Welcome to Day 4 of the March Open Write. A very special thank you to Stefani, Katrina, and Denise for inspiring our writing and taking such good care of our hearts and minds this month. If you have written with us before, welcome back. If you are joining us for the first time, you are in the kind, capable hands of today’s host, so just read the prompt below and then, when you are ready, write in the comment section below. We do ask that if you write, in the spirit of reciprocity, you respond to three or more writers. To learn more about the Open Write, click here. Pledge to write poetry this April with us here.
Our Host
Katrina Morrison lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma. A tenth grade English teacher, she is a firm believer in the frequent use of mentor texts whether written by her, one of her students, or someone from the world outside. Her students know she is passionate about poetry too. She sneaks it in whenever she gets the chance. Open Write has been a refuge for her since the most difficult days of the pandemic in 2020.
Inspiration
Recently on the way home from school, I spotted one of my former students. I wondered about him. Which house was he headed to? What was his home like? It was then a poem began to form.
We often are struck by the singular image of a stranger or an acquaintance. A chance sighting can make us wonder about the world they inhabit. Every now and then, that image will resurface in our memory.
From memory, Hayan Charara, recreates a touching tableau of a stranger on the subway
Self-Portrait With Woman On The Subway
By Hayan Charara
Across from me she
was crying badly, everyone
around her looking
into their laps trying
to pretend they did not notice.
So unashamed
in her grief she wept
like the N line
was a room in her apartment
and the afternoon
would last forever.
Twenty years on,
I could’ve said something,
anything—
“The red of your scarf
is beautiful.”
“Self-Portrait With Woman On The Subway” by Hayan Charara, from THESE TREES, THOSE LEAVES, THIS FLOWER, THAT FRUIT by Hayan Charara copyright © 2022 Hayan Charara. Used by permission of Milkweed Editions.
Process
Put into words an image your mind carries of a stranger, acquaintance, or even a friend. Create a poetic tableau
Katrina’s Poem
What house are you heading home to?
I recognized the beret you wore in class
Every day last year.
That same lonely walk.
Some of the stories you told
Seemed outlandish.
Now, there you are
Having walked a mile
Or so from school
In the late winter not yet
Spring cool.
You don’t see me
Slowing to a crawl,
Wondering what house
You are heading home to,
Hoping the people there
Are good folks.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to 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.
Thanks, Katrina for the idea. I’m forever seeing strangers and making stories up about them and their lives. Love this prompt.
Girl with a bucket
Girl with a bucket
on the beach
Walking down
the long expanse
Just the girl
And the blue sky
And the wide sea
Waves crashing at her feet
Bucket in her hands
She crouches down
Peers into the tide pool
Sees her reflection
And smiles
Girl with a bucket
on the beach
Talking to no one
But the seashells
And starfish
And the wind
Just the girl
In the morning
With the bucket
On the beach
Searching for something
Gulls squawk above
Girl looks up and waves
Girl with a bucket
Crouches on the beach
Scoops wet sand
Onto the canvas of sand
Bucket after bucket
Mound after mound
Pouring and sculpting
Making the morning
Her very own
Building the castle
Of her wildest imagination
Shells, seaweed, bit of bracken
Girl with a bucket dreams.
Oh, Joanne, I love all the “Girl with a bucket / on the beach” riffs. Especially that last line. What a sweet poem you created from such a simple scene. I can see the illustration for this poem in part of an anthology.
Wow! I loved this prompt. This poem is not a personal narrative; it’s just an idea I came up with earlier this evening. I didn’t have time to tweak it or make it perfect, but I think it’s a fun concept that I’ll toy around with in the future.
Thanks, too, for the awesome mentor poems, Katrina. I saw two of my students walking while I was driving home from school today, and your poem came to mind, especially the ending.
Self-Portrait of a Stranger
We slouch on checkered
tiles across from each
other.
Her eyes, furtive and insecure,
refuse contact. She
examines the restroom
(which appears to be
a relic from the 1960s).
Brown hair cascades
a round face. Gray singletons
shimmy in the fluorescent
light. Were those
there yesterday? Finally,
her eyes rest on mine,
reluctantly.
Her smile is soft and gentle and
pushes up incipient wrinkles.
The almond-shaped, blue
saucers settle peacefully. They’re
kind, but they’re underscored
by deep, dark, tired
trenches dug by sleepless
nights and endless days.
This isn’t how it used to be,
she remembers.
She, this woman in the
mirror, has become
a stranger.
Rachelle,
Wow!! I love this!! I actually remember looking in the mirror once and noticing the grey hair I knew was there seemed to have multipled over night. What a wonderful concept you came up with.
Rachelle,
This is so poignant. After all my years of teaching, my heart still feels the same, so I sometimes do a double-take when I look in the mirror and see the gray streaks and encroaching crinkles at my eyes and mouth. Sigh. I’m going to have to siphon a bit more of the youth out of my students to compensate. My “deep, dark, tired / trenches dug by sleepless / nights and endless days” are showing.
Such beautifully detailed images, Rachelle. Those singletons made me chuckle. And I can certainly relate to those deep, dark, tired trenches! Nicely done.
Love this! What a clever direction you took this in. ❤️❤️
Rachelle, this is powerful. Thank you for that clear ending, that we know it’s “this woman in the mirror” — That it was two women was so clear at first, and so much has happened to her that she felt like two women too. The description of the bags under her eyes is amazing: “deep, dark, tired
trenches dug by sleepless
nights and endless days.”
Thank you, Katrina, for an excellent prompt and mentor poems. I thought about the prompt since the morning. Then a friend posted a picture of a stranger walking the streets on New York today. This is what came out of my interaction with it.
A Cheerfully Looking Stranger
He walked the street—
Tall, confident, bright—
Pink suit, blue coat
Matching cane, gloves, and hat.
People noticed him,
Stopped and followed with a gaze,
Some took pictures or videos,
Others were brave to greet.
He seemed to enjoy attention
Welcoming it like an actor
Would accept a standing ovation,
Gratefully and gracefully.
Never stopping or slowing down,
He paraded with a swagger
Making passerby to think
What, and who, and where, and why.
What a timely picture to post! It’s like your friend knew, and I’m glad you took the bait! I love the dramatic diction–“actor” “ovation” “paraded” “swagger” that help create a mood of theatrics. I also had the same thoughts as the last line indicated. Thank you for sharing!
Leilya, I wonder what this gent would think if he knew there were people “out theer” writing and reading a poem about him. I think you’ve done an amazing job of capturing his personality from just this picture. I can see him clearly because of your poem.
This got my first laugh of the day, Leilya. I think we can all recall seeing such a joyful character ‘just appear’ in our lives – and today, it was most welcome. Perhaps the how – How is it they find us when we most need a smile? Thank you for sharing this!
Leilya, loved your ekphrastuc poem! Great job capturing your subject…your last sentiment was so apt. ❤️
Love the photo and the poem. They complement each other so wonderfully. And yes – I think he would accept a standing ovation. Maybe his intention is to brighten everyone’s day! Thank you!
Leilya, what a great poem about this eccentric man. You have some wonderful lines and descriptions, like that verb here: “He paraded with a swagger”
“Would accept a standing ovation” too.
I love the colors of his clothes, (you described them well, so the poem can stand alone without the photo, but it is fun to see him too.)
I am very inspired by Charara’s poem. It’s crazy to me that every single person I see has a life just as complex as my own. When on campus, I often recognize people I do not know, and sometimes I wonder about them–what is their story? The reality is that I can’t know everyone’s story, but I should still remember that every person has one.
I love that Charara captures how even people we don’t know can have an effect on us. Using this inspiration, I wrote this poem about a fellow student I sometimes see on my way to class:
The Woman I Sometimes See on my Way to Class
On my way to class, sometimes I see you.
Dark hair shaved close to your head,
Bright lipstick and bold eyeliner,
Every day a different outfit.
One day, a black dress, pink coat, black boots.
Another day, a red coat with a black beret and checkered skirt.
The next day, bright yellow pants, gold hoop earrings, and red high heels.
And every day after, another combination of cool, bold outfit choices.
I have a friend who once told me:
60% of people usually wear typical clothes (like me).
30% of people usually wear one item of clothing that is not typical.
10% of people have a different approach.
For 10%, their style is so individual, so them,
So unique and not typical.
They may be the thrifters, the menders,
The fashionable, the stylish,
Unapologetically themselves in bright outfits,
High heels and skirts.
Fellow student,
I see you.
If my friend is right,
You are one of the 10%.
When I see you on my way to class,
I don’t know you, or your life, or your name,
But I know you have the confidence to
Wear the clothes that bring you joy.
I see your confidence.
And your confidence inspires me.
Karin, I love your entire poem beginning with the outfit descriptions. My favorite lines are: “ But I know you have the confidence to
Wear the clothes that bring you joy.”
Thank you for sharing!
Sorry, Larin, for misspelling the name. I didn’t notice the autocorrect altered it before hitting the post button. 😊
Larin, this is a fun one. I too, have a handful of people I “know,” but don’t really know. You are making me wish I had written about one of them. I am intrigued by this formula your friend gave you. Thanks for sharing your vivid images today.
Absolutely! Even if the confidence just inspires us to feel lifted in that moment, then that is inspiration enough. I can remember seeing such students, and at some point in my life, I just started walking up to them and introducing myself, telling them – simply and truthfully – I just liked their look – that they looked cool. Turns out I met several who continued to be good friends through the years. Sometimes, we absolutely can judge a book by its cover, and it’s okay!
Love how your poem building. I like the descending percentages. She is a rare find. She is confident and willing to be noticed. She doesn’t care what people think. She wears her art on her sleeve! I love how you captured her so perfectly.
Larin, what a joy-filled poem. I can see this lovely flower on your campus. I love that she brings you confidence, as well.
Tyshelle
By Mo Daley 3/21/23
She flounces into the classroom,
all 5 foot 9 of her
as she towers over the other
sixth graders.
Her black rhinestoned hoodie proclaiming,
“Best Momma Ever”
never fails to bring a smile to my face
while I wonder if her mom
is wearing a
“Best Daughter Ever” hoodie
today
This is a perfect little snapshot because it leaves me with just enough information to paint a picture in my head, but it leaves me knowing there’s more to Tyshelle. Thank you for sharing because she sounds pretty awesome.
Bahahaha! I always have to wonder if those “best ever” emblem wearers buy their own or if they are gifted. Love the word “proclaiming” here along with the visual of rhinestones against black and ‘flounces.’ This snapshot is voluminous. I can see this person filling the room as they enter. Nicely captured here, Mo.
Oh, my, goodness. I love Tyshelle from this little snippet. I wonder if she stands up straight and tall, too. I bet. I had a friend, 6’2″ now; I don’t know what she was in grade 6, but she slumped a bit. She didn’t have the confidence that Tyshelle seems to have.
Inspired by Stacey Joy’s Poem
Hello!! Anybody There?
“Good Morning”
(Crickets)
When someone speaks, it is polite to respond.”
“What is weather?”
(Crickets)
“We only read one sentence. (Reads text again.)
So, what is weather?”
(Crickets)
Hello!!!! Is Anybody There?
When I ask a question, someone should respond.
(Crickets)
(A day in the life of this 2nd grade teacher.)
Donets, very funny! I can have the same crickets with students a lot older. Love the Hello!!!! Is Anybody There? Great poem!
Well – those same 2nd graders must grow up and end up in my college classroom – ! I certainly do have those days. Just, as a matter of fact, such a lump of collective grump in my class, I made them play Exquisite Corpse to start the day – drawing creatures. It turned the whole mood of the class around. Absolutely nothing to do with writing, but everything to do with creativity and belonging, and they loved it. I hear ya. And I would always respond if I were in your class!
Donnetta, this sounds like the day after they all had a late night! I’m guessing some days can be like this and others full of sharing and nonstop talk. What is the difference, I wonder?
Very cool prompt! Reflecting on the impact that others have on us, and then thinking about how we may play that same role for someone else is a pretty humbling experience.
The Pedestrian
I see her when I’m running late.
So, most days.
She run-walks towards her
unknown destination.
Where is she running to?
What is she running from?
That remains unknown…
I just know that as
I go this way,
she goes that.
On the bright Spring morning,
she scoots by in a mini-skirt,
Waiting at a red light on a cool
September day,
She crests a hill in an
orange and auburn sweater.
A pelting rain
finds her in a clear plastic
babushka, and I’m compelled
to stop and offer and umbrella
but she’s too fast
and an umbrella would slow her
down, anyways.
On a snowy winter day,
when school should have been cancelled
I don’t see her, but i do see a set of
footprints which I find strangely reassuring.
I know that I remain anonymous,
a commuter, a car at a stoplight,
one among many,
but her presence on mornings
is one of the few dependables
that anchor my days amidst so many
unknowns.
Dave,
As I read your poem, I could almost see your pedestrian in my mind. She reminds me of jogger is see most mornings. I just realized I’ve seen her jog up the street for almost 2 years, Thanks for the imagery.
Dave, I really enjoyed how this stranger’s presence adds an anchor to your day. Loved the color details of the girl’s clothes which could easily be visualized. Great action details too!
Dave, this poem is so cool because you show the questions we sometimes ask about people we recognize but do not personally know. It’s interesting to ponder these people and wonder what their lives are like. I love how you used different imagery with what she wears for different weather: sweater, babushka, mini-skirt. Thank you for sharing!
Thank you, Dave, for the poem. I appreciate how you narrated your pedestrian during various seasons and weather patterns. I love the imagery of “a clear plastic babushka” and imagine you running with an umbrella toward her.
Love this poem – especially –
I don’t see her, but i do see a set of
footprints which I find strangely reassuring.
You make us see this girl and want to uncover her mystery!
Thank you!
Dave, what a great poem. I love how you have become used to this stranger. “strangely reassuring” “one of the few dependables” and the idea of offering her an umbrella, “but she’s too fast” cracked me up. Nice image you have given us.
I love the prompt and both examples! Thank you for the wonderful inspiration.
Me, at the end of lunch,
dashing to the ladies room.
You, curled in the corner of the staircase
pressed against the slightly tinted glass
leaning into the mote-filled sunbeam
cascading through the panes
and creating abstract shadows
on your hoodie
pulled so far over your face.
I wish I had the time
to sit in your place,
basking in the sunlight
like a cat soaking up the warmth
and ignoring the siren calls
of responsibility, obligation,
and passing strangers.
Cara. I love the picture you painted here! <3
Cara, what a sweet thought–the hoodie pulled down, not a care in the world. Those days are gone, but I love that you remembered. It would be nice to sit “basking…like a cat soaking up the warmth” in the middle of the day.
Cara, I love the juxtaposition you’ve created between the “dashing” in the first stanza and the “leaning into the mote-filled sunbeam” and the “basking in the sunlight / like a cat soaking up the warmth” in the following ones. “[T]he siren calls / of responsibility, obligation, / and passing strangers” are, indeed, strong, loud, and insistent at times, aren’t they? Thank you for writing and sharing this!
Cara, I love this imagery of the person sitting in the light of a window. I want to soak up that warmth, too!
Perfection. I love the simile of the “cat soaking up the warmth” because I felt tempted to ignore responsibilities today. Alas, those sirens call! Thanks for sharing!
Cara,
You painted a wonderful picture. I too want to hop into that window ledge and soak in the sunshine with both of you.
Thanks for sharing today.
Katrina,
Thank you so much for the cool topic for today. I loved both of the model poems: each truly brought a tear to my eye.
Your prompt made me think of a man who walks the roads of our small, rural town. I know him only as Marty, and he walks for miles into town and back lugging huge bags of cans with him. He’s enigmatic and little intimidating to me, and I wonder if I’ll ever be bold enough to offer him a ride. I decided to use a palindrome poem form.
“Marty”
Jesus.
Here he is again.
Marty, the can man.
Walking our streets, a bag
full of cans against tanned, lean back.
Same time, each day, I pass; he turns, stares: “J’accuse,”
his dark, piercing eyes say, as – once more, once again –
I avoid gifting a lift into town, though he has walked
literally miles to get to where he is.
Why
Is he? Where to get to? Miles, literally. Walked
he has though town, into lift. a gifting. Avoid I,
again, once, more, once, as say eyes: Piercing.
Dark. His. J’accuse. Stares, turns he.
Pass I day, each time, same back lean. Tanned
against cans. Full bag, streets –
Our walking man…can.
Marty. Again.
Is he here:
Jesus?
Wendy, what an interesting palindrome poem. I haven’t tried this before. The second stanza is really compelling to read with the odd syntax. That Why in the middle is provocative too.
Wendy,
It took me a minute to catch on to the second stanza, but how cool that you made it work! Love this: “he turns, stares: “J’accuse,” / his dark, piercing eyes say.”
Wow, this palindrome works so effectively! The word choice that describes the action and Marty add imagery and sound. Very compelling poem!
Katrina, you must have wanted to go in and make sure he was safe. I can’t imagine. I love that you were someone who cared, and I’m sure your student knew that.
I struggled today because we were out on the picket lines at 7:30a.m. in the freezing cold and nonstop rain! My district superintendent doesn’t want to listen so we have to fight the hard way…3-day strike for now.
I didn’t intend to write this but I believe it needed to be written. My class this year is more than a challenge so here is my take on “seeing the stranger.”
Hello, Anybody There?
You ever have “that” class
the one with clusters
of cliquey close friends
at every table group
and you’re the outsider
looking in with care
trying to shift their focus
but they don’t see you
because all their eyes
stick to is the screen
© Stacey L. Joy, 3/21/23
Stacey, I heard about the strike from my friend Julieanne who teaches in San Pedro. Did y’all meet at the dinner? I’m so sorry you are going through this sh… Your poem is just right. “That” class can be so hard for someone new to break into. Reminds me of Jackie Woodson’s book Each Kindness.
I am the “someone new” and I am not breaking in at all. It’s just not working this year. Not sure what it is but it’s icky. I read Each Kindness every year, one of the many Woodson books my class gets to enjoy.🤗
I remember Julieanne from the dinner, yes. I can’t believe we are back at this again and it’s not even OUR contract. Long road ahead.
Stacey, you’ve mentioned “that” class before. I can’t believe it’s almost over. They are missing out. I hope they will see you before the year is over, and grow into next year all the more ready to learn. My sister has a friend working as a support teacher in your district, she is not paid enough for what she does, and she’s been their 18 years! I hope the pays off and soon.
Stacey, so sorry that this year has been rough. I know it will be better and that doesn’t help in the moment. Know that you are loved and that you are a tremendous teacher with so much to offer. Hugs.
Stacey, so often your poems evoke memories of times and places that make me wonder. Was I the good or bad influence in that setting? So, to keep from having to be that worrier, your poem makes me want to be more alert to the times I can be the stranger who made the stranger feel better that day.
Stacey—so hard to take, I know. “they don’t see you” who raised these children to be so hurtful?
Stacey, I’m so sorry you are having challenges in your district but I’m
glad you are speaking up. You raise such a great point about being seen and heard and what it feels like when that does not happen
Stacey, boy, do I feel this, this year. Just not clicking with many of my AP Lang kids like I usually do at all, for the first time ever, and the scenario you paint here captures it perfectly. Thank you for sharing this today, and good luck with your strike: Solidarity! <3
I hope that the labor issues get settled quickly. I commend you for taking action and standing in solidarity with your coworkers. That’s a difficult power move to make. Respect.
I really identify with your poem today. Being the outsider is so tough. Trying to find a point of entry and still being shut out. Your poem captures that feeling perfectly.
Good luck with the strike! Yes, I completely understand the classroom you’ve described! The word screen says it all!
Hi, Stacey, sending you hugs 🤗 Sorry, you are dealing with “that” class. Hope next year is much more enjoyable.
Stacey, I’m in agreement with everyone else here! I’m so sorry you “have to fight the hard way” with your district superintendent! You’re fighting the good fight! (And “that” class is, sadly, one class that seems to get around. I’ve had them, too!)
Stacey,
Ive been thinking about you and your brave colleagues. A strike is never teachers’ first choice. Your poem captures the essence of the number one communication concern I have for students: faves glued to screens. This is why I question the role of tech in schools.
Thank you, Katrina for hosting today. Your poem and the mentor poem are both fantastic. I can feel your concern for your student. We often cannot imagine the lives our students live. My poem is based on the book I Must Betry You by Ruta Sepetys, which focuses on the oppression Romania suffered under Nicolae Ceaușescu’s brutal regime.
Betrayed
shadows shiver in alleyways
where ghostly specters loom on tenement walls
listening to every word
that might speak dissidence
informants coerced to report
hide in the open, taking note
desperate to survive
without food or heat
our ashen hearts
fear each other
mother, father, sister, brother
bewildered strangers living together
numbness seeps through
every word we dare to speak
someone please hear our desperate cries
our leader’s lies before Romania dies
Barb Edler
21 March 2023
Barb, I remembering studying this oppressive regime in college; I am not familiar with Ruta Sepetys’ book, and I will look into it. These lines jumped out at me
I am reminded about how totalitarian governments work best when they turn neighbor against neighbor, creating strangers of us all.
“hear our desperate cries,” as we watch this hell unfold elsewhere in our world…
Barb,
How chilling and scary! Your opening lines immediately pulled me in.
This breaks my heart:
So chilling. Haunting. You set the tone up from the very first word “shadows”.
Barb, this stanza is heartbreaking to imagine a world where this would be true:
Oops…that got away from me. This stanza…
Ashen is an amazing adjective there.
Bewildered strangers living together— what a sorrowful statement of life…
Barb, I love that you made a great book recommendation and that you wrote a poem about the book. I think students would enjoy this and writing to themes in the book. You have a wonderful me for text to show how they might respond.
Barb, this was so haunting and sad, but beautiful. Your beautiful imagery! Thank you for sharing this eloquent poem today. <3
Barb,
Im glad to revisit your poem st the end of the day and continue thinking about its haunting ideas.
Yet,
again,
I admit
that
the
stranger
is,
indeed,
the self
when I
realize
I know
I must
have
memorized
my PIC
number
at one
time
or other,
but
here I
am,
yet,
again,
thumbing
through
my Evernote
app
so I
can
fill out
this
stupid
PD form.
____________________________
The PIC number is the “Personal Identification Code” unique to every Michigan educator for the Michigan Online Educator Certification System.
Scott, I love reading your poetry that comes from moments of your life. Stranger, as self. I sometimes think that about myself when I read something I’ve written months or years ago. Haha!
Scott,
This self-portrait is quite candid and concise yet speaking to our tech exploration this week, what it affords and constrains in the ways of being with memorized, thumbing, fill out. And it makes me think about the sort of PD that prompted the “stupide/PD form.”
Peace,
Sarah
Scott, your poem was easy to relate to as I’m constantly looking for passwords, etc. I could also feel the frustration and futileness of completing a PD form, forms I’m sure no one ever reads. Agggghhhh!
Scott, how frequently am I in the exact same place with my own apps, where “the stranger is indeed myself”? Your poem is spot on! I love how you have basically one word per line, as if I the reader am slowly, carefully looking for that darn password with you. Awesome!
Scott! Ha! You’re not alone. I can’t remember what I walked into another room to do and can’t even look it up on my phone. LOL. This is a fun poem and I appreciate you! I needed this today.
Cheers to a fellow frustrated PIC recaller! Stranger as self indeed.
Ha! I cannot do it. I’ve memorized my phone number, my social security number, and many others, but ask me my PIC and I draw a total blank. I have to look it up every ding dong time.
You are a member of a large and frustrated group! I love your slice of life poetry, my friend!!
Scott, this gave me a chuckle, as always…but, again, as it often the case, it was accompanied by a rueful grin as I recognized myself in your poem. 🙂
Scott,
I just love the way the form of your poem echoes the pointed self-recrimination at having forgotten the danged code (yet again). So often this is me, too, wracking my brain for something I should know by now. Wonderful tone and creativity, as you so often do.
Katrina, thank you for this prompt. I loved how you slowed down to see which house this beret-wearing boy would go into, and your Hoping the people there / Are good folks. I guess my poem was inspired by Charara’s, after 20 years, the regret of not saying something to this heartbroken woman. My regret happened just a few months ago.
Noor
On that rainy, windy day
We sat in the notary public office,
Waiting, all of us,
“Assalamu Alaikum,” my husband greeted.
“Alaikum Salaam,” her husband responded.
After more greetings,
and my husband’s Arabic was exhausted,
they switched to English and introductions, like
“We lived in Bahrain for eight years”
And “We’re Palestinian from Jordan.”
Her husband went on to ask if we missed bidets.
“Oh, yes,” my husband exclaimed,
“we had them installed the minute we moved back to the U.S.”
Noor sat quietly, eye averted, a bit shocked by the toilet talk.
But the topics changed,
and we all started passing time
Together.
We talked about sage in tea and sumac.
And where to shop for the foods they needed.
I shared a photo of my dear friend in Bahrain,
Who was also Palestinian from Jordan.
I showed some of the food she had served me,
And some of my attempts at making her recipes.
“I’ll cook for you,” she said.
They told us how Noor was a support teacher,
studying to try to pass the CBEST
so she could become a licensed teacher.
Then our notary came out, and we signed our paperwork.
Eventually, we left the office,
while they were still waiting for another office,
We left with hearty goodbyes and nice-to-meet-yous,
But none of us made any attempt to stay in contact.
This young couple,
who lived only an hour from us.
This Noor,
this radiant light,
who had only been in this country for one year,
who may have needed language help,
who may have cooked for me.
I was the older woman, the white woman,
why didn’t I offer her my phone number?
Denise, it’s so hard, isn’t it? To do the right thing all the time, sometimes not even knowing what the right thing is or that there is a right thing to do. And the regrets that result linger. I appreciate the light you shone onto this moment, the light that you painted Noor in. And your images of different cultures that I will likely never experience are especially appreciated.
Denise,
Your poem opened my eyes to how one can have those regrets almost instantly. I think we all have moments that we look back on and think, I should have offered them my number or email. When we sit back and wish we would have tried harder to make a stronger connection or to just stay connected over time.
Thank you for sharing today.
Denise,
I think a mentor text like Charara’s has such potential to support us/writers in surfacing poems from past moments. The taking us into a scene and ending with an utterance that could have changed the present is a simple, powerful craft move, and you use it so, so well.
I was in the rhythm of of your scene and the encounter with the couple. I was remembering your poem about spics and your language lessons in other poems. I now have an image of your husband and have seen his gentle way of being (and generosity at the airport). And I am just enjoying every line.
Then, the scene ends for me, the reader, but it hasn’t for you, and that speaks to the power of a moment and a poem. What to do with this question at the end: “why didn’t I …” ? And I imagine there may be another poem answering this in some way. And I am thinking of the same question for me and scenes from my life: why didn’t I?
Thank you,
Sarah
Denise, your poem completely pulled me into this scene. Your ending was provocative and sad. It’s easy to forget to ask for things like a phone number when you’re just meeting someone and dealing with official business. Your honest, straight-forward voice is compelling.
I can hear your painful second-guessing; I’ve been there/done that. Think, though – what a beautiful time you had together, however short. I love the words “This Noor, this radiant light”…perhaps that light will cross your path again, one never knows.
Your poem was a relatable story. We meet strangers every day. What makes us reach out, give a card with our number and email. Did you not because of a racism you don’t normally feel? I don’t want to think this, but perhaps we all need to take a harder look at ourselves in this way.
Good question, Margaret. I know I thought of racism afterwards. Racism and privilege and white supremacy is why I put the white woman in that poem. I would like to think it wasn’t that as much as being embarrassed that maybe they wouldn’t be interested, but that would have been fine too, right? She wouldn’t have had to use that number and reach out. As soon as we were driving home, I thought of her parents who were so far away. I was the older one in that situation, and I should have been acted like a mom after our good connections. I hope I learned my lesson and won’t do it again when I feel a nudge. Like Maureen said, maybe our paths could cross again. That would be awesome.
Denise, I have so many regrets like this too – not connecting when opportunities were there and the ball was in my court to extend the hand. I often have wished paths would cross again to allow me to rethink the second time. Perhaps you will see them again!
Denise— this is beautiful. And the regret is real. In the passing of the moment, it slid by. And you could not go back, although you would have, if you had only thought. How often kindnesses pass by accidentally. Your story touched me. Your last line made me want to cry…
Denise, what a lovely narrative that pulled me right along with it in its wake. Loved the details that made it so evocative of time and place and so imagistic. And your last image. Beautiful poem!
Denise, your poem evoked so many thoughts and emotions for me. Firstly, it’s so cool that you connected with this young couple and got to talk with them about the way of life and culture that I am sure they miss. I hope this made them feel seen and understood–or as much as possible in a different country and culture. I’m sure you and your husband brightened their day. I also see your regret in the final lines. I hope your paths cross again someday!
Denise,
I believe it is not to late to try and find this stranger and begin a friendship. Your poem builds in suspense. The dialogue gives it immediacy. The ending is sad and regretful. How did you answer the final question in your heart?
Thank you for sharing this story, Denise! I read it and didn’t want it to end, so I could learn more about you, your husband, and the young couple. Your ending question is relatable. Often, I offer help and/or a phone number and make the first step, but sometimes people’s reaction is strange. There is no way you acted as a white privileged woman. Maybe, you just didn’t want her feel as a needy one. 🤗
Katrina,
I love the mentor poem and prompt. I find your poem haunting and touching and sensitive. I hear your voice and love of students after listening to your video last night. Today I’m visiting my grandson and trying to balance that w/ poeming and blogging w/ TWT and fulfilling commenting obligations, which I think are vital to conversation and community.
My Grandson in Black Boy Faces
1963
i stared at the black
boy sitting at the
back of the bus
not knowing i’d
bounce a black
boy like him on
my knee one day.
1978
i kept my heart
from the black boy
who loved me, not
knowing i’d hold
a black boy like
him to my heart
one day.
2022
i marvel at
my black baby
grandson &
hug him to my
heart knowing
he’s all beautiful
black boy joy.
—glenda funk
march 21, 2023
Glenda,
I love how you dated each stanza. How you can show personal growth in a poem. How you can share you love and joy for a grandson you never thought you’d have and relate him to those from your past. From one grandma to another hold that baby boy close, love him, and enjoy each moment with him.
Glenda, after I read your poem, and reread it, I am struck with the title. Those other two black boys, with the years and strong memories. Who would have known you would be hugging your sweet grandbaby this week. Have a blessed time!
Glenda,
The title had me going to all sorts of possibilities before I began to read and even in the first few lines. I was bracing myself for something else entirely, and then exhaled slowly after the first stanza, inhaled just as slowly with the second, and then smiled in the third toward “black boy joy” with the happy alliteration in the final lines.
Sarah
Glenda, I love how you formatted your poem to show the changes and to foreshadow the lovely grandson you now hold. Your last line is so tenderly wrought. “he’s all beautiful/black boy joy”. What a powerful and perfect final line.
Black Boy Joy for the WIN!! I adore every bit of this because it shows us how we never know what life is going to deliver to our laps! Pure joy!
Hugs!
I adore the repetition of “holding a black boy like him to my heart,” in each stanza; it feels like the happy bounce on the knee that lucky you, grandmother, get to have! I hear your joy radiating throughout this poem.
The dates on the stanzas is effective. I wrote a book about a biracial child. My sister has biracial children. I’ve always wanted to hold a black child who was my own. I’m glad you have one to love.
Glenda, this is pure joy! The movement through time in years and your feelings at various stages of your life show the love that grows as you look into the face of the purest love on the face of this earth – a grandbaby! This just simply melts my heart as I imagine the bouncing baby on your lap and your admiring eyes!
Oh,Glenda. How times Cha be. And that beautiful black boy has stolen your heart. How times change, and isn’t that a wonderful thing? Hug that black boy joy close!
Glenda, I loved the structure, how each was its own small story, and the repetition really worked in a lovely way for emphasis. Love this.
Katrina, I love Charara’s poem and yours for the empathy they evoke. Noticing is the common factor…there’s a beautiful regret in Charara’s poem for not having made some gesture of comfort, and true concern in yours, also beautiful. I love this invitation to capture the image of a stranger that keeps resurfacing… at last, I write this one. Thank you-
Vagabond
Driving along
a deserted road
in a deluge
in the dark
my hands gripping
the steering wheel
for dear life
I see him
in the headlights
there, ahead
on the right
standing, bent,
in the sheeting rain
thumb held out
—how can I
not stop?
Rain beats
the car roof
like a drum
as he flings open
the door and
slides into the
passenger seat.
“Thanks,” he says.
He’s wearing
layers of clothes
a sodden cap
over straw-like hair
sporting
a scraggly beard.
“Sure,” I say.
“Where are you going?”
He looks at me
for a peculiar moment:
“The better question is
where are YOU going?”
His eyes
(maybe it’s just my
overactive imagination)
are silvery
in the darkness.
“H-h-home,” I stammer.
“Then I’ll ride as far
as you’re able to
take me,”
says the stranger.
“How old are you,
anyway?”
What does it matter?
“Eighteen,” I say.
“You mean
that you have lived
to be eighteen
and no one
has told you
not to pick up
strangers?”
I blink.
“It’s raining…it’s
such a bad night…”
I start
but as I speak
I can hear
Grandma’s voice
reading a favorite
book to me
when I was small
(Never Talk to Strangers!)
and what
she always says
at our parting:
Take care of your
precious self…
he finishes:
“It could be
an even worse night.
You don’t know
what some people
might do.
There are a lot
mean people
in the world.
It isn’t safe
for you to
stop alone
like this.
If you let me off at
the next intersection,
it will be enough.”
I blink.
I drive on
to the next
intersection,
a well-lit place
where he opens
the door:
“Thanks for
the ride.
But don’t
pick up
any more
strangers,”
he admonishes.
The lights change
a horn blares
I’m only dimly aware
for watching
open-mouthed
as the vagabond
absconds
into the
rain-cloaked
night.
I blink.
Now I see him
now I don’t
as I take
the last turn
for home.
The suspense was killing me in this poem. Now I see him – now I don’t. Whew! I’m glad she is alright!
Fran, I have had to resist the urge to help strangers traveling alone, especially in bad weather. I kept waiting for the thing (any thing) to happen and am so glad you made it through safely. We have to fight the stereotypes that surround us but still be smart about it – the challenge for sure! Your suspense building skills are spot on!
Oh, Fran, I guess that stranger would stay a lifetime with you. An angel, perhaps. What a story of intrigue, danger, safety, and lessons.
Fran, your poem is a chilling narrative. It’s as though he meant ill intent but decided agains it with you. Your words etch the scene so vividly. I was completely pulled into the car, the rainy night, the hitchhiker’s admonishment. I always want to pick up hitchhikers. It really bothers me knowing that it isn’t wise, but I do want to help them get to where they’re going.
Gorgeous storytelling, so suspenseful. Wouldn’t the world be a better place if we were all 18 and ready to challenge all the fear and suspicions we’d ever been taught? My goodness. I loved the ‘vagabond’ lecturing, ‘…don’t pick up anymore strangers.’
How important it is to SEE the stranger; all these poems today are giving me chills!
Fran, somehow the pouring rain was the game changer. I think even if he had t had his thumb out I would have offered in weather like that. I’d have picked him up too – and I would’ve heard my grandmother’s voice of warning too. This was suspenseful and heartwarming all at once. I’m glad you are okay. And I hope he found his way. This was a nail biter today!
Fran, this poem!!
Love, love, love.
Your pacing. The dialogue. I read it with my eyebrows just about raised to my widow’s peak and my heart in my throat. This was terrific.
Fran, this is so good! Very suspenseful! I was agreeing with the speaker’s Grandma the entire time, dreading what was going to happen to this eighteen-year-old! I also loved the surprise at the end with the “‘Thanks for / the ride. / But don’t / pick up / any more / strangers,’ / he admonishes.” I really enjoyed this!
Thank you for a wonderful prompt. This reminded of a student that i coached when i first started teaching. He was a vibrant student. He then went into the military and was wheel chair bound when he returned. He was never the same and his mind took his body to heaven in 2013.
A Shepherd of Change
Look at him sitting on our streets,
With bags of trash around his bare feet.
Begging for change,
Unnormal, worthless, and strange!
His mind is deformed like his legs,
As he sits on concrete and begs and begs.
Spit and dirt become his comfort zone,
Citizens pass him by and leave him alone.
He eats bugs and scraps out of a can,
Fought for his country, he thought he was “the man”.
Now he dwells in despair of his effort,
His only companion is “Jesus”, a stray German Shepherd.
He looks at each passerby,
Blessing them, as they wish him to die.
He is fully aware of his mental state,
Justifying their blessings on the lives he had to take.
He wonders if it’s true about the pearly gates.
And questions how much longer will his life take?
As his dog curls up next to him,
He sees a dove on an oak limb.
The dove flies to his shoulder,
Whispers in his ear, you’ll never grow older.
Startled, he opens his eyes,
There he sees “Jesus” in disguise.
Dressed in a white rob, with a flowing beard,
Surrounded by spirits that cheered.
Your home! your home!
All your ailments are now gone, they’re gone!
Rejoice with us on our golden street,
We have caviar and ostrich meat.
How delighted he felt,
Upon his hand, he knelt.
“Jesus” I should’ve known all along,
You were right beside me, even when I felt I didn’t belong.
Praying
As he touched his soft beard,
Unfortunately, his German Shepherd reappeared.
And
A plastic dove rested beside the road,
A daily reminder of his story retold.
A group of kids were giggling loud,
His awkwardness had drawn a crowd.
They laughed at the man talking to his pet,
Dirty tears flowed down his face with regret.
Hunger endorphins took him to where he wanted to be,
But sidewalk insanity is his reality.
Only
A stray dog and a plastic dove,
Release him to peaceful, everlasting love.
But
Never does it change,
It spreads violently like Jesus’s mange.
Everyday nobody cares,
Delusional,
his life he cannot bear.
An illusion of peace,
A delusion of his life to cease.
Begging for change,
Not money, CHANGE.
-BOXER
Boxer – your rich imagery and your rhyme are absolute marvels.There are too many like this man on the street (like your former student) and the not caring. Many lines struck me deeply but none as powerfully as the last two, Begging for CHANGE and what that really means. I am awed.
Oh, wow, Boxer. This is really heavy. “Begging for change” the transformational kind. This poem will make me stop the next time I see someone begging, and re-see the person. Thank you for sharing.
Boxer, this is such a remarkable view that shows insight into his plight. Sometimes those who understand the most suffer the most when the world feels overwhelming, as I’m sure this vibrant student of yours felt. I’m reminded of Polacio’s White Bird, which I just finished, in your words today.
These rhyming couplets drew me in so softly, wrapping me up in this man’s trials…what a sad, sad story. What a beautiful way to share it.
Good Morning,
Thank you for this fun prompt. I really enjoyed thinking about a student this morning. I don’t really know the student well. They come almost everyday and sit in study hall, I’ve only heard the student speak once.
Bulky Headphones
Bulky headphones
Sitting giggling often loud
Not caring who hears
Bulky headphones
What do you watch over there
That causes such joy
Bulky headphones
Hopefully your joy stays
With you rest of day
I love this image of a student in his own head, his own world, tuning out all distractions.
The repetition of “bulky headphones” is very effective. It gives me the image of these headphones being larger than normal. I like that they are giggling and not caring who hears.
DeAnna, this is a delightful bit of wondering. I, too, wonder what brings such joy to this student. The world needs more joy – and noticers and well-wishers like you!
I love this! You see the student clearly and I am willing to bet the student sees you too!
💙
DeAnna,
You perfectly captured this student–I saw him the other day giggling away without an ounce of care for who saw. Oh that we could all feel that joy!
I feel the joy of the bulky headphones!
We educators are heading into Spring, and we know we’ll see lots of this.
Justifiable Pride
Is it *chutzpah or pride
I see in your stride
Strutting with your shoulders thrown back?
Dealing with that group took a lot of tack.
Now you’re heading back to your shack.
You’re proud of that shack that sits out back
Of the mansion where your parents work.
They’ve taught you, “Do right. Work hard. Don’t shirk,
And you’ll make it to the top of your class.
Well, maybe not the top. Just don’t stop!”
Now, finally, they say, “At last, at last,
You’re getting your degree.” They sat in the crowd with glee.
“See,” they say, “That’s our daughter up there.
Look at that gal. She’s going somewhere.
But her heart will always be here.
Our Little Sweetie! She’s such a dear!
*Yiddish for “extreme self-confidence or audacity.”.
Anna, I love your use of the term “chutzpah.” I can imagine you encouraging young people who face so many odds.
Anna, I can’t hear The Graduation Song or Pomp and Circumstance without tearing up and thinking of the milestone of graduation, moving to the next steps, and what all of this means. The pride, the chutzpah, the anxiety and all that comes with that strut is full of a mixture of so many feelings.
Anna,
Ylur poem has swag. It’s marching across that stage, collecting that diploma right up there w/ the graduate.
Oh, this Little Sweetie. I love those parents in your poem.
Katrina,
I certainly identify with your poem. We’ve all had those students who stick with us long after they have moved on. These lines: “Hoping the people there/Are good folks” — resonated with me. I’ve wondered the same about some of my students.
Your prompt was perfectly timed for me as I am writing a scene in middle grade verse novel in which the protagonist is trying to discover the reason the new girl (Ruby) in town is always absent from school. I was literally just getting ready to tweak some details when I read your prompt and decided to post what I was already working on.
We Screech to a Halt
bumping into each other behind the thick trunk of a massive oak, “Ouch!”
Inconspicuous, we are not.
“I think we need to work on our sleuthing skills,” Finn says.
Don’t know what we thought we’d discover
because
we only see a small house, tucked between other smallish houses
peeling lime green paint, curling in the humidity,
a cracked front window, dark curtains drawn,
shutting out waning summer light,
a sad sagging front porch,
and front-lawn-weeds racing to out grow grass.
Suddenly,
I feel foolish.
What did we think we would discover?
We are not any closer to solving Ruby’s mysterious absences.
And Ruby is absent again the next day, and the next,
and the next.
Where are you, Ruby?
Tammi, now I am ready to read the rest of the story. Your contrast of light and darkness helps us imagine the seclusion Ruby must be enduring and wonder why.
Tammi, this peeling green paint, curling, with windows drawn and the sad front porch all play into the shutting out not only from the inside, but answers you seek from the outside. I often wonder, too, about the chronic absentees. Are they babysitting? Sick? Sleeping? Gaming? Sharing the one pair of shoes in the family? This sounds like a fantastic book, full of rich description.
Tammi, yay for you for working on a NIV and for posting a portion here. I love that these prompts can coincide with our work outside of ethicalela too. Your details are beautifully written (lime green paint, sagging porch, and the race for growth in the front yard). I’m also curious as to where Ruby is. I definitely want to read more.
Tammy, you have intrigued us. I can see that lime green house, “and front-lawn-weeds racing to out grow grass.” Glad the timing worked out for you to share this snippet from your latest work.
So now I’m pulled in; where’s Ruby?!? This has a great immediacy to it and calls into question how much we really know about the people that occupy our daily existence.
Just beyond the passenger door he
snapped the left pantleg’s rubber band,
tan canvas backpack dangling a stainless mug;
his head made a figure eight at the stoplight–
Vivaldi bliss or gratefully dead, NPR’s jingle?
So routined in his bike to work, he’d ride
literally rolling with it all, like the road
was part of his campus classroom
and the students he taught (philosophy?)
would soon skip alongside him, grooving.
I’d be listening to NPR–sort of. Likely
writing notes at this stoplight: the book
the NRP guest wrote, an idea for class,
reminders to check in with
Jodi about her mom, with
Sam about their missing journal.
I’d be sweating, my hair frizzing;
the canvas bag would be wet from
the water bottle I didn’t tighten, and
someone would be honking at me
to cross the street because the light —
oh, it’s green. Safe travels, professor.
Sarah, this feeling of getting caught up in the moment, of seeing something from the windshield and then realizing the light is green….what a way to bring us to the moment with you, to see the head making a figure 8 at the stoplight, the man on the bike, Grooving to the music. I like the “sort of” listening – – that preoccupation and the way we have to divide our wavelengths coming into our ears is so real, so understood.
Sarah, I enjoy the contrast you create here. We would think that the professor on the bike would be the one with frizzy hair, the one sweating. Instead, he is “rolling with it,” seemingly enjoying “Vivaldi bliss or gratefully dead, NPR’s jingle.” Sometimes, that stranger we see reminds us to put ourselves at peace.
The contrast is superb—as is the detail. I have always admired people like your bicycling professor. Where do they get their courage (and organization)?
Sarah, you have a way of describing that is so vivid and photographic, but using beautiful words instead of video. I’m sitting here with my “head [making] a figure eight” and I can hear his Vivaldi. His description in juxtaposition of your description of you is precious, and something teachers can relate to. Your outside observation of him and (possibly his students) grooving is such an interesting take. I wonder if he felt more like you inside. Hmmm.
Sarah, your poem is so vivid I feel as I’m the one behind the wheel. The way you describe the professor’s “figure eight” head is unique and precise. I can relate to those moments of thinking about everything that needs to be done. I am intrigued by your final italicized words: is the biker saying this to you or are you saying it to the bike-riding professor or are you saying this to yourself? Perhaps I am reading too much into the end, but I like it.
Sarah, right!!! I would be on the ground wondering what hit me. Thanks for affirming my half-listening to podcasts in the morning. 🤣
I love the tiny details the average person would have missed, but someone like you who’s studying the world around her sees it all!
Katrina, this poem by Hayan Charara immediately reminded me of a scene I witnessed last week when traveling; I had to write this poem today.
Two Strangers
One, Hayan Charara’s,
no longer on the subway,
she was at the airport counter, checking in
too late too late too late
I was witness to her raw pain
this young woman
how her shoulders trembled and shook
how her tears soaked her red scarf
how her voice clutched, stammered, wailed
I need
over and over the intercom had cackled
each of us knew this stranger
had missed her transatlantic flight
how many final boarding calls had there been?
I stared at her woundedness
looked into my lap
unable to look away unable to do anything
Two, to my right,
she set down her knitting
walked over stepped up
to the stranger at the counter
and simply put her hand on her back
to steady her
the counter agent asked
are you traveling with her
“No. I am here.”
reminding me
there is always
something
I could do
Maureen,
These lines are so vivid:
“how her tears soaked her red scarf
how her voice clutched, stammered, wailed
I need” —
and your last stanza is so powerful and hopeful too. A reminder that there is good in the world.
Maureen, what a feeling of anguish to realize she missed that flight. Oh, my heart weighs heavy even at her memory of this. At your memory of this. Yes, sometimes just being there for someone makes all the difference – to say everything will turn out okay.
Maureen, scenes like the one you describe give us hope. There are people like the woman you describe who “simply put her hand on her back to steady her.” There are people who “are here.”
Maureen,
The power of a simple touch, the importance of human connection. These are the heart of your gorgeous, yet sad poem.
Wow, Maureen, “No, I am here” with her hand on her back. What a powerful gesture and thing to say. I love what you learned from this kind stranger. And you are able to teach us through your experience. Beautiful poem.
Maureen, wow, you’ve caught a moment here that is absolutely priceless. I’ve been the one in tears before when missing a connecting flight. I love the end and your final lines: “reminding me
there is always
something
I could do”
Absolutely fantastic poem!
“No. I am here.” What a gift from one stranger to another. Your poem tells a beautiful story…
Katrina,
I have enjoyed seeing images of your walks with Millie on the Facebook and, after reading this poem, feel I am witnessing this scene of you slowing down with Millie to watch this beret move along the sidewalk. Lovely.
Sarah
Thank you for your kind words. I could easily have gotten carried away with “why the beret” or “why the hoodie” or “why the baseball cap?” That is for another poem, I suppose.
There are so many wistful stories for teachers to tell, so many students that we worry and wonder about years later. I searched my memory for a happy encounter to write about and, thankfully, stopped at this one. I taught in a small conservative community, where being different was a difficult thing for students. The encounter in this poem makes me smile every time I think of it.
Unexpected Places
My friend called.
“Want to go to a drag show?”
Why not? I thought.
First time for everything…
We dined,
toasted new adventures,
Settled into our seats in the small theater.
Three middle school teachers
of various ages,
liberally inclined
in a conservative town.
Intermission:
I came out of the restroom
and smiled at
the performer
waiting to go in.
“Mrs Sands?!”
they called out,
arms stretched for a hug.
I’m not sure which of us
was more shocked—
My former sixth grade student
or me.
Best reunion ever…
03/21/23
Gayle — I LOVE this. The student out of context…us out of context… a surprise and a delight when we settle in to that bond we have when we care beyond our exteriors. Wonderful! Just LOVE this. Maybe my favorite part was the “called out”… kids always call out when they have these moments of recognition …you were a teacher that mattered to this student…you definitely mattered! Yes! Thank you, Susie
I love, love this scene, Gayle, and thank you for sharing the image. I think my favorite line is “liberally inclined/in a conservative town” and how wonderful that there is a drag show for the liberally inclined teachers and “former sixth grade student” wanting to have some fun!
Wow! Gayle that last stanza! I’m so glad you were there for your former student. Your poem and picture made me smile!
Mrs Sands?!”
they called out,
arms stretched for a hug.
I’m not sure which of us
was more shocked—
My former sixth grade student
or me.
Best reunion ever…
Gayle, my first thought is: Gayle was a loving teacher and this is how we know!
I always hope that every former student we meet will be instantly pulled back into the warm and caring spaces we call our classrooms and all the fun memories come flooding back. The likelihood of you and your friends being at a drag show and running into a former student is probably ZERO. This was meant to be! I’m so glad it was a happy reuniting for all of you. I see the joy in their face!
🌺
Gayle, what a way to celebrate and embrace your student’s identity – I’m sure this will be a moment never forgotten by either of you.
Gayle, what a beautiful moment! And it is captured in film. “Best reunion ever…” Here, here!
Adore this, Gayle! What a wonderful encounter and just the perfect spin on what I’d anticipated would happen. It’s always delightful to run into students, especially unexpectedly. And you were in the right place at the right time for this one!
Gayle, what fun! Oh, my! The picture is the best. Nice way to wrap it up at the end. “Mrs Sands?” is precious.
Gayle, I love this story so much. The dialogue adds to the joy of the moment. Just as we don’t know our students completely, they don’t know us that well either. I can’t stop smiling thinking about the joy in this moment.
What a fantastic reunion! Such a wonderful surprise for both of you. Love your storytelling here.
Love this, Gayle! Great photo, too!
Well, as a ‘window gawker,’ I can say I’ve observed lots of scenes during late-night walks through the neighborhood. I always wonder what other people’s lives are like and make up all kinds of stories for them. This is one scene that stuck with me for YEARS. Thank you, Katrina, for the opportunity to turn it into something other than a ghosting image.
Supper in the Evening
I saw them through the open window
as I walked the quiet darkened streets
A mom, a dad, a son, a daughter
the perfect family.
It was 8 o’clock and they were
just sitting down to their supper.
Why are they eating so late?
I marveled slightly aghast.
We set the table at 6:00 each night
and by 6:30 those dishes
were in the sink for someone’s chore
to be washed.
I made up all kinds of scenarios:
They’re from California
and are three hours behind.
They come from overseas
where they do things differently.
They are the new trendy
kind of family where the old rules
don’t apply.
It wasn’t until my much later years
when supper came at seven and
sometimes eight and sometimes
not at all
that I recalled that family
sitting down together
the warm glow reaching
out through the darkness
and realized that time
had nothing to do with it.
Denise, I love how this poem about strangers shows how you’ve grown through the years. You’ve created such a sweet scene here. I bet those late night walk could be fodder for all kinds of poems!
Denise, I’ve often thought about the characters in books and how we see them every day – – they just haven’t been written in ink yet – – but they are in the stories of our minds, the imaginings we have, the wonderment of lives we don’t know. I like how you take us down that path today and let us peek into the windows of the families eating dinner.
Denise—as a fellow window-gawker, I can relate completely. I love the connection you make between your former self, and the present, and the understanding that love knows no time schedule…
Denise — I love the realization that comes in those last lines. Loved “time/had nothing to do with it.” And the “warm glow”… I’ve had many similar “ghosting” images that have stuck with me over the years. I will try to use one for my poem later on today. This is a lovely poem..so much heart. Mmmm…lovely. Susie
Denise,
I am a window gawker, too. Although mostly I’m looking for decorating ideas! LOL! I love the last lines of your poem and the mood you create. Even though this isn’t my family, I felt nostalgia for my own family time.
sitting down together
the warm glow reaching
out through the darkness
and realized that time
had nothing to do with it.
In the end, the togetherness is all that matters.
Denise, I think we make up stories for most people we see. Sometimes, as in your case, we find meaning to the stories even years later. It’s kind of magical that you “realized that time had nothing to do with it.” The power of story.
Denise, beautiful story you have told here about these evening suppers. I’m struck with the possible reasons for the supper “not at all”
Denise, your poem reminds us so subtle not to compare others to ourselves. There’s usually a good reason for the differences and not just when we sit down to eat supper.
Thanks for the poem that evokes that “teaching” without preaching.
Katrina— what a wonderful prompt. And that line “what house are you heading home to?” keeps repeating itself in my mind. Your hope that they are good folks…every teacher’s question. I am going to write now—searching for a happy memory—but wanted to respond immediately…
Thank you.
Katrina, this is so powerful. Your concern for your former student is real and palpable. They never realize how much we care – how we care years beyond the teaching. When my husband and I people watch, we often do this same thing – we watch and observe and wonder where this person lives, what that person does for a living, how folks live life. Your poem evokes the human curiosity about other humans and how they’ve carved life. What a brilliant and thought-provoking topic you have given us today! I’ve been haunted by a scene in a movie my whole life, and today your topic on seeing strangers led me back to that scene, to the people we think we know and the circumstances we can’t always see.
The Speed of Love
When I was little
There was this movie
A man and his chimp
Were best buds
The man gave the chimp
Treats to coax good behavior
Trust was built
At the speed of treats
Love at the speed of
Time together
And so it was
Until the scene
In the biohazard lab
Where the deadly spores
Diffused into the air
Where that door
Got stuck
And the double whammy –
the bomb was ticking
Tick tick tick tick tick
No one could
Break the code
or the glass
The man on one side
His best little buddy
stuck on the other
The fate of mankind
Hanging in the breeze
The camera panned
To the furrowed brow
To the moment of knowing
the heartsick feeling
in the man’s heart
But he had to do
What he had to do
The man dangled the treat
at the window
Pointed to the problem
directed his best little buddy
to detonate the bomb
The chimp pushed the button
Saving mankind
No more spores spewing
No more bomb ticking
Returned to the window
for his treat
for his good behavior
for saving mankind
But the chimp’s fate was sealed
He’d breathed the spores
Opening the door would only kill more
The camera panned to the
Man’s hand holding the treat
Against the glass
The chimp’s fingers feverishly
Trying to grasp it
Trying to grasp the treat
Trying to grasp the truth
The question mark on his brow
The tears in the man’s eyes
The grief in his heart
thud thud thud thud thud
And that was where the movie ended
But it has never ended
It still plays on
In a quiet chamber
Of my heart
Oh, my! What an amazing ending. Your use of the word “chamber” feels scientific somehow, but you’ve also managed to make me feel the love between the chimp and the man. Nicely done. Do you remember the title of the movie?
Mo, I would love to know the name of it. I was young and only remember the scene. Maybe someone in the group saw it too and will recognize it. I’m hoping.
Kim!!! Fellow animal-adorer… I think I will avoid this movie at all cost. A strong memory, powerfully told. “It still plays on…” wow.
Kim,
I wasn’t sure where this was going. As I was enjoying the line “Trust was built/at the speed of treats,” I did not anticipate the speed of events that would follow. This feels like an empath watching a movie — so real, taking up all the pain on the screen into the body, carrying the thuds for years. Empathy is a gift but is not always easy to carry.
Peace,
Sarah
Holy cow, Kim — You poured this out in a stream of anxiety. Being on one side of the glass and the chimp on the other… the bond that existed was so strong…the furrowed brow…the bond denied by a locked door with a window to let us look again and again. What a painful image. No wonder this stuck with you for ages…it is haunting and terribly sad. Maybe these images are markers that tie us to humanity and the threads that keep us knowing some things are terribly wrong and require us to replay images over and over so that we let out hearts be filled with caring. Maybe that’s sappy, but it’s how it made me feel. I can honestly say, you poem made my heart tense up and my breathing was halted–very effective delivery right here! Susie
Kim,
What a heartbreaking scene and poem! This stanza really got me. I could see it and feel it.
The camera panned to the
Man’s hand holding the treat
Against the glass
The chimp’s fingers feverishly
Trying to grasp it
I think if I’d scene this movie as a child, I would have cried for days.
Kim, your memory of the movie made me want to cry. I have a couple of memories of very old movies which have stuck with me. One was The Bad Seed. I don’t think Hollywood would make a movie like it today. (I hope not). The other featured a character named Pinky who was trying to pass as white. Did she, and what were the consequences? Regardless, the movie “never ended/ It still plays on/ In a quiet chamber/ Of my heart.” Thank you.
Oh, Kim. This is heartbreaking. I am grateful that I have not seen this movie. Your description of it is vivid and alarming and all the things that make me horrified. I remember feeling this way after watching Sophie’s Choice. Such a powerful poem today.
Kim, I commented om your blog and have finally made it over here to post and comment – your poem-memory sears my soul and will haunt me for some time to come. I can hardly bear the image of the chimp trying to grasp his treat beyond the glass, with his demise upon him…not that I have no sympathy for the man but the chimp’s not understanding… it breaks my heart. Whew. I don’t think I can ever watch this.There’s too much of an old yeller hair in it…
Kim, like Susie said, what drama. You played this well with the line length and indentations. My heart was racing as I tried to get to the end to see what was going to happen. I was just trying to search for the name of the movie, too, no luck. Like you said, I hope someone will recognize it.
Kim, your closing lines are incredible! I’m going to try to figure out the title of this movie.
Katrina, the space in between “late winter and not yet spring” seems the perfect landing spot to observe a stranger – someone recognized but not yet someone we quite know. Thank you for offering such an interesting prompt today. I am writing about someone who has stuck with me many months now.
Katella Ave, Nov 2022
I saw you across the street
before I crossed,
people stepping around you,
stepping out of their way,
taking quick glances
before diverting their eyes.
One man moved his wife away,
put his arm around her,
sheltering her from you
with his body
as if you were
something to be avoided,
something too difficult to see,
some thing.
You had slept on the street,
you, and your dog,
making a place, a space
between Disneyland
and the convention center.
I hesitated, just briefly,
as I neared,
astounded at how others
dismissed you,
astounded at
finding you here,
so close to the bubble
of the happiest place on earth.
But then you gave the dog a pat,
poured food onto the cement
and the dog gobbled it up,
and I knew,
I knew.
Anyone who cared
to care for something else
was someone
I’d be glad to know.
Jennifer, this is so touching and beautiful. The human condition exists in so many forms and shapes – – and oddly, there is more humanity than meets the eye in what we initially judge to be out of touch. This is profoundly moving, and I’m so glad you wrote about this today. NCTE? I wish I’d shared that glimpse with you.
Jennifer,
I found myself pleased to recognize this time and place and to know you were noticing. The final lines were a lovely closure to what could have been a spectacle for others and why you are a poet, teacher, and compassionate human seeing something else, a truth: “Anyone who care/to care for something else/was someone/I’d be glad to know.”
Sarah
Jennifer — I love the integrity here. You came eye to eye with a complex human being and recognized it….that against the man who “sheltered” his wife (OMG)…just made me want to scream. The use of the word “thing” “some thing” is so strategic. Too often people who are homeless are objectified and relegated to “this thing…this problem” and names are omitted, ignored, as if people who are homeless are out there choosing to be destitute or exempted from society. You have a big heart and a teacher’s understanding… I love that about you and your poetry. You see so much, you feel so much. Wonderful poem. Thank you. Susie
Jennifer,
This is such a beautiful poem.
These lines were especially powerful:
astounded at
finding you here,
so close to the bubble
of the happiest place on earth.
The juxtaposition between this man’s condition and Disney World really exemplifies our world today. Despite the horribly way strangers responded to this man, your final words:
“Anyone who cared/ to care for something else/was someone/I’d be glad to know” still left me feeling hopeful.
Jennifer, this poem is such a rich one. (Did you read Boxer’s poem yet?) “astounded at / finding you here,/ so close to the bubble / of the happiest place on earth” is powerful. I love the ending.
Jennifer, you completely pulled me into this scene. I could feel the uncomfortable behavior of the avoiders. The repetition of “ I knew” adds conviction to your poem. Love the end!
You occupied
an odd slot for
an educational
institution like ours
Smart, a maverick,
a ponderer of horizontal
moves, a questioner
of nearly everything,
but you were one
who never fit, residing
as you did in turmoil,
and I wonder if you found
your place
and if I did enough
to help you on your
way to wherever
your way has taken you
— Kevin, for CK
Residing in turmoil can describe so many of my students. Your last stanza is powerful and so true.
Kevin, this seemingly odd slot is universal for the reader. I’m thinking, “did he know him too?” And then I thought of another. And another – – wow! Well done. The continued wonderings of where folks have landed.
Kevin—“ I wonder if you found your place.” I think this is the thought/worry we all have about the kids who didn’t quite fit. And we always wonder if we helped…
Kevin — I loved the teacher in this poem…you have a keen awareness of CK, and CK is darned lucky to have had a chance to interact in the school with you. We always wonder “if I did enough”… I’m gonna say right here, you did a tremendous thing by actually SEEING CK when others surely did not. The memory here is evidence. I don’t know that we ever do enough, but we sure as heck start by seeing the individual. You clearly see. Your poem is indeed “for CK.” Susie
Kevin,
This reminds me of a student I once had too.
“Smart, a maverick,
a ponderer of horizontal
moves, a questioner
of nearly everything”
As teachers who care deeply about our students, I feel we will always be left to wonder if we did enough for those particular students.
Kevin, you did such a great job describing CK. Smart, a maverick, residing in turmoil. Beautiful reflection about him and wondering and keeping him in your heart these years.
Kevin, your lines “I wander if I…” occurs so often when we think about the strangers we pass or encounter. Did I even make eye contact and nod or smile? That may have made that person’s day … to have been seen and acknowledged.
Now, I’m wondering myself. Thanks a LOT!!!!!