Today’s writing inspiration comes from Kimberly Johnson, Ed.D. She is a literacy coach and media specialist in a public school in rural Georgia. A former public school classroom teacher for 20 Years, she taught all grades except 4th and 12th, and she is the author of Father, Forgive Me: Confessions of a Southern Baptist Preacher’s Kid. Meet Dr. Johnson at NCTE 2019 in Baltimore where she will be giving two presentations: Adventure Book Clubs and Project-Based Learning.
Inspiration
I Remember Poems: These poems can help poets discover topics and hone in on details using the repeating line. All you need is paper, a pencil, and a timer – and some memories!
Process
Think of all your favorite memories and events you have enjoyed. For one full minute, write everything that comes to mind without looking away from the paper. The rules are simple: every sentence starts with “I remember,” and you don’t stop writing. At the end of one minute, look at all your sentences and circle the one you want to develop further. Repeat the process by writing for one full minute (or more) on what you remember about that one selected event. To narrow the focus, keep choosing one sentence as many times as you like. Arrange your poem in the order that is most appealing, and use “I remember” only as stanza starters.
Kim’s Poem
“Forgetting”
I remember our first dates
eating barbecue in Papa Willie’s as lunch turned to
dinner
riding your motorcycle to see the countryside, secretly
scared to death
the orange Gatorade staining your mouth as we sat on
the concrete picnic table
I remember not wanting a third date
“No,” I answered
I was too ambivalent, too unready to date again
I cut you off and left for the beach
I remember driving home
getting the call that you and your parents were in a
freak accident
a car crashed through a restaurant window, pinning you
all as you ate dinner
you were staying at their house as you all recovered
I remember the church bringing food as you all healed
I signed up for pineapple and raisin-glazed ham
delivered it and saw you sitting in a chair,
deliberately not looking up at me
and that was when I realized I’d made a mistake
I remember thinking what a bitch I’d been
feeling the urge to apologize and find out what you’d
been through
texting you, “Do you want to talk?”
my heart skipping a beat with your reply: “Well, YEAH!”
I remember the phone ringing
you didn’t waste a second
we talked for hours about the accident, about my trip,
about us
you asked me out again, and I accepted
I remember our next dates
walks in the Griffin city park,
sitting on a swing,
talking hours on end, conducting “traffic counts”
I remember our first kiss
you opened the car door for me, took my seatbelt and
fastened it
your lips accidentally brushed mine as you backed out of
the car
“There you go,” I smiled, and kissed you back, and then
kissed you again.
I remember the Valentine’s date to see Gordon Lightfoot in concert
finding a smashed trinket ring in the parking lot
probably a Cracker Jack surprise, tucking it in my pocket
humming “Rainy Day People” all the way home
I remember our memorable walks in the Griffin city park,
but none more so than the day you left the swing
and got down on one knee, and reached in your pocket
and proposed with the Cracker Jack ring that you’d
resurrected with pliers
I remember your royal blue shirt and your jeans and the love in
your eyes
and the matching royal blue car speeding by
a teenage boy fist-pumping cheers out the window as he
watched you propose
and answering “Yes,” even before you said, “I want us to
choose a better ring together.”
I remember our tenth anniversary
lying in bed, late at night, when you rolled over and said,
“Oh no!”
alarmed, I sat up. “What?!”
“I forgot what today was, and I just remembered,” you
sorrowfully confessed
I remember that I, too, didn’t realize it was our tenth anniversary
until you reminded me
There are 365 days in a year, and an anniversary should
be celebrated
especially a tenth anniversary
but when two people love the way we do,
every day is a celebration.
-Kim Johnson
Post your writing any time today. If the prompt does not work for you today, that is fine– make-up your own prompt or a twist on this one. All writing is welcome. Please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Below are some suggestions for commenting with care. Oh, and a note about edits: The comment feature of this blog (and many blogs) does not permit edits. Since we are writing in short bursts, we all are understanding (and even welcome) the typos that remind us we are human.
I remember…
when I lived in Wales. There were castles, dragons, Arthurian legend studies, melodic voices, scenic views, so much to see and so much to do. There were smiling faces and warm greetings at every turn to help a nervous visitor feel welcomed.
I remember..
The genuine concern of the Welsh people ushered in by their melodic voices.
Smiling, compassionate, helpful professors, the opportunity to gain academic and practical knowledge
That would nurture my passion for helping others.
I remember…
their melodic voices, how calmly they talked to their babies, others, and students like me.
This helped calm my nerves about succeeding in a foreign country, at this Swansea University on the sea.
Everyone from all walks of life was helpful. Pretty soon I began to feel like I was on the “no stress” express.
But not losing focus; continuing to press, relaxed and reassured.
I remember…
this reassured feeling quelled my nervous excitement.
I released weighty energy so I could use what was left for success.
They were not nervous about anything. They helped me build my confidence.
I remember…
I wanted to succeed, not let my supporters down, eagles cheering me on from Cal State LA… California…the U.S.A.
I really wasn’t sure how I’d measure up so far away.
My mission was supported in many ways;
The Welsh gently reminded me that every problem has a solution
and could be “sorted out.”
I remember…
how “sorting things out” took on new meaning to me
when you felt all your academic work depended upon it.
With ample resources in this, another supportive student-friendly environment;
I could feel personal and academic growth within.
I remember…
when I lived in Wales, studying in the land of castles, dragons, Arthurian legend studies, melodic voices, scenic views
returning home with treasures to share with others for a lifetime.
Alas, success!
Candace, you certainly unearthed a true treasure chest of learning in Wales! I enjoyed the repetition of “melodic voices” throughout your poem to sustain the spirit of harmony you felt as you learned and grew. The sense of magic that is there in the first stanza – the magic we all recognize as dazzling, trademark magic – is there to show us that there is also the magic of immersion in the wonders of learning while surrounded by supportive, reassuring people as you do the work of sorting things out. And the ending is circular – – the magic does not stop with dragons and legends but travels back home with you. Wouldn’t it be lovely if life could be just like this? There is a message here for all of us as teachers – – that students are in the process of sorting things out, and we can be there to cheer them along. That’s how this group works, too, for me – this poetry group – – we open a door to a magic-filled room, where we can all sort out our words and our verses alongside fellow writers who are all so supportive and reassuring.
I remember
when my father came home
as the day sighed.
My mother turned from the sink
(was she always at the sink?)
and the two would embrace
and hold a kiss
beyond the perfunctory peck
checked off a list of daily tasks.
Hungry they were–
Suppertime
I had hungers too.
I wiggled in between them;
“A sandwich” we called it.
It fed us all.
I love this snapshot in time. We really get a sense for the love between parents. I also love the quotes around sandwich. I’m fascinated when writing can take the familiar and make it extraordinary, and that is exactly what you did here. Thank you for sharing!
Allison, “The day sighed” is such magnificent personification paralleling the exhaustion of both parents. The the question in a parenthetical thought both reinforces and challenges memory. I sense the sensual ness in “Hungry they were.” Wonderful tableau of you three in those last lines.
Allison — this is a precious memory. Bits that made it so: “the day sighed” and “hold a kiss” and you were part of it…the sandwich. A snapshot that captures such connection. Loved this. Susie
I can see here where family care is expressed in tangible and intangible representations, and the reader not being able to easily separate one idea from the other. Very powerful play on words and meaning here. Thanks so much for sharing.
Allison, that’s the best sandwich – – the squeeze between two people to feel the love as a trio! I love the personification when the day sighed, the predictability of your mother being at the sink (it makes me feel secure to expect things that will happen on a routine basis), and the alliteration of the perfunctory peck but glad your parents didn’t consider it a checklist item and kicked it up a notch or two! How wonderful that you recognized that and know the difference between the obligation of affection and the enthusiasm of it. The love that fed you all is joyful – – you were a blessed child in that “sandwich,” between two parents who loved you! Thanks for sharing with us.
Another late post…. Too busy traveling to write. 🙂 A good problem to have!
I love the format. I’ll be using it with my students this fall.
My poem…..
I remember…
Big Trees State Park.
I remember
Thinking “this won’t last long.
The boys will be bored.
After all,
They are just trees.”
I remember
Instantly being awed.
The shocked silence.
Only the birds chirped
After all, this was their home.
They had seen this before.
I remember
Wishing these trees
Grew more places.
More people needed
To experience
To be engulfed by
God’s amazing creation.
I remember
The boys loving every moment.
All of us
Leaving the park
Speechless.
I remember
Again be thankful
For the opportunity to travel
For taking the path less taken
For the beauty of creation
sorry formatting got lost…..
Mattie, I enjoy the surprise at the end w/ the boys reaction to the trees. “Engulfed” is a wonderful word for being among the trees. Have you read “The Forest Unseen”? It’s so good.
Martie, I am glad that you will use this format with your students. It works well for verse, and it works well for developing details for narratives. It also helps students brainstorm topics. I’m thankful that it can be a useful format for you and your students! Your poem made me smile – the lines I like best are
Only the birds chirped.
After all, this was their home.
They had seen this before.
This drives home the silence and speechlessness by giving it some contrast and zeroing in on ONLY the birds.
What a great challenge to have — so busy traveling that it’s hard to find time to write. I often think of those times as writing fuel. We can’t have great writing without the experiences to fuel the writing. Perhaps, too, our writing minds enrich our experiences as we feel from the writer’s perspective the importance of listening, observing, smelling, feeling, tasting, noticing every detail. Have fun on your journey, and thanks for making writing and sharing with us a priority today!
The format-thing happened to me, too!
So love how you begin and return to the boys finding awe among the trees and being “engulfed by/God’s amazing creation.” And the last few lines have such lovely repetition in the preposition “for” which shows that the creation is a gift “for,” that we must be open to see the beauty.
Sarah
I have to admit, this one was a real challenge for me!
I remember the quiet mornings,
The sound of the soft rustle of hay,
The whispers of breaths,
That erupt into full bodied whinnies.
I remember the never needing words,
As I brush your face,
Pick your feet,
And carefully pick every shaving from your tail.
I remember the warmth,
Of the sun as we walk out of the barn,
Of your breath on my arm,
Of your soul.
I remember the freedom,
That comes with cantering in the grass,
With gentle wind on our faces,
When time becomes irrelevant.
I remember when we became we,
Our hearts perfectly synchronized,
Willing to give up I,
To forever become we.
Kate, if this was a challenge, you made it look easy! There is no love like that between a girl and her horse – what splendid memories you have of grooming your horse to prepare for a ride – cantering, grooming, walking, breathing, not needing words – becoming we. This is a beautiful tribute to the memories you have of your beloved friend! Thank you for sharing these special times with us today.
I would not have known it was difficult…. it was lovely. The sensory details are lovely – picking savings, breath on my arm & soul, gently wind.
This is a lovely poem, Kate. I love the way you humanize the horse and become one in nature. I’ve been reading “Autobiography of a Face” by Lucy Grealy, and she describes her “romance” with her horse. You poem is a perfect compliment to Grealy’s memoir.
I so love the sense of place that nurtures this relationship. The tenderness in the movement is precious with “brush your face” and “breath on my arm.” This exchange is everything!
I do not have much experience with horses, but your poem gave me a window. I loved these lines especially:
“of your breath on my arm”
“with gentle wind on our face,
when time becomes irrelevant”
Just lovely. Thank you.
Kate, as I was reading your poem, I could literally smell the hay in the barn that took me to all the other wonderful experiences I had with my horse. It took me to a place where I first felt spiritual oneness with Delilah who was sick when she arrived. In caring for her, I could literally “feel” her thanking me for the extra care and time she needed to be restored to her natural, beautiful self. Thank you for sharing.
Day 4 I Remember Poem
I remember a fading sunset
orange fire sliding low,
washing late summer heat
across our porch
and across our faces.
Mine bent low
close to the pages.
Yours tipped near mine.
I remember the words
spilling slowly from my lips
one drop at a time.
In
An
Old
House
In
Paris…
I remember the touch of your arm
around my shoulders,
your other hand holding one corner
of the pages
we shared together.
Voices fell from the kitchen.
End of day talk.
Plan making conversations.
Our conversation existed
between you and me
And Madeleine.
I remember the feeling
of finishing my first book,
my first read aloud,
entirely on my own.
Your patience
Infinite.
My pride
Immense.
That memory lives
in every page I turn,
in every word,
building fires
and washing heat
into my very being.
I so love how you use line breaks in this poem, Jennifer. The poem slows as you utter words from the page and then return to rhythm as the realization of what you/the young speaker has accomplished and how it was shared with the addresses “you” and Madeleine. The character was also a witness, a familiar member of this re-membering.
Jennifer, I love that the sun’s warmth and light are here as part of the glow as you read your first book aloud – and that the person to whom you are reading has an arm around you – – more warmth. The fire of the sun, the fire of the passion of reading, the sense of light not only in the day but in your soul. In that particular story, the girls line up two by two, and so the image of Miss Clavell’s (?) instruction to line up this way is similar to the two on the porch seated as a pair. Patience Infinite, Pride Immense – love that P/I repetitive beginning! Thank you for sharing this wonderful memory with us. Nothing like that first book of read aloud success – and what a great one!
What a precious memory you illustrate here! I love how you link this profound moment from the past with the reading life and reader you are today.
Jennifer! What a beauty! I love the image of your head tipping alongside the person’s who sat beside you. And the ending, honoring that first book “in every page I turn” is beautiful. “Washing heat” is a word combo that makes me think WIWI (Wish I’d Written It).
I took a little different approach, and instead of writing from my memories, I wrote from my father’s memories as I imagine them. I think this is unfinished.
“Echoes from My Father” by Glenda Funk
Do you remember that time in September
I asked where you were going,
Why you were leaving?
You kissed my cheek and whispered, “I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise.”
I begged you to stay longer, but the
Nurses insisted, “Visiting hours are over,” so
Rule-follower you walked through the hospital door, down the corridor and
Out of my life into your father past present tense memories
Frozen firm in cool September frost.
Next morning watching the officer walk the walk to the front door
You knew without words what I’d known the
Night before. Death knocks once, and Tomorrow never comes.
You’d waited five years for that moment. I did, too.
We knew I’d die young. The inevitability…
Do you remember hitchhiking and
Breaking into Arrow Body Company
After the jalopy grey Rambler rattled to a stop on East 7th Avenue?
Speckled asphalt paved our yellow brick road.
“Walk faster. Hurry up. Stop crying.” You did your best to please me.
I crawled through Uncle Bob’s office window, found a phone and
Called a wish-granter for a lift home.
I saw the fear in your eyes. “You can’t just break in” judgment and
Admonition against sin in your trembling voice.
I never owned a new car. Never earned enough to avoid family dependency.
Do you remember flames shooting from
Under the hood of the old Ford Falcon.
“Get out of the car,” I yelled,
Fearing for your safety.
We didn’t need a trip to Wildwood Baptist
Wednesday prayer meeting to hear God say,
“You’ll live another day” that evening.
You secretly rejoiced and thanked Jesus for
Sparing you yet another trip to church and the
Gossip girls at prayer meeting.
The Flying Nun offered spiritual guidance in black and white that night.
Do you remember dressing me in a 70s chic pink shirt and maroon slacks?
My six-feet under macabre ensemble. I protested, an echoed whisper in your head.
Forty plus years later the Leisure suit still awaits a return to runway glory.
Do you hear the dead speak through time and memory?
I have done it so long, so strangely long.*
*The last line in Amy Lowell’s poem “Appledercumb Park.”
Glenda, I read this several times and discovered new wonders each time I read it. The voice of your father through your memories is incredibly touching and creatively written. I stopped and reread that first stanza each time – – it certainly is jolting, and it helped me understand that his memories are from beyond this life. What’s most interesting to me is that as I read and reread the poem, that last haunting line could be read one way as the voice of your father asking, or it could be you asking your readers, or it could be a narrative voice from beyond – neither you nor your father – asking readers this question. I’m crying at the hospital visit, anxious about the break-in, relieved not having to go to the gossip session at church, and respectfully chuckling at the leisure suit and the echoed protest with hope for “a return to runway glory.” I like that you shared with the group that it may be unfinished. So many times, we’re reluctant to share things until we deem them complete and ready to be seen by others. I love the comfort level that we have to express to others where we are in our writing journey. Thank you for sharing these precious moments with us today.
I read and re-read this, Glenda. So many specific objects, allusions, choices. Moving in and out of living and reflecting of uncertainty and knowing. The temporality has me feeling uneasy and wanting. I think the dialogue is was has me going back to your poem over and over. Beautiful, vivid, and yet haunting.
Glenda, I am intrigued by the imagery in this poem: that leisure suit! The grey Rambler rattling. I also loved how you hearkened back to our earlier poems this week when we mashed up favorite lines. I CARRY lines of poems in my head and they help me make sense of the world. I will add “I have done it so long, so strangely long” to my repertoire.
I remember
When we were eighteen
College was about to start
I remember
The night we first met
At the scavenger hunt in the cemetery
The headstones with the clues “Wilson” and “Spaulding”
I remember
You showing off and trying to get the attention of a girl
Any girl
You got mine
I was not impressed
I remember
The skating party afterwards with both of our dorm floors
You didn’t ask me to skate
All the other guys did, but not you
I remember
Wondering what your problem was
Thinking, “Whatever. No loss there.”
I remember
Months later at a party, watching you
Sitting shyly in a corner
Looking nervous, yet sill having fun with your friends
I remember
Wondering what you were like
Talking to you more often
Thinking you were sweet
I remember
How you boldly reached for my hand as we walked out of T-Birds
My stomach fluttering and my head spinning when you kissed me
And I wonder, was that thirty-some years ago, or just this morning?
Mo, I love that you met in a cemetery and thirty years later you’re still together! Not such a comforting thought, but 100 years from now, I’m betting you’ll be together right where it all began. And to me, that’s just as cool as it gets. I also like the idea that he was somewhat “dead” to your feelings about him until months later, when you charged some life into him with that kiss. And 30 years later, still the fluttering heart and spinning head. True love! Thank you for sharing your memories today!
The whole time I was reading I was worried we wouldn’t know how it ended. Thank you for the last line! Not only does it tell of how the night 30 years ago ended, but it tells of the love you still share. Just lovely!!!!
No, you hooked me w/ the cemetery and the names as clues, a hint of the future. I love the playfulness and tentative flirtations culminating in the holding of hands. My heart flutters thinking about two lovers still holding hands thirty years after that first connection.
Ugh, typo. Mo, I’m sorry.
Sitting in my sun room, watching the rain, I reflected on days as a child, I’d sung the song in these opening lines. Then recalled what I, a city girl, learned about photosynthesis in science classes. Then blended the two with what I learned about teaching in general, as reflected in the closing lines.
Weather: A Battle of Prayers in the Summer
“Rain, rain go away. Come again some other day!”
“Sun, sun, come back today. There’s still time. I want to play.”
Rain and sun, they both are needed.
But today, neither prayer may be heeded.
Farmers pray for rain. They have much to gain.
Teens pray for sun. Short-sighted, they long for fun.
God hears them all and reminds them both of Fall.
“You need the rain. You need the sun. Without both, you both could starve.”
“Starve!” said the farmers. “Not on my beat.”
“Starve!” said the teens. “We need wheat to eat.”
So both change their prayers and note God takes heed.
He gives them both just what they need.
“Rain, rain, come today, but leave in time for me to play.”
“Sun, sun, feed my wheat. Rain do your part. We need you both to grow wheat to eat.”
“But there’s, no need for either to stay. We’ll welcome you both another day.”
Farmers and teens agree that day,
“With both we can eat. With both we can play.
Thank you, God. Collaboration’s the way.”
Anna, the weather here in the Chicagoland area, like much of the country has been unbearable. Thank you for the reminder that we need balance in our lives.
Your short-sighted teens longing for fun made me smile.
Anna, I always enjoy your message in your poems – as Mo mentioned too, that there is the message of balance here with rain and sun. Plus, we get to see things from both the teens’ and farmers’ perspectives. This way of seeing things differently reminds me of a story entitled “Butterflies,” by Patricia Grace (Googleable). If you’ve never read it, it’s a quick read and very eye-opening. I like that you had a unique opening to your “I Remember” poem, using words like recall, reflected, and learned. You made me smile, looking at the threat of rain here in Georgia this afternoon and thinking that I’ve had time to play – and now that I’m safely home, it can rain, rain, rain so these peaches can drink.
The childhood chant is the perfect beginning to this piece, especially as you contrast that with the second line. You balance the two sides throughout and pull them all together in the collaborative ending. Thanks for reminding us of what we need when we are so likely to search for what we want. In the end, both are needed.
Anna, I love your juxtaposition of teens and farmers. Knowing we both have lived in CA it also makes me think of those who yearn for that weather and yet, how many complain of the weather there. Our lives—and weather—are clouded with perspective.
I REMEMBER… THE WE OF US
I remember…
decades and decades ago,
“the two little ones,”
giggling, twirling, running
with arms flailing and free
between the south yard and the cornfield,
throwing ourselves to the soft unmown clover,
rolling over and over, matting a bed,
knowing we
were out there
away from the farmhouse
and out of sight,
just the two of us,
parallel with the earth.
I remember…
out of breath, chests heaving,
we stretched out, spread-eagle on our backs,
no thoughts of chiggers,
no thoughts of dew,
not even grasshoppers zinging off and away;
we settled ourselves
and stared long at the unfurled blue and white canvas
of a storied summer sky.
I remember…
“Lookie,” arm raised and finger pointing
“there’s a dragon.”
“Oh! Over there’s a horse
and a giant’s face.”
“Where?”
“There. See,
that’s the dragon’s long tail.
And that’s the horse’s head
and mane.
And there’s the giant’s big nose!”
“Oh yeah. I see it! I see it! And there’s his ear!”
Pointing and bubbling and adding,
“The giant’s gonna eat the dragon! See, he has teeth.”
“Aww, the horse disappeared!”
“Oh, now I see the lady with the long hair.”
I remember…
we lay transfixed by the palette
that lilted across the azure,
reshaping and reinventing
a perfect day
with the we
I remember.
by Susie Morice
Susie,
I so love this poem. The sense of place (as so much of your writing embraces), the carefree spirit of the speaker and the “we” (who I want to know), and the very gentle sense of loss in the “we/I remember.” thank you for bringing us into the conversation, your painting with words the summer sky of the past (that is still there for you/us/the we to see, perhaps).
Sarah
Susie, your vivid verbs make me wish I were there with you. But, then, my city squeamishness makes my skin squirm, thinking of the bugs in the grass!
But your final stanza, “we lay transfixed by pallette/that lilted across the azure…” reminds me of days we lay on blankets in the back yard, probably viewing this same sky.
Thanks for evoking such pleasant memories.
Wow, just a few lines in and I was transported to my childhood! You really know how to paint a picture with your words. Your last stanza is especially beautiful. I love the title, too.
Susie,
One week ago from yesterday, I was coming home from a birthday dinner in Macon, when my mother in law pointed to the sky and showed me a dog. She described the same moments with her own younger sister – – lying outside, looking up at the clouds and being entertained for hours with whatever the sky drew. These moments of your childhood are so special and tender, and the dialogue is so real. What’s even more magical is that there is a dragon – – what we ALL want to see in the clouds – the stuff of stories and legends, with castles and horses and princesses. At the end, I like how you lay transfixed, “reshaping and reinventing” the way the clouds do in the sky. That unmown soft clover is so rich with imagery. What wonderful memories you have.
I remember the advice: don’t commit to one birth plan
I trained my body for a squat birth; utilizing yoga blocks and Youtube to guide me
I was prepared to go natural, modern medicine was not VIP to this party
I remember finalizing your name and monogramming baby gear
Named after a poet; old English definition of one from the tall trees, long stone
You will undoubtedly be tall, so it was perfect; our progeny was no longer a dream deferred
I remember my water breaking, rippling through dents in the bathroom tile
I forgot everything I read and was taught and heard preached
But I do remember Seinfeld was playing in the background of our chaos and excitement
I remember a nurse concerned by my blood loss
And then your above average head size blocked your passage to our crazy, crazy world
An emergency cesarean continued your breath; exposed my uterine tears and tears
I barely remember being rushed off to interventional radiology and signing my life away
The vomit and sterilization ring a bell and large, blinding white lights
I touched you for the first time in the recovery room, hours after your birth
I remember you were a border baby, branded and buckled with an alarm
I was in the ICU and they brought you to me every four hours
They tried to pull liquid from my depleted body to replenish yours
I remember the transfusions rebuilt my memory and ability to mother you
We went home together, your health without question
We thrived together, learned together
I will remember and always appreciate modern medicine
It saved my uterus to allow the growth of our family
And it gifted you the ability to remember me
Stefani,
My emotions were all over the place with this poem – – from excitement, to happiness, contentment, humor, anticipation, alarm, concern, acceptance, gratefulness, appreciation, and other feelings in between. This part resonated strongly:
I forgot everything I read and was taught and heard preached
But I do remember Seinfeld was playing in the background of our chaos and excitement
I, too, had children who are here because of modern medicine. Without it, there would have been no hope for two of them. The best part of the poem, for me: We went home together, your health without question. You reminded us through your poem that togetherness and health are, above all, our greatest gifts. Thank you for sharing this today, and continued blessings on your family!
Stefani,
I read every line more slowly than the next so afraid of where your remembering would take us, so ready to feel grief. And I am so glad that your “we” went home together and that your family was able to grow. Still, you wrote this with such urgency, and the grief was in the loss of the plan not the child. I felt it but did not see it all until you gently uncovered the moments for us. Beautiful. Artful.
Sarah
What an experience to share! Whew is all I can say, imagining as I read, the emotional roller-coaster of such a birthing experience. Glad you had the courage to try the first and the wisdom to accept the second way of helping a child make that transition from womb to world!
Every mother has a story of the beginning. The plans. The hopes. The expectations. You have taken us into yours. Plopped us right into it. Just as the best storytellers do. I read trepidatiously, unsure of the outcome, but so relieved in the ending. Your details are selected to show us the bits and pieces memory offers (Seinfeld playing, rippling water) and the images that stuck with you. Thank you for sharing this!
Thank you for this candid poem. You keep showing and showing and allow me, the reader, to arrive at the answers to my questions.
Golden lines:
I trained my body for a squat birth; utilizing yoga blocks and Youtube to guide me
water breaking, rippling through dents in the bathroom tile
I do remember Seinfeld was playing in the background
exposed my uterine tears and tears
The vomit and sterilization ring a bell and large, blinding white lights
I touched you for the first time in the recovery room,
**They tried to pull liquid from my depleted body to replenish yours** (My FAVORITE!)
(Note: the spacing doesn’t transfer from editing to submitting for some reason.)
I remember piggy-back rides
to bath time with the brood.
“Hup, two, three, four,” you’d say,
my tush bouncing, arms holding on
for dear life:
The closest you got to ever hugging me.
I remember making you hot tea
seeping the Lipton’s with a gentle wrist.
“Three teaspoons of sugar,” you’d say,
the spoon ringing a tune, stirring the sweet
for your distant tongue:
Your sip and “ah,” the closest you’d come to a thank you.
I remember deposit requests
to turn on the lights, repair the van.
“I will pay you back,” you’d say,
listing all your big plans and schemes
for inventing this or writing that:
You never asked about the invention that mattered: me.
I remember the E.R. calls
to tell me you were in the hospital.
“The nurse is cute,” you’d say,
ignoring the guard standing by,
existential philosophy or suicidal ideation:
Your neglected heart needed more nourishment.
I remember the denouement
of garbage bags with the brood.
“You pack the bedroom,” they said,
handing me boxes for your books.
And in the margins of the tattered pages, you
hugged the verse in Hamlet,
thanked the leaves of grass in Whitman,
asked what mattered in the white spaces, and
sought nourishment for your heart.
Whenever I need to remember,
I know where to find you:
Living in the margins.
Sarah, I’m speechless and teary eyed. I wasn’t ready for the end. It came out of nowhere and stabbed me straight through the heart! I absolutely adore the way you painted a happy picture at the beginning – a tush bouncing off to bathtime, arms holding on for dear life, riding happily to cleanliness, close to a hug but falling short, the soothing feel of warm tea, settling down after bathtime before bed, “spoon ringing a tune, stirring the sweet” conjuring up feelings of relaxation, winding down, sharing a sweet moment, and yet falling short of a verified thank you before moving on to the darker years of increased struggle – financially, emotionally, physically…..what mattered, neglected heart, nourishment… and then the upwelling of tears that leaves me wondering whether the mind or the body is absent- – Whenever I need to remember, I know where to find you. Brilliant poetic devices throughout, especially the stirring of the tea with the sounds of the vowels and the metaphors for life. Hamlet got the hug you needed, Whitman got the thanks you wanted, and books and the white space were the nourishment and what mattered. You reached in and squeezed my heart this morning.
Back in April, I remember you asking me how I felt after I wrote a particular poem – – I got some of those same feelings in reading yours today. Thank you, Sarah, for this poem today!
Sarah,
The line “neglected heart needed more nourishment” breaks my heart and connects me to you and so many others. I appreciate the vulnerability and life of this poem. Thank you also for hosting this platform, although I’ve only just started participating, I can sense the community you have been building and look forward to partaking in this journey.
Enjoy your time at ELATE!
Oh, Sarah, I am truly moved, deeply moved. Each time you struck that joyful moment with so much potential, you wrenched it with a gripping reality. Each time a scraping and wounding hurt. The ending with the boxing of his books and the power of what gets said in the margins is just remarkably laid out. Holy cow, I am ripped up here. Living in the margins—-brilliant! You are an old soul, sister. Thank you, thank you, thank you for slicing into this tissue and releasing this very personal piece of your heart. Susie
I love the sounds of this poem (Hup, two, three, four and spoons ringing on teacups) as well as the visuals (seeping with wrists, tattered pages). You juxtapose the delicate and the worn. The line “You never asked about the invention that mattered: me” is so powerful. And the lines, hugging the verse, thanking the leaves – as a writer/reader/language lover, these are beautiful to me. Thank you for giving us this glimpse!
Sarah, “living in the margins” reminds me of just how much I love to see the handwriting of my long-since-moved-to-Heaven Grandpa and Grandma Janice. Their handwriting allows me to hold a piece of them in my hands. “Living in the margins” takes me to those handwritten letters I cherish.
Kim – This beautiful poem unfolds in the touching way your love unfolded, a movement that carried us along with you till the love was solidly in place and we too fell deeply, now connected to you in a way that couldn’t have happened without his poem. What a tender poem. Each image has me with you. The “car crash … pinning you” is the perfect and made-me-stop breathing pivot point: your word choice of “pinning” set the two of you in place like nothing else could. How horrendous an accident and how glorious a pivot in what the two of you reached out to acknowledge. Dang, I love this, love the sense that the “pinning” was a continental divide that sent a love line running deep and swiftly down a very majestic mountain of love and into the deep well that is a marriage that moves me to big ol’ watery tears. You are both such lucky ducks… you’ve shared something here that has truly touched me. Thank you & I’m glad this was the first thing I read this morning…it’ll carry me for a long while in a loving state being. Susie
Thank you, Susie! I appreciate your words of encouragement. I look forward to all the I Remember poems today – I predict a lot of different types of emotions and feelings as we read these. Sarah has me sniffling already this morning as I sip my coffee. I simply love this group – – there is no community like a community of writers who are prepared to share our lives, take risks and bare our feelings and motivate and encourage each other. I find myself wishing everyone could have what we have here. We are blessed.
Kim, my favorite part about your poem was your admission that you didn’t want a third date. We often think all healthy relationships start out strong and immediate and it is important to remember this untruth.
I’ve also appreciated your strategies and other poems this week. I love the purposeful modernity and will be sharing with many others. I hope to meet you in Baltimore.