Our #OpenWrite Host
Andy Schoenborn is an award-winning author and high school English teacher in Michigan at Mt. Pleasant Public Schools. He focuses his work on progressive literacy methods including student-centered critical thinking, digital collaboration, and professional development. He is a co-facilitator of the monthly #TeachWrite Facebook slow chat, past-president of the Michigan Council of Teachers of English, and teacher consultant for the Chippewa River Writing Project. His first book, co-authored with Dr. Troy Hicks, Creating Confident Writers was published in 2020. Follow him on Twitter @aschoenborn.
Inspiration
Claudia Rankine wrote “Weather” in response to the tumultuous climate we have experienced this summer in America. Her words resonate, please take a moment to breathe them in:
“Weather”
On a scrap of paper in the archive is
written
I have forgotten my umbrella. Turns out
in a pandemic everyone, not just the philosopher,
is without. We scramble in the drought of information
held back by inside traders. Drop by
drop. Face
covering? No, yes. Social distancing? Six
feet
under for underlying conditions. Black.
Just us and the blues kneeling on a neck
with the full weight of a man in blue.
Eight minutes and forty-six seconds.
In extremis, I can’t breathe gives way
to asphyxiation, to giving up this world,
and then mama, called to, a call
to protest, fire, glass, say their names,
say
their names, white silence equals violence,
the violence of again, a militarized police
force teargassing, bullets ricochet, and
civil
unrest taking it, burning it down.
Whatever
contracts keep us social compel us now
to disorder the disorder. Peace. We’re out
to repair the future. There’s an umbrella
by the door, not for yesterday but for the weather
that’s here. I say weather but I mean
a form of governing that deals out death
and names it living. I say weather but I
mean
a November that won’t be held off. This
time
nothing, no one forgotten. We are here for the storm
that’s storming because what’s taken
matters.
Each of us have weather in our lives to contend with and, though the severity of how we are affected varies, the storm of 2020 has touched us all. Consider the weather you have faced this summer and write to it in verse.
Process
You might begin, as I have, by using the first five lines from Claudia Rankine’s poem to jumpstart your thinking. Or, you could choose to write to the storm of 2020 in a way that works for you. After writing your poem consider using enjambment and italics for impact, as Rankine has done. Not sure where to look? Consider the moments in your piece you would like readers to pause, consider, and hold onto a bit longer?
Andy’s Poem
“To Shelter a Beautiful Spectrum of Lives”
On a scrap of paper in the archive is
written
I have forgotten my umbrella. Turns out
in a pandemic everyone, not just the philosopher,
is without. In a rush to pull together a sense
of normalcy, students are swept
back
into the halls and walls of a school
some call a prison.
Yet, during a pandemic, the fear of the unknown
unlocked prison cell doors with a click
in an attempt to protect adults.
With masks, CDC guidelines, sanitizer, and calls for
six feet of separation,
we have forgotten
much more
than what was written on that
scrap of paper in the archive.
We have forgotten
precautionary drills for
Fire Wind
Rain Earth
Bullets
Acknowledging each are out of our
control.
We prepare for the
possibility
of catastrophic events.
Yet, during the
reality
of a global pandemic
we have forgotten that
children
are more precious than
gold.
In March, they called us heroes.
We knew our actions weren’t heroic.
In August, they called us lazy.
We
are not
lazy.
We
have not forgotten
our umbrellas. We use them
to shelter a beautiful spectrum
of lives from the storm.This
time
nothing, no one forgotten. We are here for the storm
that’s storming because what’s taken
matters.
Your Turn
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
An Oral History: COVID-19 Teacher-Poets Writing to Bridge the Distance
Did you write poetry during the first days of COVID-19 school closings? Would you like to be interview for our oral history project? Click here to learn more.
Thank you, Andy. I am very late with this, but it is a practice I want to keep up with.
You know that green time
Before the storm,
When you can smell
Its approach
In the air?
You know that darkening
Of the clouds
That makes the lights
In the house bright
Like nightime does?
You know that picking
Up of the wind
That sweeps the
Dust and dead debris
From cracks and crevices?
You know before
The first solid clap
Of thunder or blinding
Strobe that this will be
A bad one.
Well, this was an utter challenge. Thank you Andy! I appreciate the range of metaphor between the two examples as well as in all of the poems from others. I might have thought a singular focal point – weather – might limit the content, but not at all! It’s unfortunate it’s so much bad weather.
We say
it’s a Michigan
joke
If you don’t like the weather
just wait five minutes
But
I’ve been to lots of other places
where they say the same thing
it’s the change we can’t
stand
not being in control
of the next direction
the next shower or storm or squall
we don’t know how to
plan
protect
prevent
it’s open season on humanity
there aren’t enough
umbrellas
in the world to cover us
from what we have
done
to ourselves
we can wait
five minutes
and five minutes more
until infinity
and we will still
never
be able to shape
the front that’s
moving
in
Denise, great take on the prompt. I like your word choice and alliteration here:
Yes, we are out of control, and waiting until infinity will not protect us from the coming front. However, I will look forward with hope to reshaping the future, nonetheless. Thank you for this poem today.
Denise – The sense of control when thinking about weather is resonating with me. Indeed, loss of control is the heavy cloud in weather. The line “…not enough umbrellas “ is haunting and so effective. The “waiting”…oh wow, is that ever the case!! As you built that waiting in those short lines that took us to the foreboding “front” really captures the scariest part of what I keep seeing day to day. I admire how well you established the seriousness of the storm that is cutting across our skies like a dark front. Super! Susie
Andy,
Thank you for this inspiring prompt and amazing poem. Your poem resonates with me in many ways and I’m wondering if I may share it with some members of my teaching team?
A Mirage
By: Emily Yamasaki
In the mirage
Hot air takes on refractive properties of a prism
Mirrors the pavement
Maybe there, alcohol burns clear
Like the Upside Down
Into the mirage
I go
Oooo, Emily— The “mirage” and the very science of it is so moving, so fitting! I love this! The “hot air” is so spot-on”…literally and then as the image of all the hot air in school policy in a pandemic jolts me. The “upside down” …another precise bit of the science of mirage that metaphorically blasts the reality of walking into the mirage that belies a safe school. Wow wow wow! “Into the mirage I go” just leaves me with a rattled sensation and ominous worry for you. Wonderful poem! Thank you! Susie
We just had a real storm which captured my imagination!
TORNADO
3 cats, 3 carriers.
Take the elevator?
I am not walking down
4 flights of stairs.
MASKS. Outdoor shoes. A COVID-style emergency.
Walking to the storage room,
listening to tornado sirens.
In Chicago.
The next day, disaster tourists.
1 mile away:
huge, old trees down; roads blocked.
Alderperson observes:
Trump. COVID. Protests. Looting. Now a tornado. Just the latest from 2020.
At home, urgently, R
pulls me out
to the neighborhood park.
My eyes fill with tears.
I cannot let them fall:
each will strike
like a tympani
inside my head.
My 2020 tornado:
an all-encompassing
funnel of migraine pain
weaving a path of destruction
through my life.
Like Dorothy and Toto,
I am along for the ride.
Pandemic colors the wind,
like ferrous soil.
For me it chooses
i-shades: inside and isolate.
Flying thus in my overgrown dust devil,
naught else to do but
read or listen up
on everything COVID.
Never know what might save my life.
Ah, then the ache to be on the streets
in the city of Laquan McDonald and Officer Burge.
Too young (@58) for the ‘60s,
now too asthmatic for
the newest civil rights movement.
I want to be OUT THERE
listening to the voices of MY STUDENTS,
from the south and west sides.
Hearing them through public radio—
not quite real.
I want
To claw
my way out
of this dervish.
I am sick of
piling up knowledge
in splendid isolation,
no way to ACT!
Even Dorothy got to land,
unveiling the great fraud—
that is the task which still lies before us.
The Great Chicago Tornado of 2020,
the worst in 40 years,
ended in a glorious waterspout
in Lake Michigan
(and on YouTube!).
Then, it went *poof*
and was gone.
My tornado MUST end,
though it need not be gloriously!
Only leave me ready to dance like Dorothy,
off to join the forces of
Truth, Science, and the [recaptured] American Way.
Add progressive populism.
Police and mass incarceration reform.
Housing. Inclusion. White privilege.
Oh my—I wanted to end
this tornado
and poem.
The list is so long …
The Dorothy references work well here – not overwhelming the other images, but acting as a concrete refrain. The shifts throughout are also subtle but poignant – “naught else to do but / read or listen up / on everything COVID. / Never know what might save my life.” moves to “I am sick of / piling up knowledge / in splendid isolation” – I knew exactly this same progression. And of wanting to ACT! and feeling the impediments – so many wonderfully detailed juxtapositions in this poem.
Texas Snow Boots
On an app on his phone he makes a list
Things we have forgotten or need more of–toiletries and towels, snacks and sundry items. I think
he’s forgotten the snow boots no one needs in Texas. The boots on we ordered last year that were on back order and arrived
just before we left for his first year out of the nest in climes far different from the
heat, humidity, and seemingly endless summers of South Texas. It turns out he left them on purpose,
didn’t see a need for them, didn’t have them on in the pictures he sent of snowball fights and sledding
in the Kansas snow,
in the life
far different from the life he’s always lived.
But I wanted him to need them, to have suffered only once the pain and discomfort of snow-soaked shoes
and thank the gods
of frozen precipitation,
of slick sidewalks and icy steps that Dad foresaw the need for stylish waterproof snow boots, that dad ordered the expensive stylish waterproof
snow boots, that Dad came through and that maybe he’ll think of Dad when the weather moves from pretty to look at to
something you have to maneuver and suffer through.
But the Texas boy in you loves the snow,
loves the wonder it evokes,
loves the mystery it still holds
and thinks not of wet sneakers and sopping socks.
But maybe with years and dropping degrees
the magic of snow will fade,
the boy will becomes a little more man,
and he will ask me to bring him the stylish waterproof snow boots
sitting in his Texas closet and say,
Thanks, Dad
I needed these.
He is definitely going to ask for them! Lovely details of some of the most miserable outcomes of being out in winter – “of slick sidewalks and icy steps” – nice alliteration. Time transitions, maturity, reason, sensibility – of the son, but also, the longing of the father – to be acknowledged, appreciated, validated – and at the same time, this is about a parent not needing any of that, but continuing to provide patience, nurturing and love. What a beautifully expressed father/son relationship.
Weather
On a morning in March I visited my classroom
to gather items from my classroom.
Not imagining time to be long, I watered
and left my plants on the bookshelves by the windows.
I discovered that during a pandemic I can get along
with fewer decisions. What to expect is clearly not
the lens we are using. The structure of a calendar
opens in new ways allowing space for personalization.
More for me in my life than the anticipated role of
personalization in my newly forming classes. I became
a practicing writer, as I led my students through weekly
essays preparing for an AP exam. One writer leading
many writers. I moved through April losing a favorite musician,
Passover for two, and no clear vision of what might be next.
What to expect is clearly not the lens we are using.
Before long it was May with traditional end of year landmarks
but without the structure of the days, of the weeks. Eleventh graders
waking up and coming together before logging on to a 45 minute
exam from the comfort of more than 80 bedrooms around the
city outscoring the students of the past in rows of tables and chairs
in a gymnasium. What to expect is clearly not the lens we are using.
Summer melted into a Dali-esque landscape until I accepted control
adding a workout to my days of walking dogs and writing.
School schedules as varied as the elastic ties I use to tie back my hair
came and went. I planned in fits and starts fed by antiracist ideas
for revisioning curriculum narrowing a focus. Online instruction
seasoned my thinking. Books took turns on my nightstand
filling my head and days. Tomorrow our faculty meets for the first day
to plan and learn about an upcoming year. What to expect
is clearly not the lens we are using.
What a condensed narrative of the past half a year. That repeated line begins as reticent hope – that once it settles down a bit, a clearer vision will come to the front, but each time it’s repeated, not so much. As an end line, it’s disheartening, especially looking back over all the details of time and experience that could have made a difference. The line is also a bit tricky – because having a lens – the ability to see what to expect or what has not happened yet is like saying we have a crystal ball we’re not using. Nothing can tell the future. But willfully not using the lens means not making the best decisions. Uncertainty. Not clear at all. Very dense collection of experience. Thank you!
The repeated line is a mantra that I needed and am happy to now have In my head. I love the line “School schedules as varied as the elastic ties I use to tie back my hair”…I wish I could relate to the former as the latter causes me only microscopic levels of stress in relation to everything else. But again, my expectations have shifted but have not yet made landfall.
Tempest
I once saw a video of myself
For a few seconds
I honestly didn’t recognize the person on the screen
She looked so familiar
But I couldn’t place her
That calm demeanor
The thoughtful gaze
The gentle, measured speech
Then I gasped
Stunned
As I suddenly realized
It was me
I stared at my image
Utterly fascinated
Completely mesmerized
From the outside looking in
You couldn’t see the earthquakes reverberating in my chest
You couldn’t feel the icebergs melting on my palms
You couldn’t hear the thunder pounding in my head
This imposter had somehow managed to transform
The tempest inside me
And boldly present her as a sunny-blue-sky-day on a carefree spring morning
I love the weather and geology beneath your skin hidden by a sunny-blue-sky-day. How nice to know what lies beneath the surface.
Sharon, what a way to incorporate the weather idea into your poem. Beautifully written and so true as to how we teachers live, as a source of calm for our students even though we may be anything but. Thanks for sharing.
Weather
Then, now, sometimes
remember summer thunderstorms
Hot nights anticipate
a storm rolling on dark clouds
eager faces
pressed to screens, faces pressed
feel electricity
in the air, feel it in the air
and shriek at loud claps
and delight at distance
zaps, count
seconds in between
This is what a thunderstorm used to be
Now Now Now
This storm sucks the soul
pulls oxygen, catches you in funnel cloud
Keep inside
eager to escape
press faces into masks
feel anxiety like electricity in the air
in this foul air,
we breath death
Then, now, sometimes, maybe ?
Remember beautiful aftermath summer thunderstorms
more satisfying
than slow, fat raindrops of an easy rain
bare foot & slogging through
mud puddles the next day
scooping fat worms from sidewalk
just how a good
Thunderstorms should be
Tammi,
I enjoyed the personification of the thunderstorm, how it was naughty then obliging. Your descriptors help enhance this as well. Thank you for sharing.
Wow, Tammi! Your structure is perfect. I was so hopeful remembering childhood storms in the first stanza. Then, BOOM! You hit us with breathing death in the second stanza. I really appreciate the hopefulness in the third stanza.
I cannot even choose what part is my favorite here! There is so much movement in your words. Then now sometimes maybe. Wow. Wow.
Andy thank you for this prompt and your poem. It really speaks to the challenge we face as educators. The juxtaposition of these two stanzas is really powerful!
In March, they called us heroes.
We knew our actions weren’t heroic.
In August, they called us lazy.
We
are not
lazy.
Andy, what a timely prompt! Fifteen tornadoes were confirmed in a storm here last week, one of them in my town. Thankfully, everyone is okay.
Whirlwind by Mo Daley
8-17-20
Just the other day as I let the dogs out
I noticed the sky suddenly
darken.
The ominous clouds
rolled right through my patio,
gathering furniture up
as if preparing for their own
party.
They snatched flowers and bird feeders, too.
They whistled a happy tune
encouraging my roof shingles to
dance and
play along,
even to run around and search for more action.
What kind of party was this?
It was the kind where guests are
rude.
They damaged homes,
upturned 40-year-old maples,
wiped out power for
days
and
days
and
days.
Except for that one little planter of pansies.
I can’t figure it out for the life of me.
She didn’t budge one inch.
Didn’t flinch.
Rooted
to one spot.
Sending me some kind of message.
Mo—what a picture you painted here! I am so proud of that little planter of pansies! I love that “She didn’t budge one inch. didn’t flinch”. What a perfect ending—and I got that message! (Stay low and honor your roots, maybe?)
Mo, thank you for this experience, I’ve been in one of these storms. I love the pansies–a bit of unexpected darwinism.
I love the personification of the storm, Mo, but I really love the ending of the poem. Those little pansies are so strong and resilient.
I love your movement – gathering furniture up as if preparing for their own party. Weather animating the landscape – whistle a happy tune, encouraging my roof shingles to dance and party. As a child I loved being at the beach during hurricane season watching the palm trees in ways they were designed to in order to survive a hurricane, unlike the maples. And I love the unpredictability of the pansies.
The wide dry Iowa sky is my umbrella
cupping me here
on this
patch of scratchy grass
A silky cerulean scarf
wraps me
tenderly
in Nature’s breath.
The breeze pats my cheek
there, there
little one
rest
Mother’s here.
Allison, your love for the Iowa sky shines through in this poem. I love the imagery in your second stanza. Who am I kidding–in the first and third, too!
This could illustrate one of … or any of your gorgeous Iowa sky photos. It’s so fun to read a love for a place like yours for Iowa.
Allison, my favorite line is “in Nature’s breath,”–a fantastic purpose of these two words together. Thank you for sharing this.
Oh, Allison, your poem is the calm after the storm. I love the cerulean scarf wrapping you tenderly, and the breeze patting your cheek. It was a welcome poem today after so many raging stormy poems.
Allison — I’m going to take your poem with me when I cross Iowa at the end of this month…I vow to think hard about that Iowa sky and to pause to let the “breeze pat[s] my cheek”…. beautiful Iowa sky. I love Iowa and I love how your poem reads like an ode. Lovely. Thank you, Susie
This poem is a fresh breath of air.
Gorgeous and invigorating.
Hi Andy! What an intriguing and inspiring prompt for today. I love the mentor text and your poem hits all my teacher nerves. The last stanza flows through me like breath. Absolute truth and beauty of our work. Hoping to have a clear brain space with which to find my poem that wants to be written. So many back to school duties and demands are interfering with my creative flow. I will aim for writing by this evening. Thank you for your poem and inspiration.
Andy, I really enjoyed your poem! You’re right: “We have forgotten / much more / than what was written on that / scrap of paper.” This is so true. And I love the line that “children / are more precious than / gold.” It seems like this idea is lost when people fail to see that “teachers want everyone to be safe” does not mean “teachers don’t want to teach.” Thanks for sharing this (and thanks for the prompt, too!)
Who Could have Predicted this Weather?
What is happening inside
can feel like a sunny day
for a minute before
a sweeping wind blows in
and the seas churn,
waves beating up and down the coast
of my existence.
This body, my homeland, braces for impact.
Breathe in
Breath out
Hot
Cold
Chasing butterflies
Outrunning an avalanche
What is even happening?
High pressure building?
Yes
Spiraling Lows?
Yes
So much yes.
What is happening outside
can feel like rainbows and warmth,
a smile in the eyes of a masked stranger
and then suddenly
an approaching storm system,
words rain down
pummeling science, logic, humanity.
This umbrella, my protection, is battered and broken.
Hold on.
Let go.
Wet
Dry
Covering your head with your arms
Standing firm
What is even happening?
High pressure building?
Yes
Spiraling Lows?
Yes.
So much yes.
Who could have predicted this weather?
Stacy, I really enjoyed the line “waves beating up and down the coast / of my existence” and the acknowledgment of surprise that not everyone can see “the signs” of this “weather.” Your repetition of “What is even happening?” is a genuine and sincere reaction to our present climate. Thank you for sharing that!
So much yes for this poem! “waves beating up and down the coast of my existence.
This body, my homeland, braces for impact.”
What a great image—this body, my homeland. It resonates with me. What is going on feels like a personal attack these days. And it keeps on coming, doesn’t it?
Stacy, your poem perfectly encapsulates 2020. Except your poem is mush better.
Yes, who could have predicted this weather? Your words are ring so true especially this line: “This umbrella, my protection, is battered and broken”. The uncertainty you convey really is a great reflection of the weather and our current Covid climate.
There’s a Storm A-brewin
There’s a storm a-brewin
and I welcome it.
This storm brings wet drops of
nourishment from the sky
to moisten my skin and the earth.
This wetness makes seeds sprout and plants grow.
There’s a storm a-brewin
and I welcome it.
This storm washes away the pain I feel from events of the day.
This storm refreshes my life
and sets new dreams to grow.
There’s a storm a-brewin
and I welcome it.
I embrace the change it brings.
Out of old soggy, promises that
never sprouted
gusty winds will rise up
springing newness from love.
There’s a storm a-brewin
and I welcome it
bringing bolts of electricity,
shouts of thunder,
and tumbling intolerance in a roll
through clouds of dissent.
There’s a storm a-brewin
and I welcome it
I rejoice in the puddles
that I walk through
towards a budding beginning.
No umbrella for me
I want to get as wet as possible.
Susan – I’m with you in this storm…that “brewin’” is long overdue.
I loved these lines:
I am inspired by your poem! Thank you. Susie
Susan, I love the expectancy and hopefulness your poem brings. I love that you embrace the storm, even the lightning! My favorite lines are: “Out of old soggy, promises that never sprouted / gusty winds will rise up / springing newness from love.”
Susan, your poem about a storm is so unexpectedly positive for me. The way you welcome it makes me think I need an attitude adjustment. Thank you for your poem!
Susan — love this! I love the spin you take on all that we struggle with today. Your ending really sends a message “No umbrella for me/I want to get as wet as possible.” Oh, yes! I’m with you on that one.
Whether
Forget about the Google Keep
Note with its Bradley Hand
scrawled message: Disney
Yoda Light-up Lightsaber
Umbrella, in stock, 27 dollars.
My gut reaction is to write
this poem about weather,
the actual weather, to
talk about, wax philosophic,
if you will, about collective
masses of water droplets,
about the fact I didn’t know
there were ten basic clouds.
TEN. I thought there were only
four.
I mean, I think, I was taught
that there were only four,
right? Cirrus, Cumulus,
Stratus, and Nimbus. I’m
sure there was a song,
some mnemonic, that I
was taught.
But that doesn’t matter.
I mean, it does, “Fog is
a kind of cloud that touches
the ground,” is kinda
cool, but it doesn’t
matter, right now.
What is happening
Right Now, matters
Right Now.
People getting
cancelled or chasing
clout or virtue
signaling or creating
some dank 2020
memes are all a distraction,
a diversion,
a let’s-talk-about-something-
else.
It’s me talking about
the weather.
Did you know
the ACT,
the SAT,
any standardized
tests are complicit?
“We cannot escape
the politics of
language.”
And although Rutgers
University did not
actually claim
that “grammar
is racist,” the Oxford
Comma does uphold
“an Invisible weight of
whiteness.”
And if digital blackface
is a thing and emojis
can be racist — Simpson
Yellow as a default
reinforces color-blind
racism — we have
to Robert Frost ourselves
and choose that
path, you know, the
one in the yellowed wood.
We have to ignore
celebrities singing
“Imagine” or the ravings
of J.K. Rowling, as she
slowly dismantles humanity.
(Actually, strike that, we
can’t ignore her
spewed hatred.)
It’s like, two weeks ago
the Google tagline was
Black Lives Matter and
today it’s “vote for your
favorite student Doodle.”
We need to center ourselves;
other things matter, yes,
I mean, I’m working on my
Bitmoji classroom, too,
but I can’t lose sight
of creating a culturally
responsive curriculum,
either.
And the fact that I name
dropped one dead white
poet (and one living white
novelist) is not lost on me.
This is hard.
But storms are meant to be
weathered.
One TED Talk is not going
to fix this (although Chimamanda
Ngozi Adichie’s “The Danger
of a Single Story” would be
a good start.)
We must choose the
right path, “When you
know better, do better”
Angelou tells us.
Our storm sirens
are going off
and we must
choose to hear
them.
This is not a Test.
This is Not a Test.
This Is Not A Test.
Oh, Scott. I so appreciate your voice in this space, and your writing is so smart, beautiful. You made me smile especially here:
“about the fact I didn’t know
there were ten basic clouds.
TEN. I thought there were only
four”
With your repetition and font and truth.
Peace,
Sarah
OK—love the entire thing, but my favorite is the “TEN-I thought there were only four. The writing in this is so conversational, so off-hand, and then grows into serious business. You’re right—this is not a test.
Scott, the intelligence of this poem is rich and delicious. The awareness of the “storm sirens” screaming at us is heavy and fraught with a cry for being alert, alerted, and connected at a time when we could so easily slip into emoji-ing our way through the distractions, the memes, the fog. I choose to hear you and each admonition to recognize “this is not a test.” Brilliant poem. I really love it. Thank you for you loud voice in this piece! Susie
Scott — I love everything about this poem. So cleverly written and your frankness is so refreshing. I smiled many times throughout. My favorite stanza:
And the fact that I name
dropped one dead white
poet (and one living white
novelist) is not lost on me.
Scott,
This is truly clever writing and you rise the challenge of using punctuation and enjambment creatively. Starting with your title, you sucked me in and pulled me along until the fantastic end. I loved the references to the Frost and Rowling and the creative way you circle back to acknowledge them. You intermingle pop culture and current events skillfully. I especially love
It’s like, two weeks ago
the Google tagline was
Black Lives Matter and
today it’s “vote for your
favorite student Doodle.”
Showing how quickly something leaves our radar and how fickle our news lives are.
Sweat drips from my back in a torrential downpour
The cicadas chirp harmoniously in the distance
Grasshoppers jump through the loops in my worn tennis shoes
Harmonies pour into my ears through a thin white wire
The sun peers down into my pores
Soaking in their daily forty minutes of vitamin D
The A/C I have grown used to welcomes me back inside
The silky, wet sweat begins to dry
Cicadas turn into a gentle hum of a fan
The tennis shoes are thrown into my closet of disarray
Music drowns out to the sound of a FaceTime call
The sun will have to wait another twenty-four hours
I have become too accustomed to this indoor weather
I was captured by your first line “sweat drips from my back in a torrential downpour” and had to read more. This torrential sweat has been going on even here in San Diego and sticks with me at night with the A/C still going on at night. You are right! There is the hum and a bright sun here too. I retreat back into the cooler home. I must say I am glad we don’t have the grasshoppers though.
Lauryl,
I love all the beings in this poems taking up and sharing space as you cross are “welcomed back inside” — I am struck by how the sun and the A/C feel like your roommates here.
Sarah
Love this image: “Grasshoppers jump through the loops in my worn tennis shoes.” I really enjoyed the peaceful tone to this peace. I could literally feel the transition between heat and A/C.
Outside the sounds play and play off and against each other – I like how your body temperature meets/melts along with the sounds, I can see your shoes, ’cause my closet is similar though my shoes often don’t make it that far. Thanks for taking me with you.
Indoor weather! The thought! Thank you for sharing this poem!
I’ll be thinking of these lines on my way to bed tonight!
NOT TO BE WEATHERED
The vane on the barn
swings slowly,
almost imperceptibly
back and forth,
prevailing westerlies mostly;
we stare passively at the old cock,
don’t mind his cautions,
keep doing what we’re doing,
till the stiff ol’ rooster takes a full spin —
disruption.
America sucks in,
a gasp, aghast,
counts
eight
minutes,
we
can’t
breathe,
our faces in the dirt
of racism.
Too hard to look away,
veins open, bloodletting, draining
the soul from the infected body of America,
while the rooster continues to whirl on its axis,
crowing to count
and shout the names,
machete the systems of cruelty,
let away the blood
of aggression, of hate,
the oozing vessels of injustice.
Not a storm to be weathered,
this is a trading
of the winds,
a quantum rethinking,
metamorphosis
of a cleaving country,
and the rooster,
hoarse from his gasconade,
has finally brought us to
woke.
by Susie Morice©
Susie,
I really loved this poem. It captured the general and haunting feeling of what America has been like lately. The two lines that stuck out to me the most were “a gasp, aghast” because that one has a great rhythm to it and then “the soul from the infected body of America” because that can have so many different connotations and it is wonderfully heartbreaking. Really great job!
Oh, Susie! The rooster spinning in the first stanza and then into this one:
“America sucks in,
a gasp, aghast,
counts
eight
minutes,
we
can’t
breathe,”
I read it first with a period after suck and then again as the phrase moving into the whirl of suffocation here. The allusion so palpable and dreadful that I am no longer surprised that I feel so ashamed at American the entity while I so love you all here who are also my America.
Hugs,
Sarah
Not a storm to be weathered,
this is a trading
of the winds,
a quantum rethinking,
This totally contradicts my claim that the storm will end—and, sadly, I think you are right! The barnyard image is so right for these times. The noise, the angry rooster, the pivot. Wow.
Susie, wow! I am in total awe! I absolutely love how you develop the poem and move it to its end. I clearly see this weather vane, and am struck with how cleverly this image/symbol is used to reveal racial injustice. Your line “veins open, bloodletting, draining” is so keen, sharp and accurate. I almost feel sorry for the rooster at the end “horse from his gasconade,” but I fervently hope the nation is awake; the hate that is being spewed everywhere leads to a deeper understanding, resolve, and healing. We surely need to end injustice! Thanks for creating such a brilliant and powerful poem!
P.S. I am doing okay, just flattened with immobility.
This is, literally, breathtaking. I could see these images like a film…harsh and gasping. What a poem. What a poem.
Susie — this poem is so powerful! These lines: let away the blood/of aggression, of hate,/the oozing vessels of injustice. Wow!
I love the use of the weather representing both turning tide and later just spinning in this never ending cycle of injustice. Bring on change!
Andy, thank you for such an interesting and inspiring prompt. I so enjoyed the final lines of your poem “…We are here for the storm/
that’s storming because what’s taken/matters.”
Ravaged
Iowa’s high humidity
sucks the breath away
pressing down
an all pervasive blanket of sweat that
completely debilitates
Within a few minutes,
temperatures drop thirty degrees
unleashing
a miserable nightmare
of thunderous black clouds
Derecho gnashes its ravenous teeth
roars to life
howls savagely
fiercely devouring all in
its straight line path
Heartlessly
ransacking homes
snapping lines
uprooting trees
whipping loose bolts
into dangerous projectiles
Piercing hearts
Devouring dreams
Silencing satellite towers
Are you okay?
Texts go unanswered;
breathing is an anxious sorrowful sigh
All is flattened
A war zone is left behind
And the rainbows have all died
Barb Edler
August 17, 2020
Barb — I’m so glad you wrote about the terrorizing straight-line that hit Iowa last week…I’m assuming this was that particular storm… especially after your poem the other day… Whoof! You have such a strong voice in the words of this storm. Words that carry so much of the feel of the event…”sucks” and “blanket of sweat” and “Derecho gnashes” and “ransacking” …and I was dodging those hurling bolts (awful!). For sure, the sense that “rainbows” are no part of this…there is not beauty in the storm that is “savage” and “devouring.” Whoof! How are you doing now? I mean aside from what is so evident in this poem. This had to scare the bejeezus out of you. I am so sorry that this blasted into your already way too wicked 2020. Hugs, Susie
Barb,
Wow, I knew this storm would be heavy on your mind today when I saw this prompt. My word you have captured the devastation. This was so targeted and raw:
And then your poem just got better (or worse actually) with each passing stanza and line…snapping, uprooting, turning things into projectiles piercing hearts and a war zone left behind.
The heartbreaking finality of it “And the rainbows have all died.”
Wow. I’m sorry you had to go through this. Peace to you and those in your community.
Oh Barb! I have read about the awful destruction from this last storm in Iowa. Those poor ransacked homes and the hearts of people pierced as they have lost their income from damaged crops. All is flattened says it very well.
Yes, We Can!
Sequestering inside does not provide
Defense against the storms.
What we experience inside and out
Make us question and screech and shout,
What’s happened to our normal norms?”
I sit here at my laptop computer
Typing day after day
Answering letters, composing poems
Wondering if what I will say
Will calm the storming about COVID-19
Help open our hearts and our minds.
As we talk about the intersectionalities.
Race and money. It’s not funny.
Look close at the policies. What do they mean?
While we know one did not cause the other,
We question who is our sister and brother,
Must we treat each one like the other?
The storms rage inside and out
Inactivity invites me to pout.
Then, I read posts that make me what to shout
Lightning is flashing. People are thrashing, trying to figure it out.
I must remain calm or I’ll cause more harm
As I struggle to understand why.
Torrenting passions squeeze out tears
Honesty makes me admit my fears.
News about post office slow down!
How much more before we drown?
Whether voting, or COVID or race, we can act with grace.
To write truth with love, guided by God above.
To seek wisdom in word and deed as we strive to intercede.
Ann, what a beautifully written poem. Your emotions and feelings are clear. I cherish the hope you share at the end, and admire the self-control you share. Your title says it all!
I love the stanza: “The storms rage inside and out / activity invites me to pout./ Then, I read posts that make me what to shout / Lightning is flashing. People are thrashing, trying to figure it out.”
Pretty much sums up how things are. We are in an unforgettable time and history has its eyes on us. I love your hopefulness in closing: “we can act with grace. / To write truth with love, guided by God above./To seek wisdom in word and deed as we strive to intercede.”
Yes, we can! We can do all of this with God’s help. I pray for our country as the election draws near. I pray for love, humility, civility, and dignity to be restored to our nation. I hope I can truly be a voice of love and not become another “clanging bell”.
Andy–what a challenging prompt–and what a true and beautiful poem. The imagery of the umbrella… I hope it is strong enough to protect our students. That being said, here goes…
Blizzard
Umbrellas are no good in a Great Lakes blizzard.
The wind drives from Canada, needles and pins of icy misery.
Leave the umbrella home. It is of no use to you today. It gives no shelter.
This woe does not float down from above; it attacks from all directions.
Face the storm head on or blow away.
When you are in a blizzard, you have no choice.
The wind steals breath and words; you cannot see the road ahead.
Lean forward. Lean into it.
Shout to be heard above the wind.
Brace against a barrage
that will not stop.
Lean forward.
Lean in.
Mask up to protect against the driving snow.
Eye creases are our smiles.
Muffled words our communication.
The blizzard will not last forever, but
You must first survive it.
Who will you be when it ends?
When it finally, finally ends…
Lean forward again with purpose.
Plow through hate-drifts.
Remember why you cared, before
the blizzard.
Lean in.
Check on neighbors.
Reach out’
Fix fences.
Rebuild bridges.
Make our world whole again.
Snow gleams white in the sunshine.
Beauty alive after the storm.
All blizzards end eventually.
Who will we be
after the blizzard ends?
GJSands
August 13, 2020
Gayle, I love how you open your poem and describe the physical details of a blizzard. I appreciate the positive tone at the end. The final question is spot-on!
Gayle — Your selection of blizzard to blow us into the reality of the wicked mess of 2020 is spot-on. My favorite parts are the “leaning in”… I love that phrase and it fits so well with the literal blizzard and the figurative aftermath of the “blizzard.” It helped me to read this today, as the sense of how long this is taking is daunting and some days downright horrible. But the blizzard will lose it voracity at some point. You helped me remember that we are not the Mississippian Indians who disappeared off the face of the earth…we will get to the other side. I really do think your final question is ESSENTIAL…. “who will we be…?” I hope to heck we’ll be somebody better, kinder, humbler, and more loving. Again, thanks! Susie
Gayle, I just had to copy this and plop it right here again. I didn’t know it was my favorite until I sobbed all the way through this part.
Yes, it will end and who will we be? I want to learn from your poem. Thank you for this today. I needed it.
Gayle, funny you write about a blizzard and I write about a heat wave, yet we are both feeling much the same way.
I like the the lyrical flow of your question:
“All blizzards end eventually / Who will we be / after the blizzard ends?”
It causes me to ponder and wonder about all we are losing and all we’ve lost. Will a hug ever feel normal again? Will I isolate more or want to be with friends? Or will we gain things from this blizzard? Newfound strengths and ingenuity, more sense of community? It’s hard to know, but your encouragement to “Lean forward, lean in” gives me hope!
I have never been in a blizzard but your description made me feel the icy coldness. Then the words, “Who will we be after the blizzard ends?” asks the question most of us have after a storm and trying to recover. Hopefully as your poem describes we will help our neighbors and see the beauty alive in our world.
Gayle, this is beautiful. I love how it’s about a blizzard…but really about the storm we are in now. I strive to write at this level. I’m from the Great Lakes area and I know those winds. I know to lean into them….face them, fight them. But, uh! I never liked it. I don’t live there now and don’t anticipate going back during that icy part of late January into February when it’s the worst. You really took me home in this. Thank you. And, well done.
I HATED those winds! Moved to Maryland; have no intention of moving back. Ever. I go north from February to October now!
Andy, this theme of weather was totally inspirational. I’m excited to delve under the umbrellas I see popping into so many pieces today. The sweeping of students, the unlocked prison cell doors, both powerful. But I love the words,
Andy — Let me piggyback on Jennifer’s quoted section…I loved your poem, and when I got to these lines, actually pumped my fist and blurted out “YES! YES! YES!” Amen for the wisdom in teachers’ voices. Susie
Summer of 2020
By Nancy White
The heat is turned up in the atmosphere and the blackouts are rolling, rolling here if I keep it cool.
I try to obey the rule, but it’s 105 and I’m trying to stay alive and the heat beats me down—
It won’t relent.
Like the power that pushed its knee on society’s neck since spring
(since forever it seems)
There’s no relief—
It won’t relent.
The constant wavering
of so-called leaders caving,
savoring their last days of power
as blood flows in the street.
I overheat
in the misery of a migraine with unending
patience I keep bending ‘til frustration
apprehends me
Feeling spent—
It won’t relent.
Every day the mask, the furnace-heat, and the questions repeat
as I wash my hands in the sink
a hundred times I think
and do another load of laundry—
It won’t relent.
Nancy — The repetition of “It won’t relent” and this stanza “Like the power that pushed its knee on society’s neck since spring / (since forever it seems) / There’s no relief—” stand out. I love the rhyme sprinkled throughout the piece as well. Thank you!
Nancy, wow! So much to love here. But these lines
are so, so good! And that repeated, “It won’t relent” like a chant, the pulsing heat of it. Wow!
Nancy–wow! the weaving of your words and the effortless rhyme is wonderful, supported by the repeated “It won’t relent”. My favorite stanza: The constant wavering
of so-called leaders caving,
savoring their last days of power
as blood flows in the street.
I overheat
in the misery of a migraine with unending
patience I keep bending ‘til frustration
apprehends me
Feeling spent—
yes
Nancy, the rhyming in your poem is my favorite part. It is powerful to read your poem aloud. You have captured these tumultuous times in a forceful poem. Beautifully done.
Nancy, I loved the relentless repetition of “It won’t relent.” So true! And I liked the juxtaposition of the mundane tasks of washing your hands and doing the laundry (which still need to get done regardless of the heat — and maybe even more so because of the heat) next to the atrocities of “the power that pushed its knee on society’s neck.” Thank you for this!
Current heatwave is really getting to me.
Climate Change.
By Jennifer Guyor Jowett
This paper is the umbrella
upon which words are
written.
The letters fall.
A p at first,
its sound soft.
A kerplop
upon the paper.
followed by an r,
an o
a t.
They fall more quickly.
An e.
The s slips down.
Another t.
The consonants come,
a soft rain,
wth a few vowels mixed in.
(But no I’s or U’s.
They will come.)
In no time a torrent follows.
An entire alphabet
thundering down.
An avalanche of words
giving voice.
Under the umbrella,
a group huddles,
mashed together,
arms, legs, bodies
unable to fit,
their faces
unmasked
pale, white, ashen,
turned down
against the deluge.
(Here stand the I‘s and U’s.)
They cling to one another,
to what was,
these deniers
definers
diction-izers.
The words an echo
in their ears.
I love this, Jennifer, for so many reasons. First, it reminds me of the month you hosted and invited us to write aural verse — really focusing on the sound of words, and you do that so artfully here with the letters and the words that sound like rain. And these lines that dare to bring bodies together!
“a group huddles,
mashed together,
arms, legs, bodies
unable to fit,
their faces
unmasked
pale, white, ashen,
turned down
against the deluge.
(Here stand the I‘s and U’s.)”
I love this image of people mashed together! I so want it and fear that I will not know what to do when that time comes. (Side note: My sister visited my on her way from AZ to IL. It was such a strange feeling to hug someone not my partner. I was so out of practice and did not know how to regulate the embrace.)
Hugs,
Sarah
That hugging situation is so relatable. It felt awkward to even hug my parents, as if it is no longer natural.
Jennifer — I LOVE what you did with the topic of weather. I could sense the letters falling, slowly at first, then in a torrent. Wonderful imagery! The end ties it all together:
“(Here stand the I‘s and U’s.)
They cling to one another,
to what was,
these deniers
definers
diction-izers.
The words an echo
in their ears.”
Especially your choice of “deniers / definers / diction-izers.” Bravo!
I love the kerplop that increases to a torrent and an avalanche. I can hear this and feel this.
“Under the umbrella,
a group huddles,
mashed together,
arms, legs, bodies
unable to fit,
their faces
unmasked
pale, white, ashen,”
Wow! This fills me with panic. I can barely reply. Just mercy. Lord, have mercy.
Protest. Powerful rain of justice falling and cleaning the world. The I’s and U’s and all. Even the short lines in your poem seem like the rainfall, falling like a staccato.
Denise, I’m glad “protest” could be found. I wasn’t sure if it would get lost in the lines.
Jennifer, you’re talented as a poet, using layout to show with equal power your choice of words to describe the scene! The multiple letters, the single letters, dripping, dropping, gathering, pooling, and making new words! Wow! What a metaphor for our lives today!
Oh, wow! This is a poem I wish I had written. I love the pace of it and the cumulative feel of the plopping of letters on the paper that is the umbrella. This is a bit of genius here.
I could “hear” your poem, Jennifer! How unique! You had me hooked from the first stanza.
This paper is the umbrella
upon which words are
written.
The letters fall.
A p at first,
its sound soft.
A kerplop
upon the paper.
followed by an r,
an o
a t.
When a Teacher Harms
On a scrap of paper I scribble
an apology to M, nearly
rear-ending or rear-ended. I grip
the wheel tight, fighting
the naughty winds that wish me to
drift off the path, fighting
the taunting fog with blasts of A/C
resolved to see without street lights
as my spare tire wobbles over
the branch of a tender cedar
harmed in the storm. The swipe
of the windshield wipe clears
my vision for the next turn. At the
stop sign, I scribble M on the glass canvas,
watch blurred lines descend, then
step into the oncoming traffic
jostled by backpacks
and wrong-way glares
on my way to M’s locker
to ask for forgiveness.
Sarah,
Part of my retirement ritual has been reliving these moments necessitating an apology from me to a student. They can break both student and teacher, like the tender limb you describe running over. Why is it these moments of regret ring in our ears louder than all others? *Sigh* This poem really speaks to me. Thank you.
—Glenda
Sarah–I have been there. That moment of agony when you realize that you have harmed. that moment when you realize that you have injured. I have never made the connection to a car accident, but that is the perfect metaphor. As a teacher, we wield so much power in our “vehicle” at the front of the room. I, too, have apologized–and built a relationship that changed at the moment I became human to the students. This poem brought back every one of those times. Thank you!
Sarah — The diction you choose throughout is striking: “naughty” winds, “taunting” fog, “swipe” of the windshield, “scribble” on the glass canvas, blurred lines “descend”, “jostled” backpacks, and “wrong-way” glares are brilliant! Each producing layers upon layers of expression and meaning to a reader and, I imagine, to the author. And to end with “forgiveness” – nothing is sweeter than forgiveness. What a wonderful act of love forgiveness is. Thank you for your words today.
The metaphor of driving through the storm works so well. I had to read it twice to make my way clear to understanding that you were not literally in a storm. Ha! me and my literal slow mind. But it works: “the naughty winds that wish me to
drift off the path.” I once had a bumper sticker that read, “Do No Harm” as if it is that simple.
Sarah, thank you for your vulnerable poem on this weathery, stormy day. It makes me realize the power of poetry and where they come from as we see the prompt. I think M was so blessed to have you for a teacher. Forgiveness is a great thing to receive, what a valuable gift from those in our lives, and all we have to do is ask for it–which is sometimes very difficult. I can picture you jostling the wrong way through all the young people as you move toward M’s locker. Thank you.
Your remorse and pain for harming someone is so real and sincere, but what hits me most strongly about the piece is that you didn’t just offer an apology – – you asked for forgiveness, which is so rare. You modeled that step for M, for whom it surely made a difference in how M moves forward.
Oh, goodness. There is a lot of emotions in this for me. I had to write an apology note to a student last year and I felt so stupid…no one made me write it. It was simply the right thing to do. But, oh, I hate that I had to. I can see and feel the stepping into the traffic of backpacks. You painted that picture well.
“Derecho”
Glenda Funk
no one east, south, west of Iowa
heard the storm warnings
read headlines
listened to pundits punditing
once the winds died
leaving corn stalks prone
like a field of bloody bodies
after the battle.
lying fallow the wounded—
twenty-five percent by some estimates—
stretched flat across forgotten planes
stalky green arms and faceless tassels flattened
darkened by broken
electrical lines and
snapped empathy
in this forgotten
flyover country
Who
can blame the masses
their ADHD response as
they hunker in their makeshift
storm shelters
bunker below the demilitarized
zone as shifting winds
funnel through their fallow fields
barren and dormant
social
distanced
famine
leaving all hungry for contact, the
sustenance of human connection
both poison and nourishment, a
pandemic response irony
Our
obsessions lie in refrigerated
trailers housing Covid-19 bodies
pandemic excess.
we’ve no time for
derecho
while in the eye of
life’s hurricane
our sheltering flails
the barometer falls
and the Santa Anita winds
whip and pound us to
the fallow ground like a
downed iowa corn field.
*I’m a Midwesterner by birth and lived in Cedar Rapids, Iowa two years in the mid 1980’s. My youngest son was born there.
Glenda,
The layers of storm and destruction swirl. These lines struck me:
“leaving corn stalks prone
like a field of bloody bodies
after the battle.”
And I think that the image resonates so deeply because of the national distraction and repetend of bodies again:
“obsessions lie in refrigerated
trailers housing Covid-19 bodies
pandemic excess.”
I fear, for me, that being isolated this long has blurred the lines between figurative and literal– I am losing touch. But your poem here anchors me in the very real, corpreal impact. More storms are coming but we will hold tight to our ballots.
Peace,
Sarah
Oh, Glenda! So, so much of this speaks to me (a fellow midwesterner). The physical description of the forgotten flyover part of the country, the prone corn stalks on the battle field, the political winds whipping to pound us to ground. Who is thinking of future food supplies when we are battling other onslaughts? Haunting imagery here today.
I’m one of those that didn’t tune in the derecho, never heard of one until this week, and feel sad that there was so much destruction and loss that has gone unnoticed.
“we’ve no time for
derecho
while in the eye of
life’s hurricane”
Life’s hurricane. We need to do a better job of supporting each other.
Glenda — I wasn’t going to say it, but I’ll say it anyway. Damn. This is a phenomenal poem! Sarah already grabbed the lines that held me the strongest, but there are more. The imagery of:
“lying fallow the wounded—
twenty-five percent by some estimates—
stretched flat across forgotten planes
stalky green arms and faceless tassels flattened
darkened by broken
electrical lines and
snapped empathy”
resonate powerfully. Thank you for sharing these words today.
Glenda, Cedar Rapids is where I grew up. I so appreciated reading your poem as you share so well how the storm came with little warning, and how the national news surely missed the impact the storm made. Our governor did not even show up there until a few days later. “Social/Distant/Famine” these words set off carry such power! The details throughout the poem show such a clear picture of this devastating storm.
Glenda, these lines brought tears to my eyes:
Our
obsessions lie in refrigerated
trailers housing Covid-19 bodies
pandemic excess.
It is my prayer that our country never reaches the point that these lines describe us as a nation – that we become so unfeeling that the death of others just get stored away in refrigerated trailers because we don’t want to be bothered with such feelings.
Thanks for the shake-up!
The images of the corn strewn across the field like prone bodies in the battlefield is particularly moving and stirring, Glenda. The rich imagery of desolation and destruction propel the eye and the mind of the reader to read with speed just like the winds, hungry to know more. I can read this with several issues in mind, and all of them fit into the context! I love the variations of possibility.
Oh, my. I’m so glad you wrote about this. As we were walking last night I was relating derecho details to my husband because we had one here about 6 or 7 years ago. He just couldn’t relate. All that corn that does so much in our nation. My heart is sick. And, yet….there’s so many other issues pulling for our attention. I sincerely hope Iowa can recover. Are there any recovery efforts? I should look for news. I don’t see it coming across my regular feeds.
Glenda, T
As always, your images touch me. This time, trouncing through my head and squeezing my heart.
The fallen soldiers “stalky green arms and faceless tassels flattened” I have lived through some Iowa and have seen these lifeless soldiers.
Then the comparison of those who hunker down in isolation.
What a great description of what we must do at this time:
Oh, Glenda. It’s great to see you here. Thank you for sharing your poem.
Andy, I was excited to open my Ethical ELA and see your name. Claudia Rankine’s poem is familiar to me, but I can’t remember where I read it. Your poem expresses just what I feel about going back into the classroom. It’s necessary and perilous, and we are heroes, despite what anyone says. I know you are one of mine. I love using the weather as a metaphor for the pandemic. This is my draft.
The dog lays at my feet
on the cold floor because
Heat is unbearable at 91
in dog years, the age of Mac,
an old man in human years, but that’s no excuse
to die.
Heat doesn’t care if you are young or old
by any measure, or if you have people
who love you. I see my parents
through a screen.
Their weather changes daily
with temperature checks, sticks up the nose.
(It was reported that my dad yelled from the pain.)
Funny
if we didn’t care so much
about isolation, the comfort
of a friend to eat ice cream with.
Hurricanes come in late summer
when we’ve let our guard down,
when masks fall to our chins,
when we just want to hug
because another person, human,
grandmother, friend has died.
The weather channel
broadcasts
24 hours
a map covered in red.
Margaret,
I love your poetry for the sense of place and invitation to think about places well beyond Stillwater. It is humbling and such a privilege to sit here and read into the worlds of so many educators these few days each month. What is it like to be “dog lays at my feet” and to be “a map covered in red.” I deeply appreciate this gift and wish you and your loves safety and peace this season.
Sarah
This says it all. The dearth of companionship is at the center of so much misery. YOur parents through the screen, the not-hugging. And the map covered in red. but most of all–
“if we didn’t care so much
about isolation, the comfort
of a friend to eat ice cream with.”
If only we could stop caring.
oooh, these lines cut right to the heart:
“Hurricanes come in late summer
when we’ve let our guard down,”
Your poor Dad. I can imagine the pinch and yelp. The senior citizens in my life are planning long car trips this fall. I know I won’t be able to stop them. I wish I could.
Andy,
Thank you so much for the poems. I have been enjoying watching more videos of Claudia Rankine and her thoughtful poetry. I liked how you used the beginning and end of Claudia’s weather poem, and I did likewise. These were my favorite lines:
True and bittersweet. I also love at the end being here for the students and using the umbrella to shelter them: “We use them to shelter a beautiful spectrum of lives from the storm.” Thanks for this!
Weather
By Denise Krebs
(with the beginning and end from Claudia Rankine’s “Weather”)
On a scrap of paper in the archive is
Written the sea surface temperature for August.
As usual it’s gone up.
Turns out
in a pandemic everyone
is without a healthy
temperature.
Everything is an anomaly.
The Postal Service climate has long been
unsteady
A ridge of high pressure
smashing our mail system
And the forests replete with fires
The Apple Fire cost $51 million
to beat it back to 90% contained
(thems a lot of apples)
Fires then moved on to other locales:
Hills, Lake, Stagecoach, Red, Elk,
Hog, Whale, Crowhead,
USPS and more.
(dispatchers clip the fire names wisely
so they’ll be sure to save
enough words
for
all yet to fight)
Heavy rains and
Powerful thunderstorms this week in southern California
(Wait, it never rains in southern California)
Now it’s
cloudy
with a chance of Postal trucks being towed away
Smoky with the burning of the
Constitution and
early voting ballots
Low pressure trough of
padlocks
on mailboxes
Greenhouse effect suffocating the
mail-sorting machines
Above average chance of
1000-year heat wave that will
sizzle and singe and annihilate the GOP
Breaking! Extreme weather alert:
Late summer storm of
stupidity and oleanders
being reported on the east coast.
I say weather but I
mean
a November that won’t be held off. This
time
nothing, no one forgotten. We are here for the
blue tsunami
that’s storming because what’s taken
matters.
“I say weather but I
mean
a November that won’t be held off.”
Yeah!
Kevin
Denise, Wow! The storm of a blue tsunami is coming. Fingers crossed. These lines struck me, “Now it’s
cloudy
with a chance of Postal trucks being towed away
Smoky with the burning of the
Constitution and
early voting ballots”
Is nothing sacred anymore? Thanks for your honesty.
Denise !!! Andy handed us a glorious challenge in today’s prompt and his own and Rankine’s words. And your poem adds to the powerful images of the prevailing winds and storms whirling around us all. Gosh, I LOVE your poem. Each line what’s the hammer down hard, smashing the thumbs of reality. They hurt …like they are supposed to hurt. Marvelous!
So many images I love here:
“stupidity and oleanders“ … ooo!
“the postal trucks”. …that infuriating manipulation of our American institutions
“Above average chance of
1000-year heat wave that will
sizzle and singe and annihilate the GOP” … I pray for this constantly!
All the weather forecasts are rich!
Terrific poem! And Andy’s poem is a superb inspiration! Thank you both for a Monday morning that has me revved up. Susie
Oh, Denise,
These lines had me breathess with the prepositions up and out and without (is it preposition?):
“As usual it’s gone up.
Turns out
in a pandemic everyone
is without a healthy
temperature.”
Indeed, I feel such a fever within and in every exchange with my partner and students — so pervasive and infection if not lethal like COVID-19. We are feeling a storm that cannot be quantified or diagnosed with a test. I appreciate the beauty in your words– they matter to me.
Peace,
Sarah
Denise,
This is brilliant. You really capture the weather metaphor throughout. It’s heartbreaking to watch the destruction of the USPS by this man-made tsunami. Money creates a flurry that whips into a blizzard. Favorite lines:
These lines capture the ubiquitous sickness, mental and physical. Fantastic job. Thank you.
—Glenda
Denise, I am marveling at this. Everything speaks to me here. The play on the weather terms (A ridge of high pressure
smashing our mail system) and cloudy with a chance…, the smoke of the burning Constitution, and the line, “I say weather but I mean a November that won’t be held off.” Love! Cheering on the blue tsunami (much needed water to put out all the fires).
“Everything is an anomaly.” Denise–this is it. This year has been so filled with anomalies that we no longer count them. This poem roars through them all with skill and imagery. Blue tsunami–please. Just please! I wonder–does being remote (physically) from what is happening change your view? I’d be interested in what people there are saying about it, and how that affects you…
Hi Gayle, good question. Even though I am so many thousands of miles away, I have never been so connected to the political and cultural atmosphere and weather of the U.S. We have certainly come to rely on the Internet in new ways. I am in a lovely place, though, as we go through this storm. People here are still supportive of the U.S., but a little disbelieving we are struggling with the things we are. I have never heard a positive word uttered about the current administration. On the contrary, I do hear laughter.
Denise, my favorite part:
We are here for the
blue tsunami
that’s storming because what’s taken matters.
How clever to blend the climate of the US and its events with the weather! I love every line of this, but especially the last line. This is a masterpiece today!
Oh, I do love how you cut to the chase. It will be interesting for you to read this poem years later and see if these details still ring true or, god willing, it will be a distant rather murcky memory. I love how you tie climate to the post office issue. Well done.
Good Morning! Andy, what a fabulous prompt and mentor poem. Thank you. Whenever I see your name, I think excellence. And, it’s true today. The line, “We have forgotten our precautionary drills” really gets me. All the importance we put on those things–and we can’t do them because it’s not safe. The irony would make me laugh if it weren’t so messed up and ridiculous. I so enjoyed the video of Ms. Rankine. Thank you for that link. It leaves me knowing I will google more on her later (maybe, or maybe not in one of my many virtual meetings today 😉 Thanks again!
After Reading Weather
by Claudia Rankine
I hear the buzz of my son’s phone ON
the floor next to his bed. An alarm. It’s time to wake. A
new day in the pandemic of Covid-19 is SCRAP
of denial for he’s lost and keeps losing. OF
his recorded living on PAPER
as estate lawyers form socially distanced lines IN
the lobbies of their offices. My son ignores THE
alarm. He’s not maturing or thriving. His personal ARCHIVE;
graduation, 18th birthday, drivers license, voter registration IS
merely virtual…but thank god I can find these lines WRITTEN
Linda,
Nice Golden Shovel poem here with a snippet into your life today. Yes, I too thank god for the chance to read and write with these beautiful teacher friends. It makes it all better. We will someday get past the loss and lack of thriving, and your son will too and look back on this time as a blip on the weather map of his life. All the best.
I love poems with different layers like this .. nicely done.
Kevin
I love how you wrote a golden shovel today about your son. I can only imagine how difficult all of this has been on graduates. It calls into question all that we thought of as normal.
You are so clever and crafty, Linda. I love how the prompt and mentor text intersect with other forms and experiences to bring us this golden shovel today in your tender hands and heart as you share with us the literal and virtual alarms we hear in our loved ones lives during this pandemic. “thank god I can find these lines WRITTEN”!
Sarah
Linda,
This pandemic storm that has constructed this virtual reality smacks young people so hard. My heart breaks for your son and his generation. It is all so unfair and unnecessary. Sending you both love and peace.
..for he’s lost and keeps losing”–so true for this generation of young people. I wonder how this will affect their view of the world when they raise their own children?
Thank you, Andy, for a fun prompt that forecasts all kinds of possibilities today! In your poem, I like how you used a borrowed line as a jumpstart to take a different direction for your own poem. I think this is a great strategy for all writers, but I think it can be especially helpful for our reluctant writers whose biggest challenge seems to often be how to get started. Thank you for inspiring us today.
Coding 101: Secretly Forecasting Atmospheric Conditions
invisible
compass rose
superimposed
on our faces
reversed to self,
mirror-style
“weather check?”
I remind us
before venturing further
I turn toward him
gaze to the heavens
a windsock lifting
changing angles
awaiting the forecast
“cloudy in the western hemisphere,
with a strong chance of sunshine
and a slight chance of storms,”
my own private meteorologist
prognosticates
in his whispered broadcast
in every forecast there is
a strong chance of sunshine
and a slight chance of storms
he tilts his head
checks the sky
sneezes
no scripted teleprompting needed here
“sustained winds
according to the
barometric pressure
but otherwise
clear and balmy
stay tuned”
I whisper back
grinning a secret smile
signing off the air
I hand him a Kleenex and
duck into the ladies’ room
cocooning my own tissue
in my left hand
in search of a mirror
to release a small cloud from
my western hemisphere
This opening (and the language of your title) is fantastic.
“invisible
compass rose
superimposed
on our faces”
Kevin
Kim, what a poem. I love what you did with the prompt. It seelms a lovely memory and continuing relationship with a very special person. The last lines are so amazing:
Beautiful!
Kim,
I appreciate the pace of this poem with the short, staccato lines, death of punctuation and just rhythm of moving us across the hemisphere here.
Sarah
Kim,
I love the emphasis on faith, unspoken as it is, in your poem. This turning to “him” in the lines
suggest both a human presence and that of a dirty. It’s ambiguous, as is the idea that each forecast is nonspecific in its listing of myriad weather patterns we’ll possibly experience each day. We just never know what the weather will bring, but we have “him” to see us through. Lovely poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Kim, the beginning and ending resonate. The visual of that intro and the interpretive ending have me thinking about and not wanting to leave the words. I’m finding the forecast, the strong chance of sunshine and the slight chance of storms, in them.
So often more than not
we’re heard muttering
our complaints
about the rain,
or lack thereof;
the sun,
or where it’s gone;
the wind,
or where it’s blowing;
so much so we forget
this moment’s weather
happens beyond any one of us
as a shared experience,
something to be savored
in the quiet repose of season
when all else seems awry
Kevin, oh how true! The enjoyment of our moments is sometimes lost in what’s not ideal about the time
when the best thing about a moment may be found in the irony of its imperfection.
Whoa, Kevin. So wise, my friend (I hope I can call you that as I feel I am getting to know you via verse). I so need this perspective of weather appreciation, even reverence. “something to be savored/in the quiet repose of season/when all else seems awry” — these lines will stay with me all day with the sun and into the next storm. “this moment’s weather” the literal and the figurative!
Sarah
Love the appreciation here…we, I do forget.
Kevin, I have found I’m focusing more on the weather, and the sky in particular, these last few months. Whether it’s the pace, the added time out of doors, or introspection, this is a good reminder (you capture it so well) to let it happen, however the winds may blow.
Weather or not…
…the umbrella is hugged under
my arm
as a weapon to block divisive banter
to let the fears cascade away from me
to block tears of
anger and confusion and color and
potential
that umbrella prompts
the volatile weather
the storms of life that burst from the
horizon
water pouring down that brings
life
new hope
yet destruction
noxious powers of nature
of humanity
and still the umbrella is there
it always was
a reminder, there is no shelter from
change
*Andy, thank you for this prompt today. Your poem and Rankine’s were a great way to start my week with powerful and motivating words. Your “fire wind rain earth bullets” lines help set a purposeful tone in your poem.
Stefani, your metaphor of life and weather – – the reminder that there is no shelter from change, is a powerful one always, but especially in this pandemic where an umbrella holds no power. Really clever thinking here!
Stefani, these are powerful and motivating words to start the week. Thank you for writing them. I love the italicized words in your poem. hugged, cascade, burst, hope, change–Wow! I’m not sure why you italicized them, but I was glad you did.
Brava, Stefani!
Stefani! This is gorgeous.
These lines are wonderful.
water pouring down that brings
life
new hope
yet destruction
noxious powers of nature
of humanity
Stefani, I so appreciate how everyone has utilized weather (and umbrellas) in their writing today. I love the “storms of life that burst” and the reminder that there is no shelter from change.
Stefani–and still, the umbrella is there; it always was. there is comfort there–something we need desperately these days! The progression and the contrasts you drew are powerful.