Today’s inspiration comes from Stacey Joy. Stacey is National Board Certified Teacher, Google Certified Educator, L.A. County and LAUSD Teacher of the Year with 35 years of elementary classroom teaching experience. She currently teaches 4th grade at Baldwin Hills Pilot & Gifted Magnet School. Stacey has served as a partner and guiding teacher for graduate students in the U.C.L.A. Teacher Education Program. Teaching her Joyteam students the power of knowledge, self-advocacy and justice are the core of her practice. Stacey is a poet at heart with one self-published book and several poems published in Savant Poetry Anthologies. Stacey is mom to her grown son, daughter and a Himalayan cat. Follow Stacey on Twitter @joyteamstars.
Inspiration
Today we are writing Hot Lines poetry. Nicholson Baker shared his advice to writers: “Copy out things that you really love. Put the quotation marks around it, put the date that you’re doing the copying out, and then copy it out. You’ll find that you just soak into that prose, and you’ll find that the comma means something, that it’s there for a reason, and that adjective is there for a reason, because the copying out, the handwriting, the becoming of an apprentice—or in a way, a servant—to that passage in the book makes you see things in it that you wouldn’t see if you just moved your eyes over it, or even if you typed it.”
Process
Hot Lines poetry is similar to a Borrowed Lines Poem or a Found Poem, where you select “hot lines” from song lyrics, poetry, any text that moves you to write and think about the message on another level and in a different context.
- Consider copying an entire text as Baker suggests. Then sit with it for a while. Let it marinate.
- Then steal your “hot lines” for deeper inspiration.
- Write the “hot lines” and the source/author at the beginning of your poem. Let that excerpt inspire your poem today.
- You may use some portion of the “hot ines’ in your poem if you choose. I write hot line words in bold as they appear in my poem just to help me see where I’m going with my poem.
Mentor Text Excerpt: “Absence” by Pablo Naruda
“We found each other
Hungry
And we bit each other
As fire bites,
Leaving wounds in us.”
Stacey’s Poem
Remembering
I walked along the sandy shore
embracing the ocean’s melody
Her waves, a call and response
In sync with evening’s biting breeze
I remembered how
we found each other
we found each other
empty
exchanged solitude
for a rich love
to feed our hungry hearts
for a soothing love
to heal our burning skin
we found each other
Connected souls
consumed in passion
We fed each other
Intense
Fierce
Blazing
Soul-filling food
I remember how we left each other
How we grew cold
Destroyed and suffocated
Like invisible disease
leaving wounds
For an eternity with scars
I remember when we loved each other
But I will never forget the cold.
Write
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
I posted mine to the wrong day.
This will go to Monday (Day 3)
“Ho hum. But we should not be complacent even on behalf of the robust and unambiguous full stop. Young people call them dots, you know. They are now accustomed to following a full stop with a lower-case letter and no space.” From Lynne Truss’ Eats, Shoots & Leaves
Ho Hum Grammar
Period (full stop). Comma, ellipses…
Exclamation mark!
Question?
Communication crisis brought on by incorrect… punctuation?
Those young people today no longer play with it, test it, honor it.
nope who cares ‘bout that stuff doesnt matter cant change nothin’
love me as i am take me as i am and dont try ‘n correct me
it shows me you dont like me none
Oh really? That’s not what I meant. I mean that I do want what’s best for you,
For your future
To help you understand how to help others understand.
I care!
Do you?
Good morning,
I missed this last night. I am such the grammar/spelling nerd who appreciates the rules more than necessary, so you have nailed this one! No one cares! Love this “who cares ’bout stuff doesnt matter cant change nothin'” for its truth that it speaks for so many today. The question at the end is perfect because don’t we all wonder if they care? I’d never seen that mentor text before so thanks for introducing it.
Debra — Eats, Shoots & Leaves is right here on my shelf, one of the best books ever! I know that cringe feeling when we see meaning distorted because these pesky conventions get scrambled. This was fun to read…your indignant voice makes me smile. I feel it! It’s a tough row we hoe! Susie
Stacey, this is another great prompt! It’s similar to the Golden Shovel…but has more give to it. My first instinct with most prompts is, “I can’t do it.” And, then I think on it a while and start to play and something comes. I saw this prompt early this morning and then went off to church where the band played a bluegrass version of, ‘How Great Thou Art.’ Of course, I’ve been humming the hymn all day…so my hot line HAS to come from it. I think this works well as a reverso. It might need some tweaking to get it just right. But, it’s a start. I will respond to more poems in the morning! Keeping up with reading is not my forte!
How Great Thou Art (verse 2)
“When through the woods
And forest glades I wander
I hear the birds
Sing sweetly in the trees,
When I look down
From lofty mountain grandeur
And hear the brook
And feel the gentle breeze,”
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: David Delargy / Mike Hedges / Salli Isaak / Eugene O’hagan / Martin O’hagan / Herbert Sally / Traditional
Forest child
sings through the woods
Forest child hails birds–
singing sweetly in the trees
Forest child
knows lofty mountain grandeur
Forest child
chatters with the brook
Forest child
finds fortune
in a gentle breeze.
A gentle breeze
finds fortune
in Forest child.
Chatters with the brook
Forest child
knows lofty mountain grandeur
Forest child
singing sweetly in the trees
hails the birds
Forest child
through the woods
Forest child sings.
This is beautiful. Your words exude peace. I could see this as an illustrated children’s book, with each page an illustration of Forest child…
I agree with Gayle–your lines sail away from the origins of the hymn into new, yet similar, territory!
Linda, a reverso! I haven’t used that form in a long time and yours works beautifully here. I love the song and can imagine how it would be in your head all day after church. I’m happy that the Spirit left you with it and allowed you to use it so eloquently. I just read your poem this morning, and now I want to listen to the song.
How Great Thou Art with your poetry!
Linda — I totally like Gayle’s idea! Make this a children’s book! It has that soothing effect that comes when we pay attention to the natural world. Susie
Yesterday I wrote about my friend Laura. When I saw today’s hot-lines prompt, I thought of Laura’s favorite passages from E.B. White’s “Charlotte’s Web.” My poem is a simple quatrain distilling White’s/Charlotte’s words.
“After all, what’s a life, anyway? We’re born, we live a little while, we die. A spider’s life can’t help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that.” –from Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White
The spider knows a little life
Of trifles, mess, and trapping flies–
To lift a friend, despite the strife,
Her only task before she dies.
Oh, this is wonderful….I like trifles and mess right up against each other. And, “to lift a friend, despite the strife”…is really good! This quatrain makes me so happy.
Good morning Allison! I absolutely adore your quatrain, not a simple quatrain, a beautiful quatrain! My students would probably enjoy doing quatrains from literature. Thanks so much for this inspiration.
Beautiful, Allison. Totally beautiful. I’m still feeling the impact of your earlier poem, and this is right there reminding me of precious friends and how they alter us. Love, Susie
From “The Effort” by Billy Collins
Would anyone care to join me
in flicking a few pebbles in the direction
of teachers who are fond of asking the question:
“What is the poet trying to say?”
She stands in the front of the room
arms akimbo
looking serious in her cashmere sweater and pencil skirt
only missing a bun and pearl necklace.
She breaks the awkward silence
that can only be created by a group
of apathetic 16-year-olds counting the days until spring break.
“Would anyone care to join me
in analyzing the theme in
‘next to of course god America i?”
The students scoff at her suggestion,
except for the boy who considers flicking a few pebbles in the direction
of the window as a distraction.
Instead he wonders what will become
of teachers who are fond of asking the question:
“What is the poet trying to say?”
Will they eventually get their answer in heaven?
Ahhhhhh! Wonderful! I have listened to the silence of apathetic 16-year-olds myself!
I love how you brought the flicking of pebbles in with a slightly different target. Your poem is an immensely satisfying riff on Collins’s words!
Ha! This made me smile. I could completely picture this scene…right down to the boy, the pebbles and the soon to be cracked window. Oh, those teachers! Oh, those students. What will ever bring them to the same page?
Mo!!! This is confirmation that I should stick with elementary school education. LOL. I fear that grunt and uggh and shrug that comes so easily from teens. Your poem speaks well of both teachers and students, maybe some will get it and some won’t, but we never stop trying. I’m wondering now if I’ll hesitate the next time I ask my students, “What is the poet trying to say?”
Thank you for this mentor text and your poem. Brilliant choice!
Aah, Mo — The reflective tone of this poem is a gem. So so so often, that was the seminal question in my college poetry classes. It often made me want to stick a pencil in my eye (pebbles be damned). The powerhouse lines for me were “…the awkward silence/that can only be created by a group/of apathetic 16-year-olds counting…” Sometimes those days with teenagers were so daunting. I love that Billy Collins calls us to rethink “what is the poet trying to say?” in favor of what a reader might say to the poet. Cool stuff! Susie
Stacey — Your mentor poems were fine inspiration today. Heaven knows, I’ve loved Neruda’s poems…this one no exception. And finding both the hot passion and the cold in your poem really did get me thinking this morning. We sure don’t forget the cold…indeed. The lines that really hit me were “…we grew cold/Destroyed and suffocated/like invisible disease.” Boy, relationships are mighty tough work. Thanks for your guidance and responses! Susie
Mentor Text from PowerInBlack.com
“I LIKE IT KINKY NO LYE.”
As a child, I was told my hair was glorious
it’s always been thick, course, and black
When I turned 4, my mom pulled out the
hot comb every Saturday night.
She would blow and I would pull-away
cringing, hoping she wouldn’t burn my ear.
We engaged in that dance a good 6 months
then she took me to the beauty shop.
Every 2 weeks, I did the blow pull-away dance
with a professional named Mrs. Juanita.
She always said, “I want it straight, not kinky.”
In high school, my mom and Mrs. J
introduced me to “creamy crack”
otherwise known as a Lye relaxer
and I was in hair heaven.
No more dancing, burnt ears, or kinky kitchens.
My hair was straight, smooth, and silky.
It looked like Claire Huxtable’s and I was elated.
I was sold on the relaxer by my mom who used it,
by the women at church, and by the girls at school.
For thirty years, the Lye was my hair’s savior.
My kinks were smoothed out
and amazingly, my hair flourished.
I brainwashed my daughters to be slaves
to the hot comb, curling iron, kitchen stove,
rollers and blue Bergamot hair oil.
It smoothed our hair and we knew
not to let rain touch our mane.
Then one day about 5 decades in, I realized
I craved kinky hair and wanted to dance in the rain.
My daughters and I slowly let go of the Lye and
embraced locks, twists, cornrows, and braids.
Now, we play with color and are addicted to
homemade and natural hair products.
The blessing is that my hair is still glorious,
thick, course, and mostly black.
Seana, I love the title here and then the beautiful arc of this poem. I love the discovery and love of the nature of your hair. I wrote a poem called Cowlicks and Curls that tells the story of tangles and hair cuts, gels and straighteners. Rain and humidity remind me that all the products are fiction. Hair is a metaphor for life. Embrace the kinky!
Thanks Sarah and yes I have fully embraced the kinky.
Yesss, my sister Seana!! You have given us the story of a Black Woman and Her Hair Journey! Do we need to write a book of poetry in honor of our hair!?? You’ve captured so much of what we’ve experienced and you’ve done it beautifully. I loved these lines: “For thirty years, the Lye was my hair’s savior… (the Lye aka LIE was definitely not really our saviors but we didn’t know); slaves
to the hot comb, curling iron, kitchen stove,/rollers and blue Bergamot hair oil…(the smells permeate my scalp’s memory); I craved kinky hair and wanted to dance in the rain… (who didn’t want to dance in the rain, yess girl!); The blessing is that my hair is still glorious,/thick, course, and mostly black. (ohhh the sneaky little gray hairs that have lives of their own!)
I am in love with your poem!
Thanks Stacey. I am thoroughly enjoying the group and am enjoying the writing process. I’m thankful you invited me.
Seana,
I love your poem and the liberation it celebrates. The title play on words is spectacular. The image of you fighting your mom and the hot comb as a dance is so vivid. Love the personification and duality in “the Lye was my hair’s savior.” Wonderfully ironic in its commentary on the ways church shapes our perspectives. Your poem has taken me on a journey into a world I know little about, and I am grateful. I also love seeing the beautiful, natural hair styles and the freedom from conformity they represent.
And although I don’t know what it’s like to put harsh hair straightener on my hair, I did find my first gray hair at 23 and started coloring at 30. Every month I sat in the stylist’s chair for three hours getting color. Finally, had enough a few years ago. You can see the result in my profile pic. My sister has naturally curly hair, and she’d let it knot into a tangled mess. My stepmother battled w/ my tender-headed sister over her hair.
Glenda, thanks for your wonderful comments. i have embraced my locks and kinky hair but am not ready to embrace the grey yet. Maybe after I retire…….
I love the story of embracing natural beauty…after years of routine that involved so much work and time! I’m so happy that the characters in this poem now go out in the rain and that hair is still GLORIOUS! Such a good story here in the poem. Thank you.
Thanks Linda for the support!
The lye/lie works so powerfully here! I am rooting for that 4-year-old fighting the hot comb in the opening lines. The Claire Huxtable line said so much BETWEEN the lines about media’s role in the lye/lie. Thank you for this gift of a poem.
Thanks Allison and yes, I was rooting for myself when I was that 4 year old. I will say that I allowed my daughters to ask for a break when they were 4 years old sitting in the kitchen with me.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Water slides into her eyes, no more brows for puddling.
Now she snaps her wings open to welcome the optic balm.
Glistening windows now stained in saline betray her age.
Now she raises her hands and gently caresses her undulations —
a familiar cheekbone, a birthmark, an eyelash kiss upon her fingertip.
Now she presses her palm to the looking glass and waves hello
into her dewey visage of Self.
Hot lines from Mary Oliver’s “The Summer Day”: https://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/133.html
Sarah! I read Mary Oliver’s poem to get a clear picture of “The Summer Day” before reading your Hot Lines. I am in awe at how you’ve taken your Hot Lines and crafted something so precious, this aging woman. I especially loved: “Water slides into her eyes, no more brows for puddling…Glistening windows now stained in saline…” because where on earth do our eyebrows go?? LOL. But the love of Self, the new Self that we see in latter years, “waves hello into her dewey visage of Self” I NEEDED THIS TODAY! I really don’t feel like putting makeup and eyebrows and all that madness on just to feel okay with me. Thank you!
Sarah,
This is a beautiful response to Mary Oliver’s poem with that spectacular line at the end. The repetition of “Now” speaks to the temporariness of life and the familiarity and the strangeness of seeing an aging face we touch in the mirror, both a stranger and a friend. My favorite image is of eyes that are “Glistening windows now stained in saline.” I see pictures of myself from past years and think, who is this person, and that line “Now she lifts her pale forearms” reminds we have no alternative but to surrender to this true effect of time.
Thank you for this tender reading of my poem:) Surrender feels good sometimes.
Sarah – How you’ve melded Oliver’s grasshopper with this beautifully observant creation is so impressive. This is beautiful. You chose Mary Oliver’s wonderful poem that I love to start with, and here you’ve transformed it into this touching witness to your fragile “she.” So so exquisite…”pale forearms” … “welcome the optic balm” … “glistening windows…stained in saline” (gorgeous metaphor). Each of the word choices is feathery on the tongue (undulations, puddling, balm, palm…) — each really well chosen. I am always smitten by how you accomplish so much in so few words/lines. Wonderful. Hugs, Susie
Waving hello to her Dewey visage of self… My grandmother, in her 90’s, bemoaned the fact that she was surprised every time at the old woman who looked back her in the mirror. she did not feel that old inside. (She lived to 106). I am now beginning to experience the shock, myself.
The resolution of this poem leaves me happy…this she has met herself, her new self and says hello. This she is kind and curious and careful. All the details of this short bit of her time tell me so much. She is lovely.
Oh Sarah, I love M.O.’s poem, and I double love what you’ve magically created from it, my grasshopper friend. The “now she” anaphora is perfect for this reflective moment of Self (capital S) reconciliation. I know I’ll be thinking of this poem as I wash my face tonight.
When I first brought my son home, I was lost. Someone told me “Ichigo ichie”. A Japanese proverb roughly translates to one encounter. Meaning each moment is one encounter that will never be repeated exactly.
“Ichigo ichie”
Ichigo ichie
Every encounter
Never repeated exactly
Mornings
We beat the sun
Cuddling on the rocker
At the breast
Feeding life
Pain, nourishment
Ichigo ichie
Endless burps
Spit ups, changes
Regressions
Deodorant showers
Victoria Secret body spray
Good enough
Ichigo ichie
4 am
Meeting again
Rocking back and forth
Tearful kisses
Happy kisses
Salty cheeks
Ichigo ichie
But it’s proven
No matter the day
The sun will still set and
Rise
But never repeated exactly
Ichigo ichie
I love that we get to learn the meaning of a Japanese proverb and that you use it to remind us to treasure each moment. I, too, was lost when I brought my son home. Your humor (deodorant showers – I wish I’d thought of that!) and the seriousness (feeding life, pain, nourishment) bring it all right back. The hours and days blending. Thank you for sharing!
Emily, I have abundant gratitude for your voice and presence in this special space. I don’t know you as a mom, only as the novice teacher from years and years ago, so to read your poem today brought me a sweet joy. I know a mother’s pains, ups and downs, and daily repetitions that seem identical but yet are definitely “Ichigo ichie.” The tender moments during “4 am/Meeting again/Rocking back and forth…” and “Feeding life…” are to be treasured through the struggle. Imagining the day when you’ll be saying what many of us older moms say now, wishing for a little more family time, a few more words than yes and no, and maybe a moment to quietly hold each other tight. I love your baby, you, and your poem.
Emily,
I loved being alongside you in this poem filled with such intimate movements across time…and into the 4am hour “meeting again.” I so appreciate your use of line breaks and white space here to help our eyes follow you through Ichigo ichie.
Peace,
Sarah
Emily,
I love your inspiration. It’s so true and you capture that reality of uniqueness in each moment of time. I know that feeling of being lost w/ a new baby, and my oldest was a projectile vomiter, so I never felt clean. The brevity of each stanza also reminds me of how quickly time passes. I wish I had held those moments tighter with a more thankful heart.
Emily, I love that you descried breast feeding the way that I remember it-feeding , nourishment and pain. Often, mothers forget but you and I haven’t. I can also relate to the good enough shower, my spray was Bath and Body works, and i used my hubby’s deodorant often. Thanks for reminding me about each wonderful encounter.
What a beautiful way to share a saying from Japan, here. Each moment. Gosh, I remember those days so well and they are now so long ago. I really connected with the determination of the speaker to be in the moments to appreciate the moments.
Stacey,
Your poem told a story of a special love. I enjoyed the way you explained how it started, what happened to it and how it ended. I could relate to “we found each other empty, exchanged solitude……. to heal our burning skin…”
Thank you for sharing!
Thanks Seana! I hope you are enjoying all the amazing poetry coming forth in this challenge as much as I am. I am left breathless and wishing I had all day to write and respond!
Maya Angelou’s poem “Phenomenal Woman” always has challenged me. Stacey’s challenge today, inspired me to look again at Ms. Angelou’s work and figure out what made her make this claim and figure how could I do the same. Here’s my poem.
I Am, Too!
They think I’m telling lies.
When I claim it’s all because of friends.
When I say you gotta be one to keep one.
When I say I can do this with ease
And I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please.
Few know the consultations on Zoom
Those conversations held in a private Skype Room.
If they only knew the key
To my inner mystery.
The sun of my smile,
The grace of my style.
It’s that family member and special friend
Who has shown true commitment to the end.
Who answers my call, helps dry my tears.
Who has been by my side for all these years.
Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
’Cause I’m a woman with friends
And I am not cowed.
Phenomenally.
Come on. Think of your friends
And you can join me.
It’s true. Not a lie. Come on. Just try it.
You, too, can proclaim with similar wit.
Saying with both pride and humility,
“I’m a phenomenal woman,
That’s me!”
This is so very Anna! The class and the sass and the ability to take a coveted Maya Angelou poem and use the Hot Lines to add a whole new personalized spin. I love this!
Clapping for you and your poem and your friends and your family!! Love this new perspective on being a phenomenal woman, Anna. Being phenomenal is not a solo act and you show us the power of friends and family, commitment and communication. Thank you, Anna!
Oh, Anna! I needed this today. You are indeed phenomenal, and I welcome every lesson you have for being and becoming as such. Indeed, friends and family you can trust, who will “dry tears” and be by your side — that is it, but also, you are one of a kind, dear Anna.
Anna,
I love “Phenomenal Woman,” and you have opened the curtain on some of the secrets to being phenomenal: It takes work, work done in secret, work done with a support system, work achievable for those who allow others to “stand by my side.” “Few know those consultations on Zoom / Those conversations held in a private Skype Room.” Yes, to all of this. Keep being P-H-E-N-O-M-I-N-A-L!
[Note: I was reading really serious stuff this morning, so I used it to think about some of the godawful but with a teacher’s added lens. I included 2 paragraphs at first: one from the morning NYT and the other from Michael Fullan’s new book. Susie ]
From author of The New Jim Crow, Michelle Alexander’s “Injustice On Repeat” from the NYT, Sunday, Jan. 19, 2020:
“…We are now living in an era not of post-racialism but of unabashed racialism, a time when many white Americans feel free to speak openly of their nostalgia for an age when their cultural, political, and economic dominance could be taken for granted – no apologies required. Racial bigotry, fearmongering, and scapegoating are no longer subterranean in our political discourse; the dog whistles have been replaced by bullhorns. White nationalist movements are operating openly online and in many of our communities; they’re celebrating mass killings and recruiting thousands into their ranks.”
And from author of Nuance: Why Some Leaders Succeed and Other Fail, Michael Fullan, 2019. Corwin Press, p. 12:
“Nuance leaders have a curiosity about what is possible, openness to other people, sensitivity to context, and a loyalty to a better future. They see below the surface, enabling them to detect patterns and their consequences for the system. They connect people to their own and each other’s humanity. They don’t lead; they teach. They change people’s emotions, not just their minds. They have an instinct for orchestration. They foster sinews of success. They are humble in the face of challenges, determined for the group to be successful and proud to celebrate success. They end up developing incredibly accountable organizations because the accountability gets built into the culture. Above all, they are courageously and relentlessly committed to changing the system for the betterment of humanity.”
Soulless vs Nuance
Unabashed racialism,
no apologies;
bigotry,
fearmongering,
scapegoating
no longer subterranean.
Black men incarcerated,
targeted for violations
now marginal, not illegal,
stripped of voting rights,
disenfranchised in a country
throwing them not to the back of the bus,
but under the bus.
Brown women and men living caged at the border
and thousands upon thousands of “unaccompanied children”
“detained” in chain-link “fenced” cubicled hellholes,
while our government officials declare
“we are not obligated to provide…,”
paralyzed, morally vacant,
without courage,
no solace in a soulless land,
while in the trenches
nuance teachers push back
the racism,
embrace brown and black
and the stories that define us,
connect us,
see below the surfaces and through the fences,
know the faces,
flex the muscles of courage,
reinforce the words
and voices of all children,
build cultures through
relentless commitment to humane futures,
changing trenches into gardens
of possibility.
by Susie Morice ©
Good morning Susie! I want to read the “Injustice on Repeat” thanks for that tip! Love that you chose two opposing viewpoints to use for your mentor texts; something I do with students too and need to do more of especially now.
This spoke to me and made me want to scream:
“disenfranchised in a country
throwing them not to the back of the bus,
but under the bus.”
This made me want to “flex my muscles of courage”
“while in the trenches
nuance teachers push back
the racism,
embrace brown and black
and the stories that define us…”
Perfect closure: “changing trenches into gardens
of possibility.”
Again, Susie, you have that “thing” in your writing that I can’t explain, but I need you to teach it! Thanks!
Susie, you are such an inspiration – you always make us think far beyond the poem. This is what got me:
disenfranchised in a country
throwing them not to the back of the bus,
but under the bus.
Brown women and men living caged at the border
And then the ending line – gardens of possibility…..just builds the hope and shows us the importance of our roles as teachers – – to be those eye openers who model the voice of change.
You are blessed with remarkable gifts of perception and persuasion and penning it.
Susie, you’ve captured with elegance, truth, and simplicity a remedy for our times! The fact that it will take courage to show up and speak up, continues to challenge many of us who fear losing what we have at the expense of our actions….even when we know it’s the right thing to do. Thanks for the poem, and the reminder of our duty as teachers and citizens1
flex the muscles of courage,
reinforce the words
and voices of all children,
Susie— what a relief the second stanza was!! There are so many negatives in our world today, and we keep moving on to the next one. What damage are we doing these children (and their families)? How will we ever make it up to them. I worry about us as a nation. I hope what we do in the classroom, through our “ relentless commitment to humane futures” is enough to make changes. I fear that it is not, but we will keep fighting.
Susie,
Thank you so much for sharing the paragraphed excerpts. Indeed, powerful pieces with a discourse of today’s politics pouring over and through every phrase. You synthesize these so beautifully and then take us into the shift with “flex the muscles of courage,” and I am reminded that what teachers do is “changing trenches into gardens of possibilities.”
Love,
Sarah
So many of my frustrations are encapsulated in your piece. The line – throwing them not to the back of the bus but under the bus – shows just how backward we have become. Thank you for that last stanza. It give me hope. We need more flexing of courageous muscles. Nuance teachers is a beautiful image, as is their ability to see below surfaces and through fences. Thank you!
Susie,
It seems we are channeling similar thoughts today, although I have not yet read the NYT article or the book you reference. I love the way you contrast the awfulness of current leadership with the “nuance teachers” who “push back,” and I’m hoping, hoping, hoping, that collective action will triumph against the evil as so many “flex the muscles of courage.” And we know there is power in words to do that. The repeated /f/ sound in faces, fences, flex, reinforce, surfaces, futures reminds me we must bite down on our lower lips and force the fight to its conclusion if we are to transform “trenches into gardens / of possibility.” I’m so glad you’re in the fight and sharing the stories in St. Louis. Missouri needs you.
Two things happened yesterday that informed my choice of mentor texts and my poem: I read an article about declining rate of happiness in the U.S. A former student tagged me in a post w/ pictures of posters she’s making for the Women’s March. She added a comment thanking me for standing up for women and teaching her to fight for women. My poem is for her.
First, my mentor poem from “Deaf Republic,” which is an amazing collection, followed by my poem.
“We Lived Happily During the War” by Ilya Kaminsky
And when they bombed other people’s houses, we
protested
but not enough, we opposed them but not
enough. I was
in my bed, around my bed America
was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house.
I took a chair outside and watched the sun.
In the sixth month
of a disastrous reign in the house of money
in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money,
our great country of money, we (forgive us)
lived happily during the war.
———————————————————
“We Sat Aside Our Lives Lived Happily”
We resisted, dissented, marched in
Solidarity during the reign,
And when the government locked children in cages,
Separated families,
Drilled on sacred lands,
Gave generously to the one percent,
Delegitimized the First amendment,
Destroyed institutions of learning,
We raised our swords, pen to paper
We resisted, persisted, posted signs claiming our bodies our own,
Planted rainbow flags in furrowed solidarity.
We held hands,
Raised our voices in unison
On The National Mall,
In pink pussy hats and #nastywoman t-shirts
Through cities, towns, villages
With one voice we played the woman card, and
In the fourth year we checked our idealism, monitored our privilege
Disrupted power to give power to the disenfranchised masses.
We studied our history,
Memorized our civil rights,
Seared our constitution on our minds, and
Steeled our constitutions against powers Who eschew reality to live happily during the reign.
While they lived happily during the deconstruction
We tempered our happiness,
Knowing to live happily during the war
On civil rights
On decency
On children and people of color
On public and sacred lands
On our bodies
We have no right at all to live happily here or ever after.
—Glenda Funk
Oooo, Glenda, this is smoking’ HOT! You captured much of my own reading this morning. The incredible outrage I feel is evident in every line of your poem. The “right to live happily” is, indeed, in utter question. The listing is so real when I think of all the systems and the positives that have gone foul in the country. The phrase “monitored our privilege” is a powerful wording. The work that needs doing is unrelenting. Really a powerful poem. Thank you and I know your student will appreciate this! Susie
Ohhhhhh boy this is a goooooood one!!! Coincidentally, I was noticing my Facebook memories this morning from a few years ago as I gave honor to a job well done to President Obama. And to read this poem this morning, man oh man, do I feel my blood boiling. I loved the whole poem so it’s hard to pull certain lines, but here are some that made me want to stand a shout:
“With one voice we played the woman card, and
In the fourth year we checked our idealism, monitored our privilege
Disrupted power to give power to the disenfranchised masses…
While they lived happily during the deconstruction
We tempered our happiness…
We have no right at all to live happily here or ever after.”
This is phenomenal! I may need to ask your permission to share this with my students.
Glenda,
Thank you for this poem. My two favorite lines:
“Disrupted power to give power to the disenfranchised masses”–wow, I love the word placement of this and yet is saddens me to think how long this has been going on and will continue. I like to think teachers are on the frontlines of this.
“We have no right at all to live happily here or ever after”–again, the word arrangement speaks so much and speaks volumes to our current state and “rights” by living in the US.
Wow! That last stanza is mighty fierce. And that last line even fiercer. I hope, hope, hope that change will come. We are in such a tough spot. I read this week that the National Archives altered Trump signs from the Women’s March which only makes me want to rise up even more, holding hands, to disrupt the power. Thank you for this incredible piece and the voice you give to all women in it.
I read this morning that the museum apologized and changed the photo back to the original. Frightening, all the same that they even thought of doing that…
Glenda, your last line just tolls like a bell and doesn’t stop ringing in my ears. I have often wondered if there is any truth to the famous Marie Antoinette statement during the storming of the Bastille when the people were hungry and she flippantly commented, “Let them eat cake,” but the story certainly comes to memory here. There’s no place for happiness amidst the terrors and there’s no cure in a piece of cake in a lifetime of hunger. You bring it to reality and remind us that there is still so much work to be done. Bravo!
Wowza, Glenda! This is an anthem! The final lines with anaphora go from movement to presence. This is what we know, now. “We have no right at all to live happily here or ever after.” There is this knowing in your words that gives me hope.
When I read your poems I often think, “When I grow up, I want to be Glenda.” Another fabulous and thought provoking poem.
Daft Punk lyrics: “Lose Yourself to Dance” (various songwriters)
“Lose yourself to dance
I know you don’t get a chance to take a break this often
I know your life is speeding and it isn’t stopping”
Lose yourself
Find passion
Peace
Balance
As
Life
Is
S
P
E
E
D
I
N
G
Lose yourself
Welcome
That
It
Isn’t
STOP
ping
Own
the
minutes
The
Choices
The
Course
Of
Actions
Take
A
Break
To
Enjoy
The
Banal
Stefani, your poem is right on time! I finished Glenda’s poem and felt a rage that could barely be contained. Then I read your poem and my heart rate slowed and I felt a sense of calm. “take a break to enjoy the banal” I will take that advice! Beautiful.
Yes, I agree with Stacey – – this was a good calming poem following the heavier feelings. There’s a lilt and a rhythm here that is calming.
Aah, Stephani, yes! Slow down and take time. Holy mackerel, so many of us, especially in teaching are on that nonstop roll. Your poem, even in its stretched out spacing, reminds us to dance. In fact, the single words feel like a tap dance or a pirouette in ballet slippers. Cool! Thank you, Susie
There’s such power in these lines: Own the minutes. The choices. The course of actions. And the reminder to take a break to enjoy the banal. Thanks for ending with this reminder of something we all need to do.
Stefani,
I so love how you use the line breaks and white space in this. I have been really focusing on capitalization and punctuation lately that I forget to consider how I can use the space to make meaning. Gorgeous!
Peace,
Sarah
Stefani,
This is such a fun approach. Love the way “SPEEDING” zips along and forces us to the end with that delightful reminder to “Take / A / Break / To / Enjoy / the / Banal.” Well done.
MENTOR TEXT: MAGGIE SMITH “GOOD BONES”
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
I Keep This From MY Children
I keep this from my children
That I miss the physicality of them
Leaning against me on the couch, talking quietly.
The dog is not a great conversationalist.
At times, neither is their father.
(Though, I may have complained about that.)
I keep this from my children
Those thousand—or more—deliciously ill-advised ways
I spent my college years.
After all, it was the seventies
And there was so much to learn, then.
And I had such a good time breaking the rules.
I’ll keep this from my children
That I hope they revel in
And learn from
The deliciously ill-advised ways they will need to keep
From their children.
I keep this from my children
That marriage can be tough and ugly and painful
But that if you stick it out, it might be worth it.
Ours is, thank god.
I keep this from my children
That having kids really screws up your life
All your time and money and caring and energy
And love
Is vacuumed up by those closest to the floor
The adults share the leftovers.
And I would do (most of it) again.
I keep this from my children
That if they decide to have children
They will watch them
Grow up and move away and
Never need to be told to clean their rooms again.
And that is both a liberation
And a loss.
I keep this from my children
That I love them without measure and want them to visit,
Bringing their large adult selves and their noise and their love
But that I breathe a sigh of relief
When they go home.
Some things should be kept from the children
Or this house will never sell.
And its bones are amazing, after all.
This idea of keeping things from the children, both the necessary (70’s exploration) and the secrets (breathing relief when they take their noise with them) is captured in your verses. I love, love, love the line where time and money and caring and energy and love, all of it, is vacuumed up by those closest to the floor. You use the mundane, utilitarian object so beautifully here.
This mentor text you’ve selected is really a powerful one from where to pull ideas!
There are tons of lines I love. So hard to find just a few to share, but here it goes:
“And I had such a good time breaking the rules…” That is what LIVING is all about! Love that because I also was a rule breaker. LOL.
The 3rd stanza is spot on! You’ve made me wonder if my son and daughter are really living so they too will have something to keep from their children. I love that stanza!
“Is vacuumed up by those closest to the floor…But that I breathe a sigh of relief
When they go home…” Oh yes, the fact that they eventually go home and home is not where we are. Love that!
Your ending is perfection! “Or this house will never sell.”
Gayle,
I felt so many emotions in this poem. You could go on and on about all that is left out. My favorite part is “the physicality of them.” I always joke and notice that when I am away from kids (currently 9 and 10) I feel “untouched” because nobody is hugging me or constantly in my space. I have to consciously remember how I miss that during those moments of overstimulation at home:)
Oh gosh, Gayle, this is such a dandy poem. I LOVE this. The honesty of it is magnificent. I laughed out loud about the hubby… LOL! And I’ve certainly felt the second to last stanza…”when they go home,” even though I absolutely love when they are here. We are such complex beings! Delightfully REAL poem. Susie
Such truths here – and we can all nod our heads to these lines:
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children.
Your verse is on point today about the truths we hold and the truths we reveal. Those delicious, ill-advised ways create such question marks!
Gayle, I hope you take the time to share this with your children. It is unlikely they’ll appreciate how much you appreciate them until they see what you say about that to others.
Knowing you love the memories of them, but are glad they’ve grown up and must have their own lives…in their own places, is okay, too. Those of us who now have empty nests, understand and those of us who have flown the nest also understand. 🙂
Gayle,
WOW! I love your hot line poem. I so relate to the “I keep this from my children” and know that “sigh of relief” you feel when they leave. The third stanza reminds me my children have kept many things from me, and that not knowing makes me happy. I’m not sure I’d survive knowing all their secrets! So much about being a parent of children at home and grown children “is both a liberation and a loss.” Life’s paradox, I suppose. Thank you for this wonderful poem.
So much truth, Gayle. Your poem brought tears to my eyes. Sometimes I miss my kids so much, but I remind myself of what amazing adults they turned out to be. I guess I’ve done a good job raising them, but I want them to know that it’s ok if they still need me once in a while. I loved the stanza about the 70s- totally groovy!
Gayle, the voice in this is strong and fantastic. I envision this at a spoken poetry event. I love how the last line summarizes sardonically, points the author has been making all the way through. This is definitely taking the hot line and finding new meaning in it. I just love the entire poem and the repeted lines so much. Well done.
Mentor Text: excerpt from Thich Nhat Hanh’s “A Handful of Quiet”
We practice in order to restore the flower within.
We practice in order to restore the mountain within.
We practice in order to restore steel water within.
We practice in order to restore space within.
My Poem
How might a mountain practice?
The effort, the repetition, the sweat
of rock and peak, of push and slope.
A flower practicing bloom, opening to the sun,
practicing roots, tunneling into the earth.
Can steel practice its sheen and sharpness?
Be steel. Be still.
Space, space, how do you practice?
You are already
everything.
Every.
Thing.
You
are already practiced.
SMP,
The reimagining of practice from something humans do to nature to “steel” and the play on words w/ “steel” and “still” is so clever. Love your mentor text.
The questions you pose – how might a mountain practice – require some silent contemplation. I appreciate that your poem brings us to meditation. “Be steel. Be still” makes me re-read it each time. I want the first part to read “be still” and so it brings a refocusing. Shhh… just between you and me, I like your poem immensely more.
I love “the sweat of rock and peak, of push and slope” and can’t explain why, only hat I have now read that line about five times, and it fills me up…
SMP, wow, I am a fan of Thich Nhat Hanh, and loved that choice for your mentor text. You’ve done something so clever here with word play, imaginative contemplation, meditation, and the awareness of self. This is the kind of poem that should be published in a meditative journal or guide. I now feel like I should go outside and think about how the garden practices but yet is already practiced. (eyes closing so I can repeat “I am already everything. I am already practiced.”)
SMP — What a fascinating examination of images. You really made me think about some of those given elements around me. Thinking of a “flower practicing bloom” is quite gorgeous. And thinking about the work involved in a mountain… “push and slope”! Quite yummy. Very cool poem! I will think about this a lot now. Thank you for that! Susie
Sometimes you just read something that you just absolutely needed to hear.
“You are already
everything.
Every.
Thing.
You
are already practiced.”
This gave me chills. Your poem breathes life and lightness. It reminds me that we are all enough.
I so resonate with this and appreciate how you juxtapose the sharpness, perhaps alert relaxation to the stillness of practice. Thank you for writing this.
Poem– The Buddha’s Last Instruction
by Mary Oliver
(I included the whole poem)
“Make of yourself a light,”
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
as the east begins
to tear off its many clouds
of darkness, to send up the first
signal — a white fan
streaked with pink and violet,
even green.
An old man, he lay down
between two sala trees,
and he might have said anything,
knowing it was his final hour.
The light burns upward,
it thickens and settles over the fields.
Around him, the villagers gathered
and stretched forward to listen.
Even before the sun itself
hangs, disattached, in the blue air,
I am touched everywhere
by its ocean of yellow waves.
No doubt he thought of everything
that had happened in his difficult life.
And then I feel the sun itself
as it blazes over the hills,
like a million flowers on fire —
clearly I’m not needed,
yet I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.
Slowly, beneath the branches,
he raised his head.
He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.
Dixie’s Poem–
JOY
Touched everywhere by the steady butterfly wings of a sunrise,
A moment later its light is that of a bright lantern, then a blazing fire,
Its hand inside my heart, wrapping around my brain.
All that’s needed is surrender, and the blaze wraps around my spine,
Roots me to the earth. The golden fire shoots up
through my head, and I am ether, earth, fire, air, freedom–
Something of inexplicable value, expansive. Joy.
Dixie, love your vivid imagery!
Oh! I love the line “I am ether, earth, fire, air, freedom” – such breathy choices! And “ether” moves us toward the flames. Your gentle beginning “butterfly wings of a sunrise” as the birth of joy that takes hold in the “hand inside my heart” is beautiful.
Dixie,
You’ve chosen a wonderful mentor poem. We really can’t go wrong with Mary Oliver, can we? The image of morning like “steady butterfly wings” is so beautiful. I see both spreading open through your poem. So many wonderful metaphors here: “bright lantern, steady fire.” Really lovely job.
Dixie, you used the mentor text to create something JOYOUS! I love it because I almost hear it. Could you possibly sing it or play it on an instrument? It’s the gospel, the good news! It is pure JOY!
“I am ether, earth, fire, air, freedom, something of inexplicable value, expansive Joy.” I may need to copy this and stick it on my mirror for one of my daily affirmations. Thank you for this beautiful message.
Mary Oliver is hands-down my go-to poet when I just need “those moments” to re-orient myself. This is simply stunning, these hot lines inspired by Mary. Beautiful!
Your poetry is lifting me up.
“Something of inexplicable value, expansive. Joy.”
Thank you for your poem. It warmed my heart as a read it and the imagery is just beautiful.
Dixie!
So good to see you here. I also went to Mary Oliver for hot lines today. I needed your poem today with the “surrender” and the “expansive joy,”
Sarah
Stacey,
This is another stellar prompt. Like Kim, I love the tone shift moving from finding love to leaving one another. The Neruda poem lends itself beautifully to the hot lines form. Now to dig through some books for inspiration!
Thank you, Glenda! Your poem is INCREDIBLE!!
Stacey, your shift from the warmth of love to the scars and cold – – such truth in how we can so deeply hurt the ones we love or loved the most. I love this shift from love to not love, and I love this form. You’re rocking it on giving us new ideas for our own writing and for our students’ writing. Thank you for being such a wonderful host this month.
Thanks so much, Kim! I am having so much fun and loving all the poems too.
Stacey! You have captured the energy of love (connected souls, soul-filling food) and expanse of loss (invisible disease, scarred eternity) in powerful images. Those last two lines, all about the recollection and memory of what once was which can’t withstand the cold. “But I will never forget the cold” – that loss or action that led to the loss is something that can’t be forgotten. I hear you!
Stacey,
I agree with Jennifer, your last line is very powerful. It encapsulates the entire tone of the poem. Thank you for sharing this and the prompt.
Thanks Jennifer. Yes, we can’t forget the cold.
Mentor Text: Making a Fist (Naomi Shihab Nye)
For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.
“How do you know if you are going to die?”
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
“When you can no longer make a fist.”
Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.
________________________________________
My Poem:
Death Comes In Many Ways
In early September as the bus pulls up
A great yellow beast
Having already swallowed the children inside
As a book closes
The characters waving goodbye
Their hands a metronome of turning pages
In ugly words
The I Hate You’s and This Is Your Fault’s
Splitting wide inside my skin
Within last breaths
Drum rattling,
Each harder and harder to hear
In forgotten playground chants
from children circled to pick teams
Their rhythms stilled like empty swings
In life sliding out of me
As I became we
When you were born
In bandaids
Slapped over realities
Meant to turn bullet holes into scraped knees
From broken windowed words
thrown like rocks
Until I can no longer make a fist
In the final closing of the door
The soft click banging loudly
Behind all my questions
Death comes in many ways
Each ending a border
we must cross separately
Jennifer,
I need all day with this poem. This is one that is SO incredibly thought provoking that each stanza deserves a good chunk of time to think about the richness of the meaning you have created in each form of death…..the school bus swallowing kids….the act of giving birth and dying a bit to self…..the not being chosen…..the characters of books. I want to take a stroll in your writing brain and see all the fascinating ways you do what you do. Amazing and prophetic, my friend!
Thank you, Kim. I needed to hear this today.
I wholeheartedly agree with Kim! I want to see what’s going on inside that writing brain! Incredible!
Jennifer,
This rips my heart as I recall experiences echoed in your poem, the many endings I, too, experienced raising children. My youngest son is writing about his junior high years, and we’ve been chatting about some of his memories, those endings you describe so beautifully. I particularly like the image of turning pages in “a metronome of turning pages,” and “broken windowed words.” Really, I can find images to love in every stanza. Beautiful poem.
Jennifer, you are an amazing poet. My submission was also related to death, so I resonated with why and how you leaned in that direction. My favorite lines are:
‘When you were born
In bandaids
Slapped over realities
Meant to turn bullet holes into scraped knees…’
Such an eloquent metaphor that, to me, describes how we bring forward our purpose, anchored in karma, and how pain we’re born into emerges into our relationships. Thank you so much for your writing.
Your use of sensory imagery is beautiful and powerful. The stilled swings, the door clicking shut — these are moments that stop me in my tracks, and each stanza has a golden one. There is a lot to sit with, a lot to let wash over me, and a lot to unpack, and all in a poem that is totally accessible and fully relatable in the first reading—a real treat. Thank you.
Jennifer, the title made me wonder where you’d go with it and the mentor text. Wow, so many descriptions and comparisons that left me with my hand over my mouth! These lines are magical:
“The characters waving goodbye…Their hands a metronome of turning pages…Their rhythms stilled like empty swings… Meant to turn bullet holes into scraped knees…” And then the last stanza!!!!! OMG Jennifer, you nailed it.
Wow! I have read this poem several times now and I keep finding lines that I love.
“In the final closing of the door
The soft click banging loudly
Behind all my questions”
I’ve been reading the title and then the first line of each stanza. Remarkable!
Wow, Jennifer! This is amazing. I’m looking at the time stamp and am astounded that you could write something like this by 8:02 am! There is so much going on in your poem. I want to think about it a bit before saying anything else, except that I admire you!
Thank you for this idea, Stacey. I am reading and copying Mary Oliver’s “The Summer Day” and letting it simmer for a bit before I write. https://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/133.html
You are most welcome! Thank you for enjoying my journey with you as host this month. I am looking forward to your poem.
Stacey – Another joyful form today! I love your ideas this week.
I used a Found Poem I wrote April 6, 2019 as inspiration for my Hot Line poem today. My Found Poem was taken from Rainer Maria Rilke in Letters to a Young Poet and titled “To Be an Artist.” My Hot Line poem is “A Matter of Living,” taken from the Found Poem. I’m sharing both below.
To Be An Artist
Go inside yourself. Discover the motive that bids you write.
Draw near to nature. Depict your sorrows and desires.
Express the images that surround you – your dreams, objects of your memory.
Try to raise the submerged sensations over that distant past of your childhood.
Explore the depths whence your life wells forth.
Seek for the depth of things.
Live for a while in books and learn from them what seems to you worth learning – but above all, love them.
Have patience with everything that is unsolved in your heart and try to cherish the questions themselves.
It is a matter of living everything.
Love your solitude.
Be glad of your growing into which you can take no one else with you.
Your solitude will be your home and haven even in the midst of very strange conditions, and from there you will discover all your paths.
There is not more beauty in Rome than anywhere else but much beauty in Rome because there is much beauty everywhere.
Go into yourself and meet no one for hours on end.
Be alone as you were in childhood.
Think of the world which you carry within yourself. Pay attention to what arises in you.
Be without resentment.
Be glad and comforted.
To love is good: for love is difficult, and the fact that a thing is difficult must be one more reason for our doing it.
Be brave in the face of the strangest, most singular and most inexplicable things.
You must not be frightened when a sorrow rises up before you.
Most people get to know only one corner of their room.
Do not observe yourself too closely.
Do not derive too rapid conclusions from what happens to you; let it simply happen to you.
Do not think that the man who seeks to comfort you lives untroubled.
Find patience enough in yourself to endure
and single-heartedness enough to believe.
Let life happen to you.
Conduct yourself carefully and consistently.
May the year that lies before you preserve and strengthen you.
A Matter of Living
Go
Explore
Write
Seek
Question
Write
Observe
Pay Attention
Write
Discover
Think
Write
Endure
Learn
Write
Know
Express
Write
Comfort
Believe
Write
Love
Live
Write
Kim,
Thank you for saying “good morning” to me/us with these poems. I love the way both poems are giving the reader/listener directions…but even more so permission in all these gestures. Your directions speak volumes in just a few syllables making clear, all along that we should, must, need to write. “that bids you to write.”
Gratitude,
Sarah
I’m so glad you included your own found poem and that you used it to build the hot poem. (That would be an interesting process for students to explore as well). The circular return to the word “write” in your hot poem reminds me of the recursive process of writing. So many actions must take place (discover, think, learn, endure) before our words can be grounded in writing. I appreciate that the first line (go) can be used to start each of the other lines.
Kim,
Thank you for the opportunity to revisit your Rainer Maria Rilke found poem. I remember it from last April’s challenge. This new poem is so powerful in its distillation of how to live life. I love the repetition of “write,” as though to make real how much more effective all the others are when captured on the page.
Alright, Kim! I like the urgency and energy here. There’s power in short, staccato lines
Kim, brilliant to use your own Found Poem to create your Hot Lines Poem today. I was wondering if we might one day write new poems from each other’s poems, I’ve done that in class before. I think that would be awesome and you’ve proven it by writing from your own. I love the directions you’re gently giving us as writers, as artists, especially to WRITE! I think I may use your list to journal more writing ideas. For example, you said “Question” so I would respond to that by writing some things I’m questioning. You said “Observe” and I would sit somewhere and write my observations. Love this!
Kim — I really liked the evolution of this new poem from your earlier work. Good thinking! Having this distilled “Matter of Living” gives such clarity to what makes you you. That “Write” is there over and over is certainly perfect. That the words of curiosity and discovery move to comfort, love, and believe fits so very well. I’d be curious to see how my own list might turn out — you’ve inspired me to mess with this very idea. Thank you! Susie