! I remember feeling like I HAD to grow up, and I sure wasn’t ready. I think my brother felt bad for me, too after this experience. Luckily I now have grandkids and a new barbie dollhouse and dolls to play with them!
Judy – Oh man, this is a heartbreaker. You nailed this poem…it jerked me right up off the couch! I wanted to run around the swap meet and kick that rotten bum in the shins. This is a true coming of age poem….a terrific mentor poem for you to use with students. The poem of regret, the poem of having been taken advantage of, the poem of childhood loss…a loss of innocence to be sure. The image of your setting up the dolls in such little girl appeal, just made the abrupt loss hit with a whack. Wonderful poem! Thank you!
Susie
The World Revolving Around Us
The world is filled with chaos.
Cities, states and even countries shut down because of the infectious COVID-19.
Streams of people go in grocery stores.
Getting their necessities for survival.
Meanwhile, while this is happening, nurses, doctors, health workers and delivery workers are risking their lives.
Being vulnerable in the process.
While this may seem like hopelessness, despair, and heartache, there’s also hope.
People reaching out and connecting with long lost friends and family.
YouTube videos of Good News by the unforgettable John Krasinski.
Masks being delivered to local hospitals.
People volunteering, risking their lives to help the common good of humanity.
Different beliefs.
Different races.
Different backgrounds.
Yet we are joined as one.
United in some shape or form to stop the COVID-19.
Together as a
City
State
Country
And World
We can do this.
Ah, I’m reminded of why I read poetry. Thank you, Alexa, for helping me to stand in that space of joining. Your poem makes me feel stronger. You gave us the gift of humanity.
Hi Alexa,
Thank you for sharing an arc of positivity in the shadow of the pandemic. I appreciate the choice of widening the lens at the end of the poem as you wrote, “City / State / Country / And World,” then finishing strong with “We can do this” was a lift I needed today.
Alexa, I really appreciate your words and reminders os finding positivity and strength during these difficult ties. I love John Krasinski and have really loved watching hs good news videos. Thank you so much for sharing!
https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=10219505806149074&set=a.2076605448022
Six Feet Away
There you are,
posing in the tall grass,
wearing a purple shirt made of silk,
and looking, without knowing,
at a version of your future self.
In the present,
I look into the hazel eyes
of my eighteenth year.
I was so sure.
I was all-knowing.
I couldn’t wait to escape into
the promise of
adulthood.
I took it all for granted.
We all do, I suppose,
when we have nothing but
time and dreams
Now, at forty-four,
in a time of quarantine,
I see myself posing
for a senior picture
I never wanted and
wonder aloud for my students.
What of their senior photos?
Some wanted.
Some not.
What of their prom?
Graduation?
Concerts?
First kiss?
Last dance?
Last
chance?
What will they remember
in the COVID-stolen remnants of
a finish line called
Senior Year?
I hope they find time
to pose in the long grasses
near where they live and
capture memories like
fireflies in a glass jar.
I hope they don’t
take this time
for granted.
Just because the world
is on pause doesn’t mean
they won’t look back
on this time for the
rest of their lives.
They will.
I hope, when they do,
they are able to
smile and laugh
in the face of the thief
that stole their inheritance,
and do it, of course,
from a safe distance —
six feet away.
Andy,
Friend, this poem is so good. I thought my favorite part would be “ I took it all for granted. / We all do, I suppose, / when we have nothing but / time and dreams,” but then I arrived at “ COVID-stolen remnants of / a finish line called / Senior Year?” This thief keeps taking and taking. The metaphor “memories like / fireflies in a glass jar.” evokes lost innocence and the healing power of nature. I can never see grass imagery in a poem w/out thinking about Walt Whitman. That last line hits hard. Change one word and it’s “six feet under,” and that’s the point, isn’t it? This senior year died before students could capture all those memories. Do share this w/ your students. It’s lovely and heartbreaking. Thank you.
—glenda
Hi Glenda,
Thank you for your kind words. I love your suggestion of replacing “away” with “under” because it then ends with the grim reality of the pandemic in literal and metaphorical ways.
Yes, I did share it with my students. We wrote together today using this #verselove prompt. I shared it with them shortly after writing and they appreciated it. BTW, you will find some of their work littered throughout the comments in this thread of poetry. =)
~ Andy
Are you saying your students are on this site commenting on poems and sharing their poetry?
Hi Andy,
I loved the lines in your poem “I took it all for granted. We all do when we have nothing but time and dreams.” It really makes us rethink life and how fragile our time on earth really is. Then the lines of “I hope…” as repetition were such strong words of inspiration to not take this time for granted, and to use it productively as the best way to cope so we can all “look back and laugh and smile in the face of the thief.” Thank you!
Andy, this is beautiful. I like this part best, because there’s a WHEN and not an IF.
I hope, when they do,
they are able to
smile and laugh
in the face of the thief
that stole their inheritance,
and do it, of course,
from a safe distance —
six feet away.
Andy, what an evocative poem! “Last chance?” resonates deeply. In a sense, all of those senior milestones are duly (and dual-ly) weighted by the acknowledgment of an ending. What happens when the ending sneaks in and crosses the finish line first? You challenge us all to think of this time in new ways.
Hi Andy,
This poem and your adorable picture made me want to cry but also I found the hope you spoke of. I have former students graduating from high school and college this year and the stories of sadness and grief are unbearable but valid. You said it well “What will they remember/in the COVID-stolen remnants of/a finish/line called/Senior Year?” Because that’s how they feel, ROBBED. It hurts like hell, but what will they do? Perfect suggestion:
I hope they find time
to pose in the long grasses
near where they live and
capture memories like
fireflies in a glass jar.
Truly appreciated coming from you, a teacher of seniors who must be carrying a ton of emotional weight right now. Thank you!
I don’t teach seniors but really feel for them, and you capture their loss so vividly. I love the way you juxtapose your own experiences at that pivotal moment in your life with adulthood and your wish for your students. Beautiful, bitter sweet but hopeful as well!
“After the Drive to Boise“
Later this morning
I’ll get in the car and
reverse direction as I
head toward Ada county and
abandon the isolation
East of the epicenter.
Cut off from the spread
I’ll drive into the center
toward you, momentarily
ignoring edicts to eschew
all unnecessary travel.
Is this reverse course
symbolic of years
receding into the rearview?
I sprint to the past instead of
cementing my soles steadfast
in this anachronistic moment.
At seventeen you snatched the
babe untimely from my womb,
a self-induced cesarean
renting my soul, so
I’ll cradle the clippers in
my hand and stroke
your head the way I nested
your infant pate in the crook of
my arm because you asked,
“Mom, will you cut my hair?”
I’ll comb my fingers through
each strand, trim each lock, and
watch them drop to the floor before sweeping them into the
refuse of lost motherhood.
After the drive to Boise I’ll
follow the twisting Snake,
cross the Perrine bridge,
gaze into the canyon’s abyss, &
contemplate this exile and
isolation, constant companions
long before infection
shadowed the masses, mothers
now shorn from their sons,
those other women, their ideal
homes and picture-perfect children
uninfected by the distancing.
What do they know of a
mother’s lonely heart?
—glenda funk
Hi Glenda! I so enjoy your writing. I love the daring and rebellious tone you create as you fight the feelings of “abandoning the isolation,” your thoughts on your drive of “contemplating this exile” – words so carefully chosen to express your emotions during this uncertain time and the need to just get out and feel connected with your son and grandchildren. I love the emotions that tear at the heart and remind us to see from a different perspective the loneliness that some are feeling as they are literally “exiled” from those whom they love the most. Hugs and love to you! Keep writing as a way to deal with your feelings at this time and know that you will be reunited with your son and his family again (hopefully) soon!
Glenda, you make it so perfectly clear that there is NOTHING a mother will not do for her child. I love the deficance to disobey orders and get there anyway and the sweet memories of a haircut. I think I like this part the best:
What do they know of a
mother’s lonely heart?
That’s a beautiful question today. One that has my heart feeling lonely, too. And I also feel for all the healthcare workers who are quarantined away from their families. So much to consider when we think about the loneliness aspect of isolation and separation.
Glenda,
Your words are always so thoughtful and full of emotion. I kept rereading, “a self-induced cesarean/renting my soul.” I have multiple interpretations in my head and I love that you are making your audience join you for various rides.
So many poignant connections to cutting, with the last “mothers/now shorn from their sons,” – the perfect imagery of the pain of this isolation…cutting us off, cut from connection. Love how this lament is intertwined with birth and motherhood…
Glenda, I am moved to tears by your poem. The end is absolutely heart-wrenching. I so appreciate the images you’ve created. The sequence drew me in from the beginning, and the ending lines…”uninfected by distancing….a mother’s lonely heart?” are absolute treasures!
Oh, Glenda – This is so touching. The bond between you and your son is so worth that drive…that reverse direction. You’ve written such a clear image..in concrete details…of what this bond, this love really means to you. It made so much sense to weave the Snake River into this journey…that powerful, beautiful, winding river…how perfect a motif to blend with the emotion. Lovely! Thanks for such an intimate look inside a very real relationship. Susie
Thank you Jennifer for the prompt and invitation! I have been creatively and emotionally stuck these past few days, and today’s task lifted the fog. I started using the “Marie Howe way” but only made it through three observations before the spark hit.
three shelves of glass trinkets and baubles
aqua, emerald, cobalt, sage, teal, lime, clear
a collection of shiny objects, magpie prizes
cups, jars, plates, pitchers, saucers, vases, bottles, bowls
dainty and sturdy
practical and whimsical
on the top shelf: three nestled pots
clay bowls formed and fired
in Marigold, Mississippi
blue, brown, green
ridged and mottled
each with a dark line
a seam
the artist’s signature
created from silt and mud
representative of the river
the life force that flows
through Marigold
through rice paddies
through states and cities
through all of us
the river
pulsing and churning
shaping the land
dividing territories
separating people
splitting municipalities
the vein
stretching across the country
source of
songs
stories
sorrow
a highway
transporting goods
and people
and the Blues
out of the Delta
into the urbane landscape
of the North
the gravity
that pulls us all
back down
back home
back in time
backwards
the mighty river
that swells seasonally
overflowing
flooding
washing away
that contracts into a trickle
a memory
a longing
a reminder
I stood on the banks
a wet, marshy shore
dipping just
my toes
my arch
my heel
into the water
into the past
into the source
Betsy – Wow! What a great transition of creativity from the line in the pots to the life force and flow of the river. I enjoyed the “flow” of your poem and picturing clearly how this “vein” connects us all as it travels through all the municipalities and territories. Something so simple, yet so deep which connects us to the source and helps us all to know that in the end, it will all be ok.
I’m marveling at the physicality of this poem — the sensuality in the textures, the expansiveness of the movement. I love what you accomplish, Betsy, with this stanza:
the mighty river/that swells seasonally/overflowing/flooding/washing away/that contracts into a trickle/a memory/a longing/a reminder
It brings us back from the bird’s-eye view into the personal and intimate again.
Breakfast of Champions
The 2004 Olympic Games in Athens.
My sisters and I watched on TV
fixated on the gymnasts and most especially
Carly Patterson—
the American who took all-around gold.
One day we’ll be like her
we thought, so we somersaulted around on mattresses
used the wooden bars of a bed frame for a balance beam
walked on tiptoes with arms out straight.
“Patterson’s definitely earned her place on a Wheaties box,”
we heard an announcer say
so every morning when Dad poured his cereal,
we’d eagerly check to see if our hero was there
pictured proudly posing on the box:
the highest mark of recognition we could think of
for an esteemed athlete.
The 2018 Utah Valley 10k
I finished 3rd place (in my division)
not a gymnast, but an amateur runner
Legs shaking, sweat dripping, I stood proud
arms raised high, medal around my neck—
a preserved moment that now smiles at me
from a Wheaties box
designed by my tech-savvy husband
who made me a champion.
Hi Rachel! I feel like I know you as these were parts of my childhood too. I also aspired to be a gymnast (a little sooner, the days of “Nadia Comaneci”) and the endless days of doing somersaults, vaults, and cartwheels on my lawn. I later grew up to be a runner and would go out and jog daily with my sister, training for 10K runs, and joining the track team in high school. I love the glimmer into the moment of your triumph that represents all your days of hard work and how you show us that we need to be surrounded by these important memories that make us feel good about ourselves. Thanks for bringing me back to my childhood and those fun days!
Rachel, these images are so compelling: “so we somersaulted around on mattresses
used the wooden bars of a bed frame for a balance beam
walked on tiptoes with arms out straight.”
I love how we see the arms again, raised high in triumph.
For this prompt, I tweaked the “fastest” method a bit by instead of using just one noun, I used all ten and tried to piece together a poem consisting of one line dedicated to each noun.
The 10 nouns were: health, ball, insect, pin, stove, discovery, rain, soap, celery, and playground. I collected these from a “Random Noun Generator”.
“Pandemic”
One discovery turned the whole world upside down,
Our health was now the biggest concern.
Was it an insect, an animal, or a bird?
We now used more soap,
and were forced to avoid our playgrounds.
Ball games came to a halt,
and rain poured down on the world.
People were finding their stoves again,
this time with healthier choices,
thinking celery would make a difference?
The globe was on pause,
pinned to one tragic event.
How awesome that you were able to create this from a random noun generator! So creative, and truly sums up what this time of “Pandemic” is like. Excellent writing!
I’m inspired by your poem! I often write free-verse poetry before attempting a scene in fiction (a sort of prewriting). I think I’ll try this method next time. Loved “People were finding their stoves again.” It made me laugh.
With a single tote bag in one hand,
I clutch tightly to a box in my other.
I walk halfway across town,
Enthusiastic to show my mother.
I rush through the front door,
Kicked my shoes off on the floor,
And my mother exclaims,
“Wow! I wish ours had a glass cover like yours.”
I sprinted upstairs,
Placed my bag on a chair.
I opened up my box,
And then said:
“Hm, I’ll put it there.”
But then, impatiently,
I waited.
Now, this was the part I hated.
For weeks my new prize stayed stationed.
Until an old family friend,
Gifted me the final piece,
And I knew my wait was put to an end.
I set them up next to my new prize-
Two wooden Bose Speakers,
I’d say, medium in size.
From my bag with all the others,
I removed a glossy, black, disk
With an old, battered, cover.
I set the disk into place,
As a smile began to grow across my face.
First, drums.
A light simple, beat.
A single piano note plays,
As I begin to take a seat.
Suddenly, a flourish of sound fills my room,
As Frank Sinatra sings “Fly me to the moon”,
And Count Basie and his band plays the composition,
As I sit in my room,
Giving my first turntable a good listen.
The cadence of your poem reflects the music notes swirling around your room at the end. I loved the ambiguity at the beginning because I didn’t know what direction you would take. I can hear Sinatra and picture a smile on your face—even though I’ve never seen it. Wonderful work!
I think the heart of this poem was when you described the way that music flows from the room when you described Frank Sinatra’s piece. “A light, simple beat. A single piano note plays. “ It brings me right into the room with you. Great work!
This poem is filled with such wonderful anticipation. Yes, waiting is hard. But as your poem reminds us, the end result can be so sweet.
The Void:
empty
Infinite
Nothingness
Where time is an illusion
A mere fragment of consistent reality
Hours become days
Days become years
A thousand ages pass
In the blink of an eye,
Or so it seems.
We are in the void
Where the only pressures and restraints
Are the ones we put on ourselves
So please explain
Why even during this pandemic
I just can’t find time
To clean
My
room.
I’m smiling here. Who knew that “nothingness” could feel so full?
Ha! Robin, I have been asking myself the same question. I love the humorous end to this. I have so many projects that I want to get to during this “downtime.” What is it that holds us back? Hopefully, I can be more productive today!
Robin B, thank you for sharing your poem! This rings so true for me – although I have to say, it’s not just my room that needs cleaning. Something about being at home all day makes it more challenging to want to tidy up. I love the “void” you describe in your writing. Perfectly describes this current quarantine.
This is deeply personal, but this space has become so safe.
Warning: This does mention domestic violence.
Dear Ex-Husband
Are you out there somewhere
Flirting with danger without care?
Are you still lost and glacier cold
Seizing white candy like its gold?
Do you still have the same idea
That white picket fences are for squares?
Do you cry out to God to forgive
That it was the monster on those stairs?
Have you seen the boys and I
How we dance, chase dreams, and live?
Have you heard the boys call their guy
How they get love back as they give?
Did you know it’s been three years
Since the courts restored my name?
Did you know it’s been four years
Since I’ve allowed you to cause me pain?
Are you mad that my bruises healed
That the chains binding me were broken?
Are you mad now that I am fulfilled?
That you’re prophecy was only spoken?
When you chose to chase serotonin
Through the division of your soul
When you chose to embrace the jonesin
We could never grow old.
Ashley,
Love the questioning leading to that last statement of cause-effect. My favorite question is this one that seems to suggest your husband never took full responsibility for his behavior: “ Do you cry out to God to forgive / That it was the monster on those stairs?” Thank you.
—glenda
Thank you. He has not, but I think sometimes people become encompassed by their monsters and can’t see outside of the need to feed it.
Ashley, your poem pulled all the breath out of me and then filled my lungs with the sweet reminder of resiliency — of renewal. My favorite line? “That you’re prophecy was only spoken.” Your voice is dancing.
Thank you Jennifer! My voice danced because of the music of your poem. Thank you for sharing!
Ashley,
I enjoyed your poem. There is a true fighter and strong woman there. What stood out to me are these lines- “Are you mad my bruises healed…. are you mad now that I am fulfilled?”
Glad she is Staying fulfilled !!!
Thank you for your kind words!
Ashley – I love the structure of questioning in your poem. I, too, had a terrible relationship that I left out of fear. I wonder a lot of the same things – almost as a way of putting him in his place. He told me, “you’ll never find someone else” and continually emotionally battered me. When I chose to leave, I was very young and had a strong conviction that I would better my life, and I did! Sadly, he never did and has experienced only pain and loss in his life. I loved your line “Have you seen the boys and I/ How we dance, chase dreams, and live” and often wonder if he knows what he lost. It sounds like you have also moved triumphantly on!
Hello fellow warrior! Yes, I am happily remarried now! I think many abusers use lines like that to maintain control. I am happy you broke free as well!
Ashley, thanks for trusting us with your story. Your willingness to share shows that you care enough about your pain, that someone else may gain and grow because they know someone else came out of the rain, whole. and dry, even though it made you cry.
Thank you so much. I always felt storytelling brings healing—no matter the form.
Ahhh Thankful Thursday begins with you, Jennifer!
What a treat today is. I watched your webinar “Courage to Create” in the link, wanting to see and feel you, connect with your spirit. Wow, time to head over to your website!
I fell in love with your mentor poem and wanted to get closer. “I try. Really I do” made me cry. I said that 86 gazillion times throughout my almost-30-year marriage that I chose to end. I know it came from always wanting to please my mother, kind of falling short, then marrying a fool who would never be satisfied. Dang. You are all inside my feelings today. I’m on the Polyvagal ladder running up and down between the middle and the bottom, fighting, fleeing and freezing. So let’s see if I can calm this down, get back to the top, and write to your incredible prompt. I love going inside myself and bringing something out to the light. Today, I’m going to take your advice and welcome fear in as I drink my first cup of coffee before I touch pen to paper.
Thank you in advance for unlocking something inside me today.
Thank you, Stacey! I left a marriage of 24 years, so I know of what you speak! So glad that you and I can wave as we travel up and down the ladder today. Good on you for having that cup of coffee with fear. Joy to your writing!
(I followed the Lynda Barry way.)
A Crowning in May
I am a child,
one bead of a decade,
chosen for my knowledge
of memorized prayers
and early reading ability
of words and their sounds,
the shapes they make
falling easily from my mouth
yet untested before crowds.
I stand small,
surrounded by long-limbed children
tree trunk torsoed,
older by years
(seven if we’re to count,
but to a six year old
seven is seventeen older).
Light filters through,
a time lapse of
Virgin Mary Blue,
wings of angel gold
slanting across this prayer pilgrimage,
snapshots
projected on synapse screens,
the click, click, click
of the spent film roll slapping
against the spool,
each click
a flicker of memory.
I hold in place,
await my turn,
the voices before me
exact,
assured.
I know my Hail Mary
I am full of Grace
But the Lord is not with me
The words jumble
Blessed art thou
All eyes on me
Who art in Heaven
A prayer mix
Unhallowed be thy name
My crowning crucified
in blood red words
and mortification nails,
the sour vinegar remains on my tongue
to this day.
Wow. The juxtaposition of perceived holiness and contradiction split me wide open! Loved, “one bead of a decade” and “I stand small.” The “Virgin Mary blue” and “synapse screens” alert us to the pivot. “I am full of Grace/But the Lord is not with me. — Holy Smoke! Adored: “Unhallowed be thy name.”
Jennifer,
Whoa! The last two stanzas are AMAZING! And devasting. And potent. The stunning mix of emotion shared here caused me to read the piece again, and again, and again as I tried to unravel the experiences of the speaker. The complexity you produced mirrors the feelings of the speaker in stunning detail. Thank you.
Jennifer, I watched your Highlights presentation last week and loved it. So I feel like I know you. Now this poem brings me even closer. What a profound and intimate look at your relationship with your mother. The strong scents say volumes. And then the heartbreaking last line. Thanks for your mentor text today.
Thank you, Margaret! I admit that I had to push myself hard to include those scents!
The presentation Margaret is referencing is The Courage to Create and it can be seen here: https://tinyurl.com/suyu9k8
You inspired me, and your art helped me let go a little more. Thank you for your gift of words.
I just added this to the main post! Your time and compassion for writers — beautiful.
Thanks, Sarah! I’d say the very same of you.
“wearing your public smile” – our first glimpse of the hidden about to unfold.
“I don’t recall you beaming at me that way” – our preview of the relationship.
And what follows – a mother who challenges the authenticity in her child? Whoa!
And a child, immersed in sour memories.
But it’s the gut-punch finale of those last words that ties up the relationship, sealing any hope of redemption.
Jennifer, your reflection of the poem brought me to tears. Thank you!
Almost a Conversation
Now that the world has stopped
and my footing isn’t as sure
as it was yesterday
and Dad still can’t function
I look for the hawk
for the redbird
for the wild turkey
I listen for the music
for the seat belt beep
for the clicking of the lock
I watch the skies for telling clouds
But what I really need, Mom,
is to sit with you
to talk with you
to listen to you
to hear your voice
to smell your hair
to feel your touch
to see an ethereal you
over a cup of Earl Grey
to have a conversation
about what the truth is
Oh, Kim, this is a sweet echo of the theme of your “Miriam” poem. The last line could have multiple and complicated meanings or just simply the “what is truth?” philosophical discussion. Very powerful words, as usual, from your pen this morning.
Kim, I love that you move from the sounds of the natural world to the seat belt beep and the clicking of the lock. That’s the moment you locked me in place! You’ve captured that longing for conversations that will never happen.
Kim,
The first thing I notice is the journey toward your mother in the second half of the poem which is essentially one sentence, yet the absence of punctuation suggests an ongoing journey, and the sadness inherent in this journey having no arrival point breaks my heart. That you place your relationship to your mother last after these gorgeous nature images further emphasizes to me the void her absence has created. It’s one that cannot be replaced. I love everything about this poem, but it’s the structure that captures my thinking.
“Almost a conversation.” These words are mournful, speak of the longing, what is missing. I feel you searching for the words, the answers in what is around you. There is such strength in “I watch the skies for telling clouds.” I love those last lines. We want that assurance of the truth from our mothers. If they speak the words, we trust them, know in them. I feel your loss today.
Aw the sense of longing brought tears to my eyes. This is so moving.
Kim, thank you so much for sharing your poem. It brings a sense of longing and calm to me as I read. I especially love the beat and rhythm of the lines in the second part that begin with “to”. The lines flow right out of my mouth when I read them and spirals into this beautiful scene you describe with your mom. Thank you!
I don’t know if you were referring to the present situation of our world in your first line, “Now that the world has stopped,” Your poem reminded me of how easy it is to forget things. When I wake up in the morning, I have to remind myself that we are all at home again today because of the coronavirus. When I hear news regarding the coronavirus, I have to remind myself that my mom is not here to talk about it.
Jennifer,
You’ve given us a haunting, gorgeous poem. The idea of living an inauthentic life speaks to me. Nearly every decision I made for ten years after my father died was based on what he’d want me to do rather than on the life I wanted to live: “ I created a false self,“ aptly captures that decade. Never having a nurturing mother, when my mom passed I felt little sense of loss: “I wanted to feel like a girl who lost her Mather.” In truth, I still do want to feel that. The tone of your poem reminds me of “Those Winter Sundays,” and I’m going to need some time to contemplate and notice life’s complications before I write. Thank you.
—Glenda
I’m just now coming to understand that we can love and accept the desire (which is entirely authentic and true) that caused us to create the false self. Thanks, Glenda, for sharing your connections that prompted this thinking — and for sending me to Hayden’s poem this morning.
Jennifer, the degree of intimacy created in this poem is intense. Private thoughts of a person who only wants to be a girl missing her mother. The final line is heartbreaking. I think many of us, that become poets “get” that line in super meaningful ways. Usually, I dash off a poem to our prompt here quickly…or, as quick as I can. I’m going to say than you for this prompt and let it marinate with me today. It’s a sharp one, to be handled carefully. Thank you so much.
Thank you, Linda, for sharing your response. I have a habit of playing down emotion (talking myself out of it). Knowing that my words translated as intense is enormously helpful.
Your poem brought tears to my eyes; I feel as if I just met a kindred spirit – the picture you paint of the mother/daughter relationship really struck home. “I want to feel like a girl who’s lost her mama.” – whoa! Thanks, too, for the day’s adventure ahead – I can’t decide which poetic process I will embrace – slow/faster/fastest; each is enticing, and perhaps this day will allow me to dabble with all!
Hello, kindred spirit. Thank you for touching fingertips.
Jennifer, you had me at “public smile.” As a preacher’s kid, I was raised knowing well the dazzling privacy wall of a public smile. “What happens in the pastorium stays in the pastorium!” Your plunge into the secrets that families keep to shelter the realities and truths hits home in your fear of looking too closely at the real life, having created ways of coping using the falsehoods. This is near and dear to me. Thank you for sharing this and giving us a home-run prompt today!
Yes, yes, yes! I’m so pleased that my poem spoke to you.
Jennifer – Whoof! That’s a powerful poem…the glimmer takes on a reality in your poem, starting from an innocent glimmer and unfolding a heartbreaker nailed in that final line. Dang! What a gut punch! I wanted to reach out and take your hand at that last word. We have a terrific poem to mentor us today. Thank you, Susie
Susie, I love this: “an innocent glimmer and unfolding a heartbreaker nailed in that final line. ” I’m holding on to this for confidence as I write today. Thank you!
Hello, Jennifer, what a gift today. You have given me a wealth of assignments, now to choose. I’m experimenting with all of them, at the moment.
Your epistolary poem about your mother is everything to me today. Thank you for sharing.
“I created a false self,
a false mother (all butterflies),
a false life?
I was afraid to look too closely
at the real one.”
It has been a lifelong quest for me, to not be afraid of the self I am and the father and life I had/have. Your letter to her is beautiful and full of honesty. Thank you so much for sharing.
I was curious about the lesson you mention of Lynda Barry. Did I miss it? I searched and found this one: https://youtu.be/UjmwJX4KobY (Seven and a half minutes of writing) Is that the lesson? Thanks!
Thank you, Denise! I’m so glad the poem spoke to you. Yes! That’s the link! (Sorry I left it out.)
When I originally formatted the post, I missed the links — sorry! All the links and Jennifer’s workshop video with Highlights are now in the main post. Thank you for your patience, friend!
That’s great, Jennifer and Sarah! Thanks for your diligence. 🙂