Our Host
Joanne Emery has worked in education for forty years as a classroom teacher, learning specialist, and curriculum coordinator. She is a member of the Advisory Board at Rutgers University Center for Literacy. Joanne regularly presents her work in educational journals and academic conferences. Her article “Fostering Curiosity and Imagination: Creative Arts in Constructivist Classrooms,” was published in the Journal of the Association of Constructivist Teaching. Joanne is also a published poet, as well as an accomplished artist. Most recently her poem, “Esperanza,” was published in an anthology edited by Janet Wong and Sylvia Vardell entitled, What is Hope? Joanne was an original member of Judy Chicago’s Birth Project, and her quilt is on permanent exhibit at the Albuquerque Museum of Art and History. She has exhibited her award winning photography throughout the United States including the Salmagundi Gallery in New York City and the San Diego Art Institute. Joanne maintains a weekly blog on art, education, and writing at http://wordancerblog.com.
Inspiration
Did you ever think you knew something well and discovered, you didn’t. I thought I knew poetry and poets very well. I thought I was well-versed – so to speak. Then this winter, I discovered Jane Hirschfeld, and I thought to myself – “How could you have missed her?” I read and listened to her and it was like I was listening to myself, but she is a master of metaphor. I long to construct metaphor like Hirschefeld does.
In her poem, “My Life was the Size of My Life,” Hirschfeld constructs a celebration of her life and shows how the ordinary is quite extraordinary. A life is can be mundane and do quite ordinary things, but in the doing we can become transformed and our self is our life and we go along making careful or careless choices, or both.
Process
Find a line in the poem that stands out to you, expresses something about yourself. Then continue the poem while reflecting how you live your life. Use repetition of the line to create coherence and connection.
Joanne’s Poem
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.
Thank you, Joanne, for this prompt. I loved your poem – especially the title.
Where did she go?
Once upon a time,
There was a girl who courted infinity,
Laced her fingers through galaxies,
Giggled as the stars tickled her palm.
Where did she go?
Once upon a time,
There was a girl who conversed with the sky,
Whispered lightning into the ears of clouds,
Sprinkled rain dust onto their heads.
Where did she go?
Once upon a time,
There was a girl who befriended time,
Tiptoed on the back of ages of delight,
Spun tapestries of eons full of mirth.
Where did she go.
Once upon a time,
There was a girl who thought in colors,
Spoke in maps and daydreams,
Forced to write in lines and numbers,
Where did she go?
[Inspired by Rumi’s “Where did the handsome beloved go?”]
I had some trouble with this one, as I couldn’t quite decide which line to use in my poem. I think I finally wrote something that I’m happy with (though I do wish it wasn’t so negative). Loved the prompt and I’m looking forawrd to seeing other peoples ideas!
Once, I grew moody and distant.
I pushed those that loved me away,
Just because I didn’t want to hear their kind words.
I didn’t want to listen to the suggestions of others,
And I didn’t want to find solutions to my problems.
But then, during an argument with my mom,
I realized that I had to change.
I couldn’t push my support away,
And focus on the negatives,
Because then I would face my greatest fear,
Finding myself alone and miserable.
Andrew, your poem shows how the first step to change is admitting the need for one. So glad you had family there when you did. Now, you are likely to be more alert and understanding when those with whom you interact respond the way you did. I’m confident that you’ll be patient with them, giving them time and space, but not leaving them alone
Thanks for sharing and helping us recognize reasons for moodiness. We’re learning because you made this poem a humbly vulnerable admission.
I wasn’t sure if I would make it here today, but I caught a picture of the irises blooming in my yard. My grandmother played a large role in my upbringing and who I am today. Her name was Iris. So, I wrote a little haiku and will share it here today. How interesting that I didn’t intend to follow the prompt…but that my poem does celebrate the complexity of who I am in a way. Thank you for hosting today.
hopefully my haiku is showing up in the image attached.
What a lovely tribute to someone who must have been lovely to have inspired not only the poem but your silliness to affix it to the beautiful namesake Iris! Thanks for sharing it.
Your haiku is amazing! I can’t do them because I always end up writing more syllables than I should to say what I want, but you managed to portray a complicated message with so little words that I am amazed! This is a beautiful showcase of how Iris’ remind you of your childhood, thank you for sharing this.
After “My Life was the Size of My Life” by Jane Hirschfeld
My life has always been hungry
Hungry for the new and the familiar
And the quotidian and the transcendent
And the unexpected and the unsurprising
And the weird and the mundane
In the here and in the there
But better now than later
However it is served.
Katrina, I think you did such a great job capturing the juxtaposition of the two sides of life.
I like your word choice here…
I absolutely loved what you did here! I thought that your juxtaposition was amazing, but I especially liked your last line. You saying that you aren’t picky about what you’re hungry for really pulls everything together, since the poem was about the many things you can experience in life, into a nice conclusion.
Another paradoxical soul <3
I told my life I would like to try seeing others.
No, it’s nothing you did, I said,
more like ennui,
we could use a break.
My life got defensive (as she
does) You’re the one who
averages 5.2 hours a day on your phone
she snapped.
Well, I whined (I can’t
help it) you used to be more
fun. You raced ahead of me
twirling ribbons and playing the pipes!
My life sniffed (she’s
so dramatic) Would you
even know if I was
twirling ribbons?
Would you hear the music?
Hey, I explained
(for crying out loud)
I didn’t say it would be
forever, just a few weeks–
My life huffed
out of the room,
her sad satin ribbons
trailing after her
Allison, I am enthralled by your poem! Ennui is such a specific word to show a dissatisfaction with life. I love the voice, metaphor and personification of life in your poem. I also loved the question Would you hear the music? This is a poem that needs attention and time to uncover the complexities we encounter in life. The ways in which we turn a page, corner, and everything is suddenly far different than it had been. I see those ribbons trailing.
Allison— this is great! Your voice is so true, and I love the interchange between your selves. And the image of her sad satin ribbons trailing after her…perfect.
Allison, this dialogue between speakers reminds us of the duality of humanity. We often see ourselves, but fail to acknowledge that we don’t really like or appreciate what we see. Your poem here speaks for many of in the the lines
Well, I whined (I can’t
help it) you used to be more
fun.
Thankfully, what goes around comes around. Keep going and some of the joy will return, especially as you unload in your poetry.
Thanks for sharing. And, watch life return with satin ribbons tied in bouncy bows.
Sans
—after Jane Hirshfield
Today, I woke without answer
or understanding
yet wondering
so wandering
Today, I woke without answer
only questions
only confusion
only blank spaces
Today, I woke
&breathed
&pulsed
&lived
without answer
the unspoken
the unwritten
the bypassed
today
Glenda Funk
4-10-24
Inspiration line: Today, I woke without answer from Counting, This New Year’s Morning, What Powers Yet Remain To Me by Jane Hirshfield
https://poets.org/poem/counting-new-years-morning-what-powers-yet-remain-me
That title, Glenda. Sans. And the line you selected to repeat even your choice to italicize – -shows motion and ongoing current with each stanza. Moving. And the ampersands in their symbol but also the “sans” sound that I am now so aware of in seeing your title and the word ampersand. The last word, however, that has me looking for even more layers of meaning in the “bypassed” and all the connections to our hearts.
Peace,
Sarah
I was waiting for your poem, Glenda! I knew you had gone for a quest to read Hirshfield’s poetry. You crafted a thought-invoking poem. I like what you do with “wondering/wandering” connecting thoughts and motion. And then you break down the line “Today, I woke” and infuse it with action and life. The use of “&” speeds up the movement for me. Regardless whether you have answers or not, today has happened, and you are in it.
Glenda, your poem is incredibly moving. I feel the striking emotions. Rising, breathing, but still bypassed. The pain within this poem is vivid. Without answer strikes such a somber tone in your last stanza that sings with the sting we can so often experience in unexpected places. Absolutely gorgeous Canva format for your poem. Hugs!
Glenda, such a beautiful deconstruction of that line of Hirshfield. I love wondering / so wandering.
But these are what I’m taking away today…
Thank you for this prompt, Joanne! This poem touched and inspired me. I wrote two poems this time, but I’ll share the shorter one here. 🙂
Living Large
Others, I know, had lives larger.
Traveling North America
In the van they recuperated
Living through pictures on
A social media screen
Marrying at 22 in the
Mountains of Colorado
With a honeymoon to Hawaii
the next week
Meeting their person at 14
Never having to handle an
Awkward first date
Because everything is awkward at 14
But not after high schoolSo no one notices
Getting into their favorite school
Making a fortune at their first job because
Money is their main motivator
It’s a career not a vocation
It’s a vocation not a career
What to choose
Who knows
Your life can be determined for you
If you want
But don’t fool yourself into thinking that
The surface is reality.
Latin,
You have captured the zeitgeist of a generation in this van life poem. The paradox in these life choices is evident in these lines:
“It’s a career not a vocation
It’s a vocation not a career”
Excellent poem.
Larin,
I like the (auto)biogaphy in the specific details here of a life AND the way we can all see bits of our life in the lines of this poem. This tension between career and vocation and the final line of “surface is reality”! The reading deeper that the mentor poem invites. So lovely.
Sarah
Wow, Joanne, this prompt intrigued me all day. I was most captivated by your lines:
I felt as if you were describing my life.
I didn’t want to go too dark today, but it kind of went there anyway.
Today’s Daily Calm message was about moving through our challenges. The meditation teacher’s message resonated with me: “Our hardships can be a source of growth and transformation.” I will use a different line to repeat than the one from our mentor poem today because it is one I speak of often and have never written a poem about it.
Blooming in Spite of the Mud
Much of my life
Has been covered in mud
My wormy childhood
My warthog marriage
Trudged through the sludge
But no mud, no lotus
No muck, no joy
I wonder if this life’s flower
Will remain in full bloom
Or will it be eaten
By a bully of a beaver
Or blown off its stem
To drown in the mire of death
And someday push its way to the light
No mud, not lotus
No muck, no joy
©Stacey L. Joy, April 10, 2024
Stacey,
Reading your intro and poem felt familiar. There’s a circle of life quality here, a reminder that we bloom and die, bloom and die. I’ve loved playing im the mud as a child and felt bogged down in it as an adult. Life gets dirty sometimes, which I see in these lines: “But no mud, no lotus / No muck, no joy”
I loved the mud as a child too!!
Love to you, my muddy friend! 🥰
Stacey, that lotus is the perfect mud-loving blossom for your poem. Yes, to turning mud into blossom and light!
Joanne–what a wild ride! I’m so glad I studied the Hirshfield poem–and then it went in unexpected places.
I’m not sure that I understand yet what I am saying in this piece, but I will let it sit a while. Maybe at some point it will speak its truth.
There were Times we Made Bread
There were times we made bread
thick and chewy
smeared with butter
like tears
or sea mist
or fog that
shutters the view
of the future
There were times we made bread
forging pathways
through the wheat
of tradition
opening new ways
or are they old ways?
giggling playing
solidly present
There were times we made bread
kneading and needing
pushing and pulling
rolling and patting
then leaving space for
rest and rise
waiting
knowing
that not knowing
is the only way
Take that bite today
savor
chew and swallow
sweet bitter salty sour
all the flavors
There were times we made bread
“opening new ways or are they old ways” – feels like it all comes full circle at some point 🙂 I liked how this poem transitions from bread making to metaphors in each stanza.
Thank you Joanne for sharing your poem inspiring me today! In “My life was the size of my life”, the molecular biologist in me was drawn to the line “In its background, mitochondria hummed”.
My mitochondria humming
Mitochondria humming away
Drained: my brain
Always working that transmembrane synthase
Locked in, like the hydrophobic domain
Charged forces spin me in place
My movement constrained
Mitochondria humming away
Can’t keep my days straight
Need to make it to May
Scratch that, let’s make it through today
Without going insane
Mitochondria humming away
I used to study RNA, DNA, polymerase
Then, with a reaction chain
I start again, making a change
A new, temporary, growing pain
Mitochondria humming away
I need an energy break
I need more time, more adenosine triphosphate
You’ll be amazed
When I can finally move, when I can finally teach
unrestrained
Love the mitochondria humming away–and the sense of exhaustion at this time of the year. Love “Scratch that, let’s make it through today…”
This is such a cool poem! I’m not sure what all the science terms mean (I feel some sort of recollection in the back of my brain…but, not clicking yet!), but the way you weave them together with how your body and your energy go hand in hand…so cool! I also feel a drained brain and a need to make it to May—oh, wait, just through the day. I’m going one day at a time at this point too. We’re so close!
Hey J! Your poem is amazing, and it really showcased what your passion is (science). I especially enjoyed how your poem flowed like a story, going from a person being to tired to do anything, the cells getting energized, and then the person being able to move/teach at the end. I don’t usually see poems telling a story like that so I loved it!
My Life Was the Size of My Life
My life was the size of my life
when there was no one to care for but me.
My life was the size of my life
when it was filled with college days and party nights.
My life was the size of my life
when she came along and doubled it in size.
My life was the size of my life
though lately it’s beginning to feel really small.
Donnetta – what resonates with me most is :when there was no one to care for but me. I think when we are young we don’t realize how much responsibility is coming our way!
Donnetta, this poem says so much between the lines. The first two stanzas hit me…I’m in the stage of life where I only must care for myself, and my college days are still here but almost over. Although no one has come along to double the size of my life, I feel it coming—someday. Thank you for sharing!!!
Thanks for sharing such a powerful prompt, JoAnn. I didn’t have time to write this morning, but I loved your poem and so verses that followed your lead. Here is my humble attempt…
I remember when my life lived in corners.
Nicknamed “Rit Sweet” I felt compelled to prove that true.
I was a quiet, shy, rule-follower,
Always striving to be a good little girl.
Magically, I turned into a teen and
escaped from that corner.
Giggling girlfriends and handsome boys
Lured me out of my shell.
Dreams spouted like seeds.
Go to college, become a teacher,
Make a difference, play your part.
But then, I learned about dreams deferred.
Love walked in carrying new dreams…
Be a good wife and soon a good mother.
Five babies in ten years.
Life spinning along…little time to dream or breath.
The children grew, the money didn’t.
Suddenly back to school I went.
Those dreams deferred fell into place.
Teaching by day, college classes at night.
Blooming in ways that felt so right.
Bit by bit the quiet, sweet child I was
bloomed into a competent woman,
filled with passion, dedication and diligence,
determined to make a difference in the lives of children,
beginning with the five closest to my heart.
Wow, this is a beautiful poem! So much of this resonated with me – “teaching by day, college classes by night” – you are a superhero!
Wow, Rita, I am in awe of your accomplishments! What an amazing life and poem. I’m glad those “dreams deffered” turned into a reality. And if I were Charlotte the Spider, I would weave for you – “Some Poet!”
Rita, I feel like I just took a walk through different parts of your life. So poignant. Dreams deferred, alluding to Hughes…your poem shows that the role of dreams in our lives isn’t necessarily over if they’re not soon realized. Sometimes time must run its course. And I’m sure life has turned out better than you could have dreamed of. Love the last stanza where you talk about making a difference in the lives of your own children and others’. One of the joys of teaching! Thank you for sharing such a personal poem!
This was a beautiful poem! Thank you for sharing it as the host. I loved the imagery of the merry-go-round in the second stanza and I feel as though there are so many ways to interpret that and how it connects to life — ups and downs indeed!
I have to admit, I was a little intimidated by this poem at first. I plucked two lines and I was honestly surprised by where my own writing took me.
The Depths of Life
by Erica J (in response to Jane Hirshfield)
The depth of lives, too, is different.
For some life is the kiddy pool:
shallow and safe and quick
to dip your toes in!
To lounge or play or maybe fill up
(it’s not hard to do)
with cool water or silky sand or
rainbow plastic balls.
For some life is the kiddy pool:
made to wade in, but not
to make waves in certainly
not to dive in, no.
Don’t dive, unless…
You want to explore dark depths
and a dare to touch that
which you cannot see.
And, if you want to get out,
you better hope there is a ladder!
Otherwise you are holding your breath:
swimming deep, deep, deeper
and deeper until you feel
as though
to drown.
(But it was a dare!
Almost…There!)
And the elation when
your fingers brush against
tiled floor or concrete or maybe dig in
to unseen shells — now yours to claim!
When, with a swoosh, you rise —
erupting from below like the mermaid
you always knew you were back
in the seafoam colored kiddy pool.
Because if you can swim
you cannot sink.
Lay back against the waves
you made in your wake and relax
knowing that Life guards the deep end.
What a wonderful extended metaphor, Erica. That mermaid is so hopeful and daring.
This is an amazing poem and memorable metaphor. So much to think about in this. I can relate to deciding to “swim” and the joy it’s brought to “erupt into the mermaid I always thought I could be.” Thank you!
Erica, I love the lines, “Because if you can swim / you cannot sink.” There such truth and power there! Thank you for writing and sharing tonight!
Erica,
Love the dramatic action and triumph of this stanza:
And the pun and multiple meanings of
Brilliant ending!
Wow!! I am always blown away at your poetry. I love the Kiddy pool metaphor and the “Life guards…”
Oh Erica! I wasn’t sure where you were taking me and then the seashell, the mermaids, the Life guards at the deep end. I love this metaphor for life. Maybe you always be buoyant – floating and rising!
Thank you Joanne for this prompt, for introducing me to a new poet, and for the inspiration of your poem!
Some seem to know
the path
for which they are
destined.
or dropped onto life’s
Jumanji board,
they hit the ground
running.
My life sat quietly waiting.
Do not think it’s been
a quiet life.
I have made it my business
to toss over, as often
and as recklessly I could,
the marble block
from whence my life
has been chiseled.
Patiently inside,
my life sat quietly waiting.
Now that the etchings have taken form
now that a purpose seems clear
And a life of some substance
has emerged—
the waiting has ceased,
and the living
is well worth the wait.
I really like this, Dave. You must be the strong and silent type. I really felt the quiet strength in your poem today. “A life of some substance” is such a wonderful understatement.
I’m with Mo here, Dave, what a great line, “now that a purpose seems clear / And a life of some substance / has emerged.” I just love that phrasing: “a life of some substance.” And the ending, of course, is cool, too: “the waiting has ceased, / and the living / is well worth the wait.” Let’s go!! “Get busy living or get busy dying”!
Dave,
I like how purpose leads to a life of substance. Your last three lines are so satisfying.
Love your extended metaphor of the statue emerging from the marble at the hands of the artist.
Thank you for sharing.
Dave,
First, I absolutely adore the opening. But this line pulled me in!
Love that you get to do all your good living now! Brilliant piece!
Dave – This metaphor of life being a marble block waiting to be chiseled is very original. I love your repetition of “quietly waiting” and then the ending: “well worth the wait.”
Thank you for hosting today, Joanne, and introducing us to Jane Hirschfeld and her poetry. I love the mentor poem you chose for us; it feels like each line carries so much weight and could be an inspiration for a new poem. You have so beautifully lifted her line “Others, I know, had lives larger,” which I also had in my notes of the lines. The final three lines of your poem are incredible.
I chose “I would like to try seeing others” as an inspiration for my poem today. It is still in a very draft stage, but I want to post before it’s too late.
Seeing Others to See Myself
I would like to try seeing others
In bustling cities and tranquil towns,
In opulent castles and humble huts,
By the blue ocean, or high in the mountains.
I would like to try seeing others,
Conversing in tongues I never heard,
Nurturing different faiths and beliefs,
Embracing and celebrating themselves.
I would like to try seeing others,
Dancing carelessly in the streets,
Finding solace in quiet park benches,
Riding the city bus at the first light.
I would like to try seeing others,
Working from sunrise to sunset,
With minds occupied by worries of tomorrow,
Choosing between a loaf of bread or a roof over their head.
I would like to try seeing others
To find my reflection in their tired faces,
To see hope when it seems impossible,
To find love after love lost.
I would like to try seeing others
To be able to see myself.
You chose such a wonderful line, Leilya. I think seeing others is one of the most important things we can do in life. Your last two stanzas are just perfect. I love that your last stanza is short, really drawing us in.
Leilya, there is such a strong feeling of connection to humanity here in your words – to see a face in the mirror of others, to share the joys and the struggles and the lives lived, to feel and to know and to sense what others are feeling as we discover ourselves. What a lovely way to approach the world, truly with the mindset of walking in another’s shoes.
Leilya,
This is so beautiful and generous and filled with empathy. I can feel your kind curiousity and desire to know yourself better by knowing others.
i especially like this stanza
with its mix of ordinary joys (dancing, quiet park benches) and the ordinary necessity of taking the bus before dawn to get to work perhaps.
Thank you for sharing.
Leilya – The repetition works so well here. We are immersed in otherness and then you connect us at the end with “To be able to see myself.” I think in this modern maddening world we sometimes forget our connection to others and how others shape our identity.
Leilya, wow, I am completely captivated by your poem. The actions you want to see are so striking. It’s like a movie reel featuring scenes easily understood. Your end is extremely powerful. Trying to find a connection and sense of self by seeing others is truly relatable. Fantastic poem!
Leilya,
This appeals to my wanderlust as well as to the spirit of egalitarianism. There’s a Whitmanesque quality to the celebration of diversity, dare I say DEI, and that last line is profound. Truly a masterpiece in verse you’ve offered today.
Leilya, I’m so glad I came back this morning to find this treasure. A poem of empathy in the first degree. What magic you made with that borrowed line, “I would like to try seeing others” and then your conclusion is so perfect. The second stanza is my favorite.
Joanne,
Thank you for hosting and mentoring.
The last three lines of your poem are so lovely. I love the simple beauty and surprise of
Thanks also for the Hirschfield. It made me happy to start my day with her. It Was Like This: You Were Happy was the first poem of hers that I read and for a while I carried around a copy of it, trying to memorize it because it was so beautiful.
I’m going to save your borrowing from Hirschfeld exercise for another day. Instead you motivated me to do a parallel exercise with a line from John Prine’s How Lucky Can One Man Get?
Singing Along
with John Prine
How lucky can one woman get?
Two wheels of freedom
My mother answering my morning call,
“Bonjour! Bonjour, ma belle fille!”
Hot Orange at the top of the mountain
Saki in square wooden cups
An egret standing in the creek
A silent poem
Of stillness
Herbie Hancock wearing his white keyboard and black tunic
Jumping for joy
Your hand reaching for mine
How lucky can one woman get?
Sharon – What a nice surprise your poem is! It’s my birthday today, and I will think of this poem as a gift. The images make me so happy! Thank you!
Thanks, Joanne. Writing it made me happy.
Happy birthday!
Sharon, your poem brought me joy too today. It feels light, full of love and gratitude. Thank you for ending my day on such a positive note!
Joanne, This is a great way to dig deep into Hirshfield’s poetry. I saw her speak at the Dodge Poetry Festival back in 2009. She is such a beautiful woman. I took the line “I told my life I would like some time.”
I Told My Life
I would like some time.
I wanted to hit Pause,
slip away
into another space–
maybe a vase of flowers
beautiful & scented
then tossed away.
I told my life
to hold on
while I slept
dreamt I was flying.
What does it feel like to be free?
I told my life
I would like some time
off.
Oh, Margaret. Time. “I would like some time” is such a reasonable and impossible request. And the idea of the space to slip away to as a vase of flowers calls up impermanence. Yes, time off from time. That is it.
Sarah
Oh, Margaret, I can sense longing for some time off in your poem. Love the sound of these lines:
“I wanted to hit Pause,
slip away
into another space–
maybe a vase of flowers
beautiful & scented.”
So creative! I imagined what it would feel like to “slip away into a vase of flowers.” Wow!
Margaret,
such a relatable theme, but with a unique twist:
Beautiful. Count me in!
My goodness, Margaret, are you speaking directly to me??? The last two weeks have felt insane. Yesterday, a troubled student of mine set a trash can on fire right outside my classroom door. I’ve never experienced the feeling of “SAVE THE CHILDREN BEFORE YOU SAVE YOURSELF” but that’s what I did. Today, another nightmare and a dental appointment that should’ve taken 1 hour and it took 2.5. I’m racing to get things done this evening but decided not to wait for verselove, it came before everything else I need to do.
I sure hope you and I feel free soon. Hugs!
…slip away into another space–maybe a vase of flowers… That longing for time, freedom, space, lack of responsibility. Beautiful piece.
Me too, Margaret! Sometimes the world spins a little fast for me and I’m in need of rest. That is happening more and more often! I love the line you took and where it took us. I love the lines: “maybe a vase of flowers beautiful and scented then tossed away.”
For those who read my poem yesterday, here are the truths:
Skydiving
Held a koala
I’ve read the same book every year since 2009 (Zorgamazoo by Weston
AND the fourth pair was a trick — I’ve done both — read 100 books in one year AND I’ve gone this past year without buying a single book. Today marks the last day of my book pause (started it last year on my birthday). If you have any suggestions for books I missed this past year, please share in the comments 😊
i will be back a little later to share today’s poem — first, birthday dinner.
Happy birthday!
Happy Birthday!
and thanks for sharing your truths!
Happy Birthday – Jennifer! It’s my birthday too!
Thank you for sharing Hirschfeld’s poem. Thank you all for this time and space to write poetry.
I told my life I would like some time,
Time to read, write, and think about life,
To walk, sit, and appreciate life,
To nap, rest, and recuperate for life.
I would like to slow down.
I told my life I would like some time,
Time to travel and learn about other lives,
To spend more time with the lives I created and nurtured,
To sit on the beach, to wander through nature, to experience wonder.
I would like the freedom to just go.
I told my life I would like some time,
Time to learn and experience new things,
To knit, play the piano, and garden.
To care for and tend to my body.
I would like to become a better version of myself.
I told my life I would like some time,
Time for me.
I promise I didn’t read yours before I wrote mine! Isn’t that a great thought, taking time… I would also like to become a better version of myself, as you wrote. We must take care of ourselves to make that happen.
Heather, I almost chose this line to write a poem today. It is so beautiful and can take us in so many directions. I like how you walk me through all the things you would like to do with “some time.” the ending stanza say is all:
“I told my life I would like some time,
Time for me.”
Heather,
your poem is so beautiful and calming.
I hope you make and take that time for yourself.
Feeling that need myself.
Heather, you selected a line from Jane’s poem, that has allowed you to share the experiences you desire. The last lines of your stanzas are significant. “I would like to slow down/ I would like the freedom to just go/I would like to become a better version of myself”.
I think my favorite line of all was “I would like the freedom to just go.” because it’s such a simple concept and yet it can be so hard to just go! I also just loved how that stanza built from all these desires to end with that! I loved it.
You so beautifully captured how I felt for so many years. Now, I’m retired and I actually do have some time to do many of the things you mentioned. I loved your poem and I wish the gift of time for you.
Heather,
May I please have this life????
I love the tender care you will give your life…someday!!
Absolutely! You think you have all the time in the world when you are young and time goes by slowly. Then as we ages it is rushing and we can’t quite grab hold of it. How did that much life go by? And yes – we need to have quiet time just to ourselves. Lovely poem!
Thanks Joanne. This is a great prompt. I found it challenging today.
A Room of One’s Own
By Mo Daley 4/10/24
My life was an unremarkable one, people remarked.
It seemed to have gone on and on without much of a plan.
My ginormous family may have been the only exceptional thing about me,
unless you ask any other Irish-Catholic kid on the South Side
about his family.
Okay, maybe falling and love and getting married
almost as soon as it hit legal drinking age may be considered uncommon,
but more likely it was hormones and pheromones.
How about raising three terrifically talented young men,
one might ask. That’s rare.
Or were they just given to good genes and ate their vegetables?
My life could fit in a schoolroom that couldn’t fit enough desks
because the bookshelves were overflowing with poetry and prose.
That just makes me a garden variety bookworm
who couldn’t shut up about her hobby.
My life watched the birds, the flowers, and the people
everywhere it went, making observations that formed its core.
Nothing more.
My life was changing and growing all the time,
never letting on that change and growth could be excruciating.
My life was room sized.
But it was my room.
I, too, often feel like my life “was an unremarkable one.” Your poem made me think differently, and your ending fills me with peace.
And what a lovely room it is. You sound pretty remarkable to me. I love your asides to each point of fact.
I love the room of bookshelves overflowing. I can’t help myself if I tried. I just keep buying more books. Can you ever have enough?
Mo, you are a remarkable person for me, no doubts here. I love these lines in your poem:
“My life could fit in a schoolroom that couldn’t fit enough desks
because the bookshelves were overflowing with poetry and prose.’
The final two lines tell me so much:
“My life was room sized.
But it was my room.”
It is your life, and it the size that fits you. beautiful!
Mo, I could so relate to this wonderful poem. As your living it, life often feels remarkable, but I’m finding that the older I get the more I appreciate the truly important and remarkable aspects of the life I’ve lived…a loving marriage, a good family, a career I loved…you get the idea. Basically an abundance of blessings that actually are pretty remarkable.
Mo, I’m in awe of your life – lived well. My favorite lines are:
My life could fit in a schoolroom that couldn’t fit enough desks
because the bookshelves were overflowing with poetry and prose.
They grabbed me and wouldn’t let go!
The depths of lives, too, is different.
I watch her kneeling in the shattered mirror
she punched in her silenced plea for a voice.
And I feel her now tapping keys on a board
shouting words from ergonomic speaker.
I watch her sifting sopping crumbs under
scalding water, scrubbing family knives.
And I feel her now seeing anew the harm
served up at the dinner table as pain stilled.
I told my lives, I’d need some time
to watch the then in the feel of the now
to understand the depths of difference.
“I told my lives, I’d need some time
to watch the then in the feel of the now
to understand the depths of difference.”
the way you have worded this is amazing.
Sarah, this is a beautifully emotional poem showing me sadness and frustration in the punching of keys, the silent plea, shouting, scalding water and served harm. I hope in time understanding will come.
Sarah— these lines:
And I feel her now seeing anew the harm
served up at the dinner table as pain stilled.
they feel so real to me…
Woah to “watch the then in the feel of now”. That nails just how I feel, in a way floating above my life observing who I am now…after.
Sarah, I like how you chose several lines to feature in your poem. I had all these written out when I began thinking about today’s prompt. I read and reread these two lines trying to visuals the image:
“I watch her sifting sopping crumbs under
scalding water, scrubbing family knives.”
The fricative [s] in sifting, sopping, scalding, and scrubbing creates a very dynamic sound progression as if intensifying the image and action.
The final three lines are beautifully woven together, as Angie noticed.
I chose that line as well and I love how radically different our poems are Sarah! I especially enjoyed the imagery you wove through this line from tending the dishes to setting a dinner table — all with silent or maybe not so silent rage behind these acts. I also appreciated the parallel between the opening line and then making it your own line at the end!
Oh my goodness, Sarah, I love the sound of this poem. I read it aloud several times – shattered, silenced, shouting, speaker, sifitng, sopping, scalding, scrubbing, seeing, served, stilled, depths. All those quiet “S’s” coming together “to watch the then in the feel of the now.” WOW!
Sarah, I feel so much pain within your lines with scrubbing the family knives under scalding water. The punch, silenced plea, and seeing anew the harm is visceral. I feel that there is hope at the end. The now much better than the then. Incredibly powerful poem!
Joanne, thank you for hosting today. I took two lines from W. Whitman’s “I Celebrate Myself” to frame my poem today. Your mentor poem is both beautiful and compelling. I love so many lines and images you’ve created in it. I was especially moved by “My life sat quietly waiting”.
Wandering through Sandusky
I loaf and invite my soul
to embrace fragrant earth’s
tender cuts, sweet
with handkerchiefs of lilacs
I lift my face to be kissed by April’s raindrops
light as butterflies I cannot catch
tripping across tender dark grass
I stumble, enjoying its rich cut scent~
as I contemplate God’s hand
the world’s ponderous weight
always waiting for my eternal part to rise
breathless with joy
desiring nothing more than to
purge the smoke of my own breath
Barb Edler
10 April 2024
Barb, wow. So many beautiful springlike images here. I was just all over this poem in “earth’s / tender cuts”, “sweet / handkerchiefs of lilacs”, “I lift my face to be kissed…” (oh the joy), and “contemplate God’s hand” and so much more! It is a celebration of yourself, and your lines shine above Whitman’s, if I may be so bold to say it.
Denise, i haven’t read your response before I posted mine, but I also said that I like Barb’s words even more than Whitman’s 🙂
Whitman is one of my favorites. The imagery is exquisite.
I love these lines:
Barb,
This line “to embrace fragrant earth’s/tender cuts…” so beautiful. And you have me running outside into the rain right now to catch an actual kiss of April’s raindrops. And you have me running to the only bud hoping to see that butterfly. You make me believe.
Sarah
Barb, this is how to live. Fully in the moment, fully absorbed in the earth’s fragrant embrace, desiring nothing more than to purge the smoke of breath. How do you do it? How do you cut right into the meat of all there is and lay it open, exposed, like a delicacy? This is rich, rich, rich living in the simple joy.
Barb, I don’t know if I love your poem more than Whitman’s now 🙂
These lines captured my attention and I just want to be with you in the same place today:
“to embrace fragrant earth’s
tender cuts, sweet
with handkerchiefs of lilacs
I lift my face to be kissed by April’s raindrops
light as butterflies I cannot catch.”
This is amazing!
Barb,
The language here is so ethereal, so meditative. I thought about choosing a Walt Whitman line for my poem and had my sight on “I sing the body electric.” I love Whitman and the prayer to self in your poem. It’s gorgeous. The line “handkerchiefs of lilacs” functions as an allusion of “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” and takes on a mournful tone as I think about the losses you’ve shared l. Thank you for this gorgeous poem that speaks to my heart today,
Barb, this poem leaves me “breathless with joy!” I can smell those lilacs and the rain. What a a beautiful poem!
Waiting for My Life to Get Up and Go
Only child (for many years)
lots of parental attention and schooling
yet kept looking for excitement,
a big event, a tv moment
wanted the Bionic Woman
to use me as her sidekick
always felt like I was
waiting for my life to get up and go
Middle school, endured minor bullying
was given opportunities to speak up
to excel and individualize
there were friends who had
spark, gumption and pizazz
around that time
my mother role model found her
voice and stopped
waiting for her life to get up and go
once that began, she consistently
encouraged me to do the same
High school and a decent boyfriend
brought joy, a few thrills, and academic
chances to shine and thrive.
A Separation at home, parents
apart created moments of
confusion, solitude, and opportunities
for trust to be earned
College drew me in, the idea of
leaving the parental drama behind and
initiating my own ideas and feelings
During that time, the decision to stop
waiting for my life to improve
became my mantra
I got up and
started doing life on my terms, mostly.
by Seana Hurd Wright
Seana, bravo for finding your will to do your life on your own terms. I love your honest voice in this poem and how you reveal the various struggles you have encountered until the positive closing end. Powerful poem!
Seana, very nice autobiographical poem using some lines and phrases from Hirshfield. It’s like a coming of age poem, and you have found your way as a young woman.
Seana,
You really made the lines your own in the story segments of your life turned into stanzas. “Waiting for my life to improve” hits me in the gut.
Sarah
You packed so much information about your life into this great poem. I tried to write something similar today, but wasn’t thrilled with it. You nailed it with your poem. Nice to “get to know you.”
Seanna, I love the repetition of “waiting for her life to get and and go.” The end is wonderful as you take life into your own hands, “I got up and started doing life..” Wonderful!
Joanne–thank you for the introduction to Jane Hirschfield. I feel the same–how did I miss her? I strove to pull from her poem, but I wanted the same phrases you used, and your poem did it so beautifully! All those larger lives. Aren’t we lucky to have our own?
Being Seventy
I am seventy, born in the mid nineteen hundreds,
(which sounds much farther back than the 1950’s).
I am the age at which my grandmother seemed ancient
Even though I am only fifty-three in my head–
How can this be?
How can I be seventy?
Seventy is dramatically different
from all the other ages I have been before.
Seventy is “young-old-age”
There is no middle left.
Opinion forms no longer ask HOW old you are.
You are just “over” once you hit 65–
a tiny piece of an amorphous mass of elder over-ness.
There are benefits to being 70.
I know things I did not know at 50 or 40.
I know that I have more time behind me
than I do ahead of me,
so I appreciate the time that is today’s.
I know that seventy-me is not invincible,
that I have only so much control of my future,
that everything could change in a moment.
I have lost many things, and many people.
I know there will be more losses ahead,
so I treat the world with a little more care.
Seventy accepts that we are not perfect and never were.
Seventy knows that everyone is flawed, even if it doesn’t show.
At seventy, I know that the owner’s manual
that I thought everyone else had is a myth.
Nobody knows what they are doing.
Seventy cushions the sharp edges of recrimination.
I am better now at dealing with the broken pieces of our world.
At seventy, I know too well the shadowy corners of the room
where sorrow lies, but I know where to look for the sun.
At seventy, I gather up sun moments
and save them in a jar for the dark days which will come.
I no longer waste time wishing for things I don’t have.
Seventy is just fine.
GJSands
4-10-24
Gayle, wow, I adore your poem for so many reasons. First of all your line “ I know there will be more losses ahead,
so I treat the world with a little more care.” I completely relate to this. As we age, there is a better understanding of “myths” of life’s dark days so when you “gather up sun moments” I am cheering for you. Perfectly delivered last line, too! Kudos!
Gayle, I have always been drawn to aging and never really afraid, but as my body and skin and ideologies continue to surprise me, I admit maybe it’s more complicated than I would have liked to believe.
Your poem is refreshing and is a testament so much truth.
Thank you for sharing!
Gayle,
This is a lovely contemplation of 70 for you and invites us to witness your life in a new way, catching glimpses of insight relevant to any age, too. I really found beautiful this “I know too well the shadowy corners of the room/where sorrow lies, but I know where to look for the sun.” Yes, we need both, and both can even be an honor. I think knowing both sides, seeing and naming both is what makes a good poet: you!
Sarah
Thank you, Gayle for this! I turned 68 today, and I am in need of a guide for 70! I love your whole poem but the lines that stood out to me most are:
Nobody knows what they are doing.
Seventy cushions the sharp edges of recrimination.
I am better now at dealing with the broken pieces of our world
In reading the original poem, “My life was the size of my life” stood out to me. As the youngest of 4, I was never happy with where I was in my life. I wanted to be older, more mature so I could be just like my older siblings. My life always seemed small in comparison. It took me many years to let go of wanting to be them and accept myself for all that I am.
My life was the size of my life
no matter how I wanted to stretch it,
to be equal to my older siblings.
My life was the size of my life,
no matter how I echoed their footprints
I would not be them.
My life was the size of my life,
no matter how I pursued my goals
their achievements always seemed higher.
My life was the size of my life,
no matter that no one else saw the rivals
an innate competition lived in me.
My life was the size of my life,
until I accepted me for me- flaws, talents, dreams
Then it became so much more
My life was the size of MY LIFE.
this is perfect! We spend too much time envying others. That phrase—my life was the size of MY LIFE—say it loud!!
Fantastic poem. I enjoy how you layer these stanzas to show your growth. I so appreciated the line “until I accepted me for me- flaws, talents, dreams”. Incredibly moving poem! The repetition works effectively to emphasize each stage.
Thank you.
Wow, you pulled a great line to work in for repetition and create such incredible emphasis and perspective from each stanza to the next “no matter” repeated, too until you get to “until I accepted me for me– flaws, talents, dreams.” Yes, that is beautifully crafted and really important for me, your reader to ponder. Love this.
Sarah
Thank you.
Love this! It is hard not to compare ourselves. Thank you for the reminder/
Cathy, I want to celebrate you and “the size of your life” now! Wonderfully crafted!
Thank you.
Hi Cathy! I love how you constructed this poem. It reads faster and faster, and then slows down toward the end. The capital “MY LIFE,” says it all!
I veered from the prompt slightly. This morning I was listening to Sophie Strand’s interview on the podcast, For The Wild. Her book, The Flowering Wand: Rewilding the Sacred Masculine, muses about what it might look like had men took up flowering wands, not swords. I tried to capture a bit of that idea here. In my document it is a two column poem, a mirror of sorts. Here is my first draft.
For Sophie Strand
a human, let’s be truthful,
a man, early in the first
stitch of humanity’s
threaded tapestry-
probably before even the first
spindle unspooled its spiral
having from his battered bare feet
plucked those pesky pine pricks
those poking and proud warriors-
Mother Nature’s precious evolutionary sons
let an idea needle its way in
then in a soft rage, not unlike reverence,
having just witnessed Nature’s wise weaponry
-this early man-
wiles for weeks with wood
with stone, with bone
his father’s rib proves sharpest of all
sculps and shapes swords that slice
flora and fruit
flesh and foe
a single fiber of history
befouled in blood
_____________________
time is full of weavers
a whirling wheel
wisps- soft as wind-
whipping up
worlds upon
worlds
-another world and early man-
without the worry of work wanders
a blossoming branch
obscures his shallow footpath;
he pauses as the petals perfume
not unlike Persephone’s breath
a thought begins to bloom his brain
and without words or willpower
he gathers the gum’s garnet gift
walks for weeks waving the wand
Over trails and meadows, over riverbeds
his mother’s magic most merciful of all
enthralls, entrances, enchants
flora and fruit
flesh and friend
a tiny thread in time’s tapestry
forever a flowering stitch
Oh, Kasey, isn’t this beautiful! Magical alliteration and the tapestry metaphor throughout. Some favorite lines for me today are:
and
First draft!? What?, lol, there’s a lot of great stuff here, Kasey! I love your alliteration throughout, but I’m especially drawn toward the s and t sounds/rhythms that you’ve crafted here: “a human, let’s be truthful, / a man, early in the first / stitch of humanity’s / threaded tapestry- / probably before even the first / spindle unspooled its spiral.” Thanks for writing and sharing this!
Oh this is so beautiful. I love the tapestry metaphor and how intricately you play with words. I especially love these lines:
let an idea needle its way in
then in a soft rage, not unlike reverence,
having just witnessed Nature’s wise weaponry
Kasey, what an amazing poem. I was completely pulled into this incredible journey. I loved the lines “wiles for weeks with wood/with stone, with bone”. The internal rhyme resonates as the action builds. Time weavers is such a powerful image! Gorgeous poem!
I told my life I would like some time
Time to revisit all of my blessings:
The golden moments on vacations,
Time spent with family members long gone,
My youthful days spent at the beach,
35 years of teaching memories
I told my life I would like some time
Time to adjust to my new realities:
(so different from what I’d imagined)
Retirement in late June,
Mom’s dementia diagnosis in August,
Placement in a memory care unit in September
I told my life I would like some time
Time to ponder future possibilities:
The poetry memoir I’ve dreamed of writing,
Places I’d like to visit,
The acrylic artist I’m becoming,
TIme to keep playing pickleball
It’s time to take a deep breath:
Inhale, 2, 3, 4…exhale
Heidi— there are stages of life—yours (and mine) where we deserve some time. But life interferes, still placing demands on what should be our time to take care of us. It will happen, I know!
Time is so precious. You capture that deep desire for more even when life has other plans. I hope you get to write that memoir and paint and play pickleball!
Joanne, this is one of those sad, glad poem days. But, thanks for reminding us to consider our family members as we consider our own lives.
Depth, Not Length or Breadth
Some, I know, have longer lives.
Relatives on both sides of our family
Lived way past their octogenarian years
Some even past their centennials.
Some, I know, have shorter lives.
My two sisters and I have each lost a son
To shockingly early, mysterious deaths.
Mine, a Persian Gulf sailor was found dead
in his apartment in Shilo Japan
One sister’s young son died
in a hospital after graduating from college
The other’s death we don’t talk about.
But we do know the depth of lives is different.
We’ve learned life spans don’t run in family.
Whether short or long, the depth is always love.
Whether they live longer or shorter lives
Each is remembered with loads of love,
As we envision each now in their home up above.
I am sorry about the loss of a son for all 3 of you in your family. That is heartwrenching. Your line “the depth is always love” really hit my heart.
That should be SASEBO, Japan. Mistyped. Oops
I love the idea of the depth of life- not its length- that is what really matters and measured by deep love. What a beautiful framing of something I knew to be true, but hadn’t said just yet. Truly, thank you for sharing.
So sorry for your losses, but your title says it best.
Funny story . . . I was multi-tasking a little bit too much this morning while starting this and I didn’t click on the mentor poem to cull a line from to use; I look at YOUR poem, Joanne. So, your poem provided my inspiration. I didn’t follow instructions but I like the output anyway. I will likely re-do using a line from Hirschfield’s poem
My Life Sat Quietly Waiting
My life sat quietly waiting
to emerge from its cocoon
as others moved from center stage
and started their own lives.
My life sat quietly waiting
to take on its own identity
as the multitude of roles I played
waned . . .becoming less vital.
My life sat quietly waiting
to take center stage
as my husband grew tired of coaching
and became ready to prioritize us.
My life sat quietly waiting
realizing that the time was never
going to present itself when
others took notice and
centralized me.
So . . .
my life quit sitting
quit being quiet
quit waiting
and stood up
and yelled
and got busy living.
~Susan Ahlbrand
10 April 2024
Susan,
I misunderstood as well and borrow from her poem! However, I think there are no mistakes in art and these poems just became an extension of the prompt and experience! Your poem seems to travel through the many roles you have had in life.
Love the strength in that last stanza! So glad you began living and letting your voice be heard.
Susan— I understood, but broke the rules anyway ! (I’m such a rebel). I relate so much to your poem— all that quiet waiting. So glad you took it upon yourself to get on with it!!
I think many can relate to your poem. If not now, when? I’m so glad you got busy living!!
Today the line that stood out to me was “Speak out, be loud, recite the poem.” It made me think of all the performances I have given in my life, and how I love to perform.
Speak out, be loud, recite the poem
Stand on a stage microphone in hand
Sing off key or play a part
Escape into art
Speak out, be loud, recite the poem
Compete with a pose or with a speech
Play an alto saxophone smoothly
Breathe into art
Speak out, be loud, recite the poem
Read with character voices and drama
Manipulate a puppet to dance and speak
Become one with art
Speak out, be loud, recite the poem
Use my performance history as a shield
Unsheathe my sword of truth
Fight for art
Ashley,
First, I love your repeated line, “Speak out, be loud, recite the poem.” A a lover of lifting voices through performance, your poem speaks to me. It’s a battle cry for young women and for poets. Second, I’m sorry your poem has sat in this space for seven hours w/ not comments. I know how heartbreaking that is. We should all “Fight for art.” Bravo to you and to your poem.
Ashley, your poem made me smile and remember performances I have given as a string bass player and as a music teacher all the ones my students gave. You melted my heart with the alto sax because that is what my son plays. He is a music teacher now, too. Doesn’t the stage give power to souls who may not shine in other places? Thank you for the reminder.
Ashley,
Your love of performing fuels this poem.
I like the many ways you show that one can play through art, even becoming art.
Powerful last stanza:
Glad you’re fighting the good fight for art!
Joanne, thanks for the prompt and the introduction to Jane Hirschfeld.
Ups and Downs
The depth of lives, too, is different
Mine is no different, it dances samba
It wrings and stretches
But life eventually gives us joy
As we continually seek it
The depths of lives, too is different
Life throws us mangoes
We try to catch many but some drop
Sweet, ripe mangoes, sour, unripe ones
When we grow patience, we
catch the perfect ones
This is our wish and certainly
God’s wish for us.
Juliette,
Your lines “But life eventually gives us joy/ As we continually seek it” made me think about how much control we have over our happiness. The next stanza made me think about how to respond to what we cannot control.
I love the imagery you bring into this poem Juliette — from the dancing to the description of the mangoes. And isn’t mango such a fun word to say? I loved reading the joy in your poem out loud in my room. Also I’m tickled that I chose a similar line and yet my poem turned out completely different!
Your poem is beautiful, Juliette. “Life throws mangoes.” and “When we grow patience, we catch the perfect ones” are my favorite lines. Actually I love all of stanza 2.
[Insert Clever/Meaningful/Significant/Startling Title]
After Jane Hirshfield
After Joe Wenderoth
After Walt Whitman
After
After
Ok, so let’s set
some ground rules;
when you read
this poem out loud
(because I know you will)
you need to approximate,
as much as you can,
the voice of Yul Brynner
from The King and I
when you recite the “afters”
I need you to really hit
that etc., etc., etc. vibe.
Here is the part where
I talk about My Life
(capital M and capital L)
(Ok, you can
stop reading it
out loud now
that moment
has passed.)
the part
when I talk about how
I have many rooms
that are room sized
or maybe not
actually
room sized
or I talk about my life
as some growing,
breathing animal
that does tricks
or maybe it’s a verse
in some “Powerful play.”
(I hope it’s a comedy
with a happy ending.)
And now we’re already
in the middle,
the meat of My Life.
We’re in the thick of it.
(“Once more unto the
breach, dear friends,
once more”)
This is the part where
I start to question
everything, what is
life?, What is my life?,
Do I exist? Do I still
enjoy eating
cottage cheese?
(That’s a real question,
by the way,
not some existential
tomfoolery, some
performative
navel-gazing;
I’m actually unsure
if I still enjoy
this curdled
milk product
with its soupy
texture.)
And, now, we’re
near the end of
the poem, near
because it’s not
quite here yet,
so it would be a bit
presumptuous of me
to speculate or
articulate my
future fate
or the remaining
stanzas of
this poem;
regardless,
though,
I am aware
of the audacity
(of my precarious
position) here:
a poet asking
you to give up
some of your time,
your precious time,
and this is not
nothing
this asking of
time
this one – finite –
“stuff” of life
you can’t get back
asking you to
read and think
about these
words
to think about
My Life
(Oh, and
remember
I’m also
asking you
to go back
and title
this poem, too.
Yeesh, the nerve
of some people,
huh?)
___________________________________________________
Thank you Joanne for this, for introducing me to Jane Hirshfield! She is a new poet for me, so, again, thank you! (I’ve been greedily consuming whatever I can find of hers for the past hour or so – she just had something in The New Yorker, like, nine days ago, called “Today, My Hope Is Vertical”!) In terms of my offering, I pulled from her and from Wenderoth and Whitman to help marshal my thoughts this morning.
LOL! Loved this, and — as the kiddies would say — so meta.
My fave lines:
“Do I exist? Do I still
enjoy eating
cottage cheese? “
Startling statement (question), indeed!
This poem is full of sass- which I adore. I adore the whole darn thing- actually. I think I will reread the title- only because I want to. Also- cottage cheese is just mid for me- as the kids say.
Joanne,
This prompt is wonderful. I love Hirshfield’s poetry and find myself falling down a rabbit hole when reading her. I’m particularly fond of her poetry highlighting social justice and environmental themes. As happens so often, you’ve offered us an amazing poem. Both your poem and Hirshfield’s inspired me, and as Elizabeth Gilbert says, we must seize the inspiration when it arrives, so I wrote my poem and posted it to my IG and FB stories as I have every day of the Stafford Challenge. I’ll collect the week’s poems and share on my blog.
In thinking about your poem, I’m drawn to the phrase “sought the spotlight.” Isn’t that what posting poems in this space is about? The follow-spot that is this stream is a request for others to cast a light on the poems we share. Even those with lives that “hid in corners, / cowered under dark stairs,” as your poem so beautifully notes, hope to one day be that sprouting flower. In my reading this is a metaphor for poetry, as well as for life.
Thank you for hosting and sending me off to read Hirshfield’s poems.
Joanne, What a thought-provoking prompt. I may have to return to it and write again. I took a line from the mentor poem (thanks for introducing me to her).
Once I grew moody and distant
too busy comparing my life to others
those with more money
bigger houses
newer cars
leaner bodies.
I lost focus
on what was important.
Once I grew moody and distant
Until my husband unexpectedly
Needed quadruple bypass surgery.
That was a turning point –
I stopped looking at other lives
and began appreciating the
size of my own life.
Rita,
Your poem is powerful and the juxtaposition between the first stanza–craving what is not to the second–embracing what is–is a wonderful reminder for how important it is to appreciate what we do have and not compare our accomplishments or status to others. It was a gentle reminder I needed today.
Thank you. I think it was the reminder I needed today too. I wrote the first stanza and the second one just wrote itself.
I am sorry to hear about your husband needing the heart surgery. I hope he is doing much better now. I can relate to your turning point because I lost my husband last year. I miss him dearly and I am so appreciative of what I have gotten because of him. I am blessed.
Susan, I am sorry for your loss. I feel very blessed as well. My husband is doing well. It’s been six and a half years since his surgery. It sure put so many things in perspective for me.
Hi, Joanne! Your prompt proved thought-provoking, but it took me in a different direction — out of myself and not in. I stole a line from your poem and ran with it, and it made me think about Ishmael, since we finished reading it in AP class not too long ago. (Daniel Quinn is the author — I would highly recommend it.)
Larger lives have many others,
Some climb mountains, some move others,
Some strew seeds across the land,
To starving people, lend a hand
Farmland spreads across the globe
To feed the hungry seems our job –
Humans give and humans take
A sin it’s seen to lives forsake
But when the food do we outstrip
Fear not: we’ll just grow more of it.
Thus, more of us and more great need
Erasing fields becomes our creed.
Eradicating habitat
Poor birds sing for loss of that;
And woodland falls to farmland raise
Room for future food to graze
And leaves our feathered avian brothers
With where to go? And even others –
Crawling, scuttling, little lives:
Birds in nests and bees in hives
Larger lives have many others –
Not at expense of furry brothers.
God gave man the earth’s dominion
But, actually, in my opinion
Space for both of us exists
But blind expansion must desist.
Wendy, wow, your desire for the Earth to be a better place rings through in this poem. I love the word choice throughout, and things humans do to harm our environment. Your last two lines resonated with me. Powerful poem!
I’m with Barb, Wendy, I love the power of your ending, “But, actually, in my opinion / Space for both of us exists / But blind expansion must desist.” Truth! (And thanks for the book rec. I’ll add it to “the pile.” I hadn’t heard of it before!)
Joanne, what an interesting prompt. Thank you for pointing us to Jane Hirschfield. I just read about her yesterday on Mary Lee’s blog, so two days in a row is a sign to read more of her work. There were a couple of lines from your poem that stood out to me. I loved the juxtaposition of the others with the blue ribbon prize–“…with perfect white teeth smiling / My life sat quietly waiting”
My Life: A Word Want
My life was a word want
It ate, it slept, it haunted
the lexicon and mined for more
It modified its field of study
often always stirring
up another
term
concept
expression
It laughed, it cried, it blurred
the dictionary page to raise its
own little words, like fiff and yit
and whimsical wistful walloping
words
of life
Word of life bringing it light
It wondered, it inferred, it spurred
action in this persistent pupil
My life was a word want
Denise, your poem is so compelling. I really appreciate your title. Loved the line: “It laughed, it cried, it blurred” which is a perfect description and progress of emotions. I also admire how you describe yourself and “this persistent pupil”. Fantastic final line, too!
Denise, I see you “want” for learning, exploring, changing, developing, growing in each line of this poem. Your ability to examine the world is contagious:
“It modified its field of study
often always stirring
up another
term
concept
expression”
You are “this persistent pupil” that will learn every day and turn this knowledge into action. It is so great to know you!
Denise,
Yes, we’re l wanting words, searching for the word that’s just right. Delightful alliteration in “whimsical wistful walloping / words,” and I can’t help but think of the poem “Eating poetry” as I read your desires for more words.
The Russian Scholar
Once I grew moody and distant
sat apart with eyes hollow lips flattened
and he the free-spirit
always right (me wrong) boyfriend
mocked
with an exasperated air
you look like some tragic Tolstoy soul
so I glanced in the mirror
and recognized immediately
my need to leave
I’ve held his gift close in my heart always
to see feel know
in my bones
what wrong is
These words are playing on repeat in my head as they are so powerful
Maureen, amazing. “to see feel know / in my bones / what wrong is” so powerful!
Maureen, aren’t you blessed to have that mirror that spoke truth back to you!? I love that you call what he gave you a gift. So glad you left.
Maureen, yes! Your poem is something every young female should read. I love how you recognize “what wrong is” and take the appropriate action. Powerful poem!!
Wow! You were right to look in the mirror and recognize the time for parting. Yet, you got a gift in your heart about people. Interesting and insightful poem. I keep re-reading the “gift close in my heart always to see feel, know in my bones.”
Oh MY WORD, Maureen! To see this as the gift that it is, the very definition of what wrong is, is something that only an incredibly mature and wise person would see, and keep. I adore the title. You bring such validation to the idea that relationships that aren’t the fit aren’t wasted time – – they’re one more of Edison’s lightbulbs that didn’t work, one bulb closer to the glow.
Maureen, you are too kind! The “always right” would bother me too much to call what he “gave” you a “gift,” but I love the realization “to see feel know / in [your] bones / what wrong is”! Thanks for sharing this!
Maureen, I admire this young you who “glanced in the mirror and recognized immediately my need to leave.” Thank you for sharing. I hope we are not the only audience for your words.
Thank you for this opportunity to learn more about this poet and to sit with this poem.
and speak of Egypt
There were times we made bread,
my life and I,
cuddled in corners of music suites
hidden around edges of cardboard and stone
There were times we made bread
and watched tulips dance across
our frames of view;–
whispering in ways
that seemed ill-conceived
but told us
what we needed to hear
nevertheless.
I am riveted by those ‘ill-conceived whispers’ that were “what we needed to hear” – beautiful poem, filled with nostalgia, I think.
Gorgeous, Keith…”what we needed to hear”
Thank you, Joanne. It seems you have spent some time in San Diego with the San Diego Art Institute. Do you still live in So. Cal?
I took the line “above it sun, clouds, snow” from the Hirschfeld poem.
The prompt was a good start to my day.
Things My Yoga Teacher Taught Me
Stand on one foot
arms out to make a tree
it’s branches growing
above it sun, clouds, snow
while you keep your balance.
Find a spot and focus
above it sun, clouds, snow
while your branches are growing
and your feet
wobble as you
spread your toes
making roots
while you keep your balance.
Hold that space
above it sun, clouds, snow
and slowly count
inhaling deep breaths
inward to your lungs,
heart and life
and know you can keep your balance.
This is a lovely ode to tree pose, acknowledging our ever-growing branches and the “wobble as you /spread your toes/making roots” – so many important life lessons in yoga practice.
I love your chosen line and relation to yoga, and yes to life as well. I may need to come back to reread and reread!
Susan, I could read your poem over and over and over. Your yoga teacher’s words make me want to take up yoga. I love the balance in your poem.
…hide in corners, cower
under the dark stairs
anything to avoid
their lifeless stares…
Stuck in a room,
windowless fare,
skin so pail
complexion fair
We glare at screens,
hunched and broken
from our head to our soles
standardized testing
is eating our souls.
“anything to avoid
their lifeless stares…”
This is a haunting, scary, insightful look at standardized testing – that last line is so painful, “eating our souls.”
Ain’t this the truth! I felt like something took a bite out of my soul today.
Thank you for your inspirational poem. You made me consider the blessings I have in my life that I sometimes take for granted – all because of the line
I did indeed grab a brass ring once so I used that line to consider those important blessings! I can’t thank you enough for helping me stop and consider…
I Grabbed the Brass Ring
I grabbed the brass ring
On a carousel
when I was a child
I felt lucky and blessed
and my life has never
been the same
I grabbed the brass ring
On a carousel
when I married Dave
we made love and memories
and my life has never
been the same
I grabbed the brass ring
On a carousel
when we had three children
they are life giving and caring
and my life has never
been the same
I grabbed the brass ring
On a carousel
when the grandchildren came
four lively smiles and perfect hugs
and my life has never
been the same
I grabbed the brass ring
On a carousel
when I moved to the lake
peaceful mornings with soaring eagles
and my life has never
been the same
I grabbed the brass ring
On a carousel
when I was a child
since then I have been lucky and blessed
and my life has never
been the same
Such joy and positivity throughout, a life filled with optimism and hope. I know that wonderful brass ring “when the grandchildren came” – there is nothing better.
Christine, grabbing rings and holding on for life’s ride is strongly felt here. I get the sensation of movement, of circling, of soaring, of smiling, of living. All those things that bring the joys of life!
Cobweb Art
Into the night a web is built,
A tangled, cobbled tilt.
This amazing maze she did create,
for hours to lay and wait.
For the crawls and flies to take,
Feeding her family for holy sake.
Sparkles of dew dance from the thread,
hours of spinning, patience, in a woven bed.
the beauty adds to the forest floor,
allowing creative dreams to soar.
All her neighbors have one too,
A sporadic collaboration of morning’s view.
All the hard work can be seen,
In the fields of springtime green.
Joy glistens the hardwood flat,
Up the mountain and the briar patch.
Unfortunately, life begins,
daylight brings them in,
Tramples of deer, squirrel, and man,
Destroys the cobwebs of the enchanted land.
Creativity is crushed within a few,
As chaos passes through.
But as evening shades to dark,
She spins back from the start.
To work till the wee hours of the night,
To bless us at first light, with a magical sight.
So, as I struggle on my path,
I notice the cobwebs when I pass.
And if I must create again,
I share diligence with my eight-legged friend.
My work is never done,
I constantly start where I once begun.
Obsessed with the daily grind,
Tangled compulsion in my mind.
Many of my neighbors share it too,
A beauty shared through the work we do.
But life tramples through our innovations,
On a daily, we weave our creations.
We rest in our cobwebs with patience,
Daring not to be complacent.
Into the night, my thoughts spin,
Tangled and cobbled within.
– Boxer
Love the sounds of ‘t’ in the first two lines..”Into…nights…built…tangled…tilt”
Happy Wednesday, Joanne, & thank you for the poetic cleansing. Your prompt came on a good day, where I’m realigning the hips to the hop of life. That brass ring. That merry-go round. Our need to grab. I’m back at it. Much appreciation for “My Life was the Size of My Life” this morning. Such meditation is timely.
Soul Work, ’24 –
(with a nod to Jane Hirschfield)
b.r.crandall
I just ate a waffle.
I was watching middle school
walkers wobble to Wooster
(cockle doodle doo)
after 37 days of eating
away my spirit in the dark,
disciplined to align myself
with empathy.
See, I question life’s fortunes
too much, and choose to rid the Eggo
with Buddha, the Great Whatever,
and Allah the other members of the Force
(always looking for maple syrup).
Fasting slows me down
(like middle-aged stomach girth)
& I’ve learned to self-medicate
ADHD with YOLO (& Yoda).
(RIP’s my middle name, after all).
I’m back in the light, however,
sipping coffee like a normal person
and caffeinating my faith in America.
Human kindness shouldn’t be
on a clearance rack.
I was hungry, then, and my life,
my life, too, was hungry.
Even if it might be unpleasant
to vomit rainbows & spit glitter,
my God, I’m going to try.
.
I know how to feed my soul.
Bryan, I love the random moments you share, the moment of the waffle, thinking of all the waffle boxes as these places where we move from place to place, thing to thing, and using it also as the waffling between faith and notfaith in America. My eyes caught on
Human kindness shouldn’t be
on a clearance rack
and I can’t get them to move along and think about other things now.
Prophetic, truly prophetic.
I need to eat more waffles.
Bryan, so many lines to love here. “Caffeinating my faith in America” might be my favorite, perhaps because it can be taken honestly and sarcastically. The idea of faith needing a pick me up says a lot about where we’re at. The imagery here, in the vomiting of rainbows and glitter, is pleasant despite its unpleasantness as it pushes the lengths you’ll go to make things better.
Bryan, how do you do that? How do you take such commonplace things and make them shiny and unique: self-medicate ADHD with YOLO, choose to rid the Eggo with Budha, eating away my spirit in the dark. I love it all – you always take us on a wonderful mystery tour! Thank you!
I stand tentative and trembling
surrounded by frozen dreams and the loves of my life
afraid to smile
(the heartache will be easier this way)
I stand, tentative and trembling.
Thanks for sharing. Such a haunting mood!
The repetition of the first and last lines – anticipating the heartache – – could be a person, a child, a rescue pet – – and in all cases, it causes my heart to shudder and my eyes to cry.
Tentative and tremble create such power at the beginning and end of this poem. It makes me yearn for more.
The words of your poem gave me pause. Oh, not to be tentative. Oh, to live.
It’s Coming Along Nicely
Slowly sprouting, showing itself
Life is coming along
I used to spend a lot of time thinking…
I was behind in the race
Slowly sprouting, showing itself
I’ve made changes I didn’t think I would
Or could
I think of the past flowers I’ve been
And how they’ve wilted away
Slowly sprouting, showing itself
Merely but a bulb
I’ve never felt better
Rachel – This is such a beautiful spring poem celebrating growth. Love the line: Merely a bulb I’ve never felt better!
….merely but a bulb… what a sweet image! It’s almost bulbish in the sense of prebirth, this slight showing. The past flowers you’ve been that have wilted away are the things of wonder, of thought, and of letting go to watch the new blooms!
Perhaps there should be no better way. Love this line, Rachel.
Oh how I love this.. You captured the potential that’s waiting to burst forth and surprise the world in a lovely colorful display
Just so beautiful and hopeful, Rachel! Oh, the time we waste thinking we are “behind”… what grabs me most is “I think of past flowers I’ve been/and how they’ve wilted away.” It takes far too much time for us to learn how to be true to us – your poem speaks to great strength of spirit, in adapting and overcoming. So, so powerful.
So hopeful! Thanks for sharing.
Joanne, thank you for hosting us today with an inspirational prompt that inspires deep reflection. I will definitely be reading more of Hirschfield! I borrowed this line:
and closed its hands, its windows
I also chose one from your poem Larger than My Life
with perfect white teeth, smiling
Keystones
our house with keystones
with perfect white teeth, smiling
to raise our children
you pulled all its teeth
and closed its hands, its windows
we bloomed in the dark
HI! I like the idea of “blooming in the dark.” I think a lot if people can relate to this at some point in their life, and it’s almost a badge of honor to be able to do so.
Thank you, Kim! “We bloomed in the dark” is a perfect counterpoint to “perfect white teeth smiling.”
this analogy is striking, juxtaposing hope and misery. What happens when we bloom in the dark?
I love the personification of a home with perfect white teeth….and the way the three lines in the 2nd stanza take the reader around the corner. Phew. Quite a punch in such a tight space. Congratulations.
We bloomed in the dark… I love that image and believe that in reality the blooming that happened illuminated the insides!
oh, Kim. Haunting haiku. In a way like my poem, about outward appearances being deceiving… your imagery here is searing. It creates indelible images in my head as it twists my heart. The agony, the blood, the stifling— but life blooming despite all. Because… there’s more than magic afoot in the royal fortress meadow. The divine cannot be extinguished. Ever.
Kim, the vibrancy of the white teeth (reminding me of what we allow the world to see) against the darkness of the second stanza and the thriving that occurred despite the “you” pulling teeth and closing hands, windows (whoa – what a powerful image) is sorrowful and haunting (and even, scary). You always amaze me with your ability to tell a story, often in very few words.
Kim, what a fascinating poem. I loved the power of the actions, and your final line is incredibly striking.
Kim, what a poem! Everyone has already commented on the personification and juxtaposition, and striking lines. I agree with all of these. You would bloom anywhere with your kindness, generosity, and ability to love.
Joanne, what a gorgeous poem – a reminder that “comparison is the thief of joy.” Every stanza speaks of so beautifully of overcoming and becoming…for the first time I think of the courage of flowers, about which you write so eloquently…the courage to bloom where you are planted. That last line about life “slowly sprouting, showing itself/ in the spring when it was born” is profound to me. There’s such hopefulness in that imagery.
I didn’t know Hirschfield’s poem; in a word: awe. Thank you for it. I took a line near the end and ended up with this…
Sustenance
My life, too, was hungry, we could not keep
emaciating ourselves with a steady diet of
picture-perfection (this is us aren’t we smiling don’t look too close oh it’s ok we can just Photoshop the bags under our eyes just keep passing the fries how is that they’re only a shell of puffed air, we thought small potatoes had
more substance)
My life, too, was hungry, we could not keep
peeling the eggs and finding the same thing
every.single.day (why is it like this oh see all eggs aren’t fertilized what do you mean well only the fertilized ones grow into birds and you can’t eat that oh I see we just wait until they’re grown and then we’ll devour their flesh like they don’t feel pain our bleed or cry
or sing)
My life looked at me and sighed.
There’s only one thing for it, no need pretending the blade isn’t slicing or juices aren’t running or that there’s no raw red tenderness inside…I looked my life write in the eye and said then let’s extract it all, it is our sacrificial offering to each other and maybe in passing
our pieces will nourish another starveling and so we made our peaces
for my life, too, was hungry; we could not keep.
“My life looked at me and sighed.” — This reminds me of a quote from Virginia Woolf where your life is personified and almost separate from yourself. Your line could be a whole series of poems.
Beautiful and complex, as always, Fran. One of the lines that stuck out to me was: “peeling the eggs and finding the same thing.” I will come back to your poem all day to nourish myself. Today, is my 68th birthday and your poem is the perfect birthday present!
Fran, another poem of sheer divine beckoning of the spirit to live here – I can see the exhalation blowing the wayward strands of hair out of your eyes as you peel the eggs, and I want to peel too. To be a part of even a sliver of a shell of it all, this sacrificial offering, and I love that you ended on keep.
Fran, I’m applauding the pace you’ve created here with parenthetical mind-spinning ()that is simply gorgeous. With each read, another layer of stunning contemplation. Wow.
(that is supposed to say or* bleed not ‘our’ bleed…)
Fran, I love a number of things about your poem today, but I want to focus on the “structure” of it for a moment. I love how the stream-of-consciousness builds in the parentheticals and how they end with the lines “more substance” in stanza one and “or sing” in stanza two. “[T]hey don’t feel pain or bleed or cry / or sing”. I just love that stark contrast between the pain of bleeding and crying and the joy and beauty of singing. And, of course, the sheer poetry of the phrase “raw red tenderness inside” is just perfect!
Joanne, thank you for introducing me (I think?) to Jane Hirschfeld. She sounds familiar for some reason but none of her poems I’m reading through do. But love them. I can definitely relate in some ways to your poem the “prayed to go unnoticed” line especially.
Once, I grew moody and distant.
I told my life I would like to be different,
I told my life I would find a place,
some place I’ve never known where
I would feel comfortable and close.
Where I would feel like I belonged
Where I would call loved one
and keep in touch.
But even in that new place,
I was still moody and distant.
I thought I’d never escape my life
I will always be the way I am.
And with every new move
the dismal distance grew.
oooof. I feel the truth of this! Artistic personality is how I think of it… There is a sense of foreboding here. I’d love to know what happens next.
Angie, the hardness of sound in dismal distance is like a knell at the end, mourning what could have been after reaching the finality and realizing it never was. That sound is softer in the beginning in moody and distant, as if there’s still hope.
Relatable. You can kind of feel the struggling here — to have a different life and even when you do get it, nothing has changed. I think on some level everyone fears this. Could be a short book of poems here.
For me, I didn’t fear my life not being what I thought, it just happened. It’s interesting how so many of us are writing about lost dreams.
Moody and distant is something I know a lot about. Your poem sets that quiet, contemplative tone. Beautiful and haunting.
Angie, I’m lingering here:
I thought I’d never escape my life
And this line of so much reflection makes me think of all the people who feel that way, who have had a life they wished to escape, and it makes me want to stop the world and join hands around the globe and all sit by a campfire and watch the embers glow and meditate on that one line. Until dawn.
Hauntingly beautiful.
Joanne, I have fallen in love with Jane. Thank you for introducing me to her. I want to live in her world! There were so many lines I could have jumped into and would have lived their longer, but time has escaped me and I need to head to school.
My life rode elevators, bullet trains
sped past small towns,
their hands reaching skyward
in a solitary wave of greeting and farewelling
all in one.
This life climbed kilimanjaros,
slowly, cautiously,
scaled peaks and cliffs,
faces sheered
as pieces fell away
to time.
It took on skyscapers
and silos
until they stood like forgotten relics
of another life
surrounded by fields and fields
of henges
whose owners slept fitfully
beneath a world they wished they’d
appreciated.
Or at least understood.
“until they stood like forgotten relics
of another life” is standing out to me today, how we never really remember everything from the past. And it’s so sad.
This is wonderful: “faces sheered
as pieces fell away
to time.”
Jennifer, the rural country girl in me hugs these lines this morning:
sped past small towns,
their hands reaching skyward
in a solitary wave of greeting and farewelling
all in one.
Yes, yes! If you blink between the county entrance and exit signs, you’ll have missed it all. I understand the wave of greeting and farewelling all in one. This is a lovely poem and its charms call out to my soul. And fitful sleep, too……there’s a whole poem in those two words, probably even an epic.
Jennifer – I love what you did with this poem – taking life on an upward climb and then bringing us down to the field of henges and underneath – least understood. So powerful!
Jennifer, this is so stunningly contemplative and layered – – beckons for one, two, three, and even four readings. “Like forgotten relics / of another time.” I don’t even know where that backpack is even more. Phew.
There is so much life and movement in your poem, Jenifer! From the first line, you take me with you so see the things “this life” has done ‘until they stood like forgotten relics / of another life.” Amazing!
Good Morning,
Joanne, thank you for this prompt. Another poet I know likens this kind of writing as call and response. The line that calls to me is ‘Under the dark stairs.’ Even though in your poem the feeling of that place is of as a hiding place, it reminded me of when my sister and I were kids and used places like that to build our forts.
Under the dark stairs
through the little door
behind the winter boots
and ice-skates
was our fort.
Walls of raw wood
and plaster
lines of the play
we wrote for ourselves
on days too cold
and rainy to go out.
Flashlights and giggles,
reading parties
and ghost stories.
Under the dark stairs
was our place — perfectly
unwanted by grown-ups.
I know our red crayon
initials are there still there.
Linda your short lines — especially early in your poem — create the sense that I’m following the steps to find this space; that I’m wriggling through the door under the stairs along with you. You’ve called to mind the spaces “unwanted by grown-ups” that my brothers and I treasured as children. I wonder if that closet still smells like wet, woolen mittens?
Love this:
lines of the play
we wrote for ourselves
and the red crayon initials
Kevin
I love everything about this poem, Linda. It made me think of my childhood play places and I wish I could go back <3
I am there, Linda. I can feel the wood, the plaster, the pages; I can smell the crayon wax. I can smell Time. Oh my heart – this is so good, so good.
Linda, this makes me want to go and find the red crayon initials. What a delightful spot to create and imagine and build memories. I love the flashlights and giggles – this brought back my own childhood with my sister.
Linda, I’m feeling a Narnia vibe, the kind where I am pulled in with a current so strong I want more – – what, what lurks here? Who are the little critters who inhabit this magical place and who bring you the stories? Those red crayon initials are simply a fixation of wonder – – and I do, I do! I do wonder! I also read with a flashlight, in a dark closet – Volume 1 Poems and Rhymes Childcraft. Specifically, Overheard on a Salt Marsh by Harold Munro, but I didn’t have a sister to share all the fun, just a brother too much younger to appreciate the poems yet. This is absolutely a gem today. It could be a story book. And those ice skates – – so symbolic of the circles and jumps of childhood.
Linda – What a beautiful secret childhood place you’ve created: “Walls of raw wood
and plaster lines of the play we wrote for ourselves.” Thank you!
Linda — This is a precious description of a life that is very familiar to me. “…behind the winter boots” takes me right back to a strange old closet in the farmhouse where I grew up…I, too, used to crawl around in that space under the stairs of “raw wood”…old stuff. The sense of nostalgia is right there in each line. The final line carries a sort of sweetness about how things really do stay in place in our minds (and if lucky perhaps literally). I really enjoyed this poem this morning. Thank you. Susie
If only we occupied, Linda, more spaces “unwanted by grown-ups.” I think I’ll be heading there today (beautiful).
There is so much hidden behind those short lines that i can vividly see and smell. Love this!
Your poem offers such a positive memory of a space in most homes that is not treasured. “Perfectly unwanted by grown-ups” highlights for me how young children fill spaces like this with their imagination turning it into a safe, secret getaway. “Our red crayon initials are still there” made me think of the permanency of this time with your sister in your soul and mind.
In a week, my empty suitcase and I returned
Lost, I thought,
lost in thought,
I thought I lost it all
but no, I hadn’t –
my odds and ends
of a life had only been
misplaced, maybe
borrowed; something
to blame for something
I couldn’t name –
not stuff merely stolen,
only, I thought: lost,
and later, found,
but at what cost?
Audio: https://sodaphonic.com/audio/9NVpaURhezj8LNJvWmF6
Kevin
Loving the journey in this poem…the end of a trip isn’t the end. Never is.
Omg I love the first three lines, like a riddle and the question at the end.
Kevin, I was hoping someone would start with that line (it kept calling to me). I love the play with lost and thought throughout, but especially in those opening lines.
Oh Kevin! What a wonderful treat! I love the artful way you treated the word, “lost.” and your audio is amazing!
Kevin, love that the ‘odds and ends’ were only ‘misplaced.’
The title of this poem twists through the lines in an incredible way and really lends meaning to it!