Inspiration
Spring is here! Time for new life, growth and renewal. Think of the cycle of life (plant or animal), from its beginnings as a seed to full bloom to death.
Imagery is literally the representation of one thing by another. Look at the poem by Thanhha Lai and see how the Papaya Tree is the representation of her family on one hand and also is used to show how the perspective from which the members of her family view the tree (family) differs because of who they are in their birth order but also because of who they are in the world
Process
Use the entire life cycle process or any point in the process as inspiration to write about your family using strong imagery.
A Mentor Poem
Inside Out and Back Again by Thanhha Lai
Papaya Tree
It grew from a seed
I flicked into
the back garden
A seed like
a fish eye,
Slippery
shiny
black.
The tree has grown
twice as tall
as I stand
on tippy toes.
Brother Khoi spotted
the first white blossom.
Four years older,
he can see higher.
Brother Vu later found
a baby papaya
the size of a fist
clinging to the trunk.
At eighteen,
he can see that much higher.
Brother Quang is oldest
twenty-one and studying engineering.
Who knows what he will notice
before me?
I vow
to rise first every morning
to stare at the dew
on the green fruit
shaped like a lightbulb.
I will be the first
to witness its ripening.
Aida Salazar is a writer, arts advocate, and homeschooling mother whose writings explore issues of identity and social justice. She grew up in Southeast Los Angeles where she spent many days sitting in little puddles of water on cement believing she was in the ocean. Her forthcoming debut middle grade novels in verse, THE MOON WITHIN, and THE LAND OF THE CRANES, and her debut picture book, JOVITA WORE PANTS, will be published by Arthur A. Levine Books / Scholastic in Spring 2019, Spring 2020 and Fall 2020 respectively. Her story, By the Light of the Moon, was adapted into a ballet production by choreographer, Isabelle Sjahsam, and artist, Roberto Miguel, for the Sonoma Conservatory of Dance and premiered in April 2016. It is the first Xicana-themed ballet in history.
Aida, one of several features of this poem that stand out for me is the camaraderie and competition that that exists among siblings as suggested in your closing lines. The narrator obviously is proud of the older brother, but wants to be first a something. How typical!
Brother Quang is oldest
twenty-one and studying engineering.
Who knows what he will notice
before me?
I vow
to rise first every morning
to stare at the dew
on the green fruit
shaped like a lightbulb.
I will be the first
to witness its ripening.
Thanks so much for the prompt that encourages us to look at the natural world for metaphors to describe our families.
I’m tired today, so I went for a Blackjack!
Tree bends, blossoms, reaching
Skyward-like mom embracing
Her family lovingly
Mo — so sweet. I love the “skyward-like mom embracing.” We need to hold on (even though i am not a mom) to our loves.
CYCLE OF LIFE/FAMILY
When I read the USA Today story about
Wisconsin’s oldest known tree
I wept
Because I fear in my soul that
With the help of modern GPS and
Ancient rumors
Fate will send some narcissistic-cum-ignorant
Alpha predator carrying
An axe or the like
To track down this survivor
And destroy it.
I had a beautiful little brother
Who was as young
As cliffside trees are old
When Fate sent some narcissistic-cum-ignorant
Alpha predator carrying
A system full of alcohol,
What the papers called 3X Legal Limit
And what our family called
Blind drunk,
To hurl that sweet boy through
The windshield of a car.
So the only way I can think about
“Life, growth, and renewal” today
Is to hope against hope that
Somewhere in Wisconsin
A 1300-year-old cedar tree
Growing sideways from the rocky scree of
A roadside bluff
Stays stubby and scrawny
And unremarkable enough
To never attract the attention
Of Fate.
Jackie, your poem is achingly beautiful. I am so sorry we live in a world where a “narcissistic-cum-ignorant / Alpha predator” can rip a tree and a boy from family roots and that w/ all our so-called wokeness we’ve made it easier for them to do these things. Sadly, even the “stubby and scrawny / And unremarkable” are at the same risk as that ancient roadside tree.
Wow, Jackie. I’m so sorry for your loss. Your poem speaks to everyone who is processing grief. Thank you.
Jackie, Like Glenda wrote, this is “achingly beautiful.” My heart is throbbing as I repetition of the “predator” resonates again and again as a warning of what may come, and I, like you, hope the “sideways” beauty is lost on potential predators. You are an amazing poet.
Aww, Jackie— Geez, this just makes me so sad and mad. You’ve carried this beautifully here. The tree, the brother, both so deserving of life without the careless, predatory ways of some creep out there. I will forever think of your brother with this tree…. I have tears. ?. I know this was a hard poem to write and put out here…thank you for the honesty and grace you captured. Precious. Susie
This poem is one written to a similar prompt that I’m glad to revive and share today. You’ve met my Grammama already in a poem this week, so you shouldn’t be surprised that she returns for a second visit in
The Heart-Tree
There is a tree in my heart
Was it there at the start
Of my life as a wife and a mother
Through the cares and woes
And the joy that just goes
Along when one lives with another?
The trunk is my past
The part that will last
When the children have come and gone.
They are the branches –
Reaching out, taking chances
Outside in the world and the throng.
This tree in my heart I hope is a part
Of all I have known and still love.
It’s trite, but it’s true,
But, the growth’s due to you
Who grounded me in God’s love above.
What an amazing tribute to parents who rooted you in values and truths that you continue to pass on. I love your rhyme, rhythm, and message.
Anna,
You’ve really shown how your Grammama is at the heart and center of the person you’ve become. I like how you’ve compared your children to branches, reaching out from you. So nice!
Anna, I love the title of your poem. The rhyme replicates the beating heart of your grandmother. That first stanza shows how much strong women influence us even when we don’t realize it, except in retrospect. The image of a trunk tooting is in the past is lovely.
Anna, What I am loving about this month is how we are all coming to know one another. A month is enough time that we can begin to know one another’s families, preferences, humor, and beliefs. I so appreciate the line “This tree in my heart I hope is a part” for its truth, alliteration, and assonance. And the word “grounded” is just a powerful allusion to the tree’s roots and the roots that help us stand strong.
Growing Up on the Farm
Seeds sown in dark soil,
They germinate,
waiting for conditions of
warmth and light to lure
them to the surface.
Gradually their cotyledons push
through the fertile soil.
where they stand pale and bent.
Their unifoliate leaves curl tightly
upon a delicate stem
beneath the sun.
Gradually unfurling,
adding nodes and leaves,
they become sturdy:
Weathering wind
Suffering storms
Becoming beautiful
Now, at solstice,
one is in full-flower
while the other–
Is just beginning
to blossom.
My favorite parts of poems are generally the endings but yours is especially poignant as we see the generational promise of perpetuation of the growth. I love the growth if strength here –
Weathering wind
Suffering storms
Becoming beautiful
And the promise of the future here –
Now, at solstice,
one is in full-flower
while the other–
Is just beginning
to blossom.
Kim, your extended metaphor of the growth of seeds is so inspiring. We may plant the seed, but it is outside forces of light and warmth that nurture those seeds. That is good to remember as parents and as educators.
We educators may plant seeds; we may water seeds planted by others, and as I’d tell my high school students, when using this metaphor, some of us are the fertilizer! Of course the high school students recognized that if I was tough on them, they had to take the “—-” , if they wanted to grow. They’d nod and grin. (We discouraged profanity in the classroom, but they knew what this meant. )
Thanks for sharing.
Gail, Beautiful images of growth. The last stanza emphasizing the aging and birthing of plants, like all life, is my favorite. Also wonderful: alliteration in “Weathering wind” and “Suffering storms.”
[Note: The prompt took me to the egg…not exactly quite what the prompt may have intended, but it’s where it took me. Susie]
Starting and Finishing with the Egg
Mama was the egg in the batter
of the cake
that was my family;
she bound us
each to the other.
We mixed sweetly
at times,
fell loose
when temperatures weren’t quite right.
The eldest, the butter,
rich with flavor,
altering the rest of us for the better,
gave egg the reason
to pull us so definitively together;
she and Mama, the baseline
of the storied cakes of birthdays and holidays.
Middle child was that unusual ingredient
we couldn’t quite name:
the nuts that gave a fancy flair,
chopped pecans, ground pistachios,
sometimes smeared with coconut and brown sugar
to turn a cake upside-down,
enticing to some,
deadly to others.
Brother, that signature ingredient:
the sugary chocolate, the sweet cherry, the tart lemon,
could put the hum in humdinger cake.
The little one, the dash of salt
added at the end,
extracted a brightness.
Dad,
the big stir,
knew how to cut the cake,
divvy it up,
pass judgment on its worth.
The absence of egg
has changed who we are,
separated,
finding other recipes.
Where am I in this metaphor —
sitting at the table wanting to eat cake,
missing the original recipe, but
knowing it adds a tilting weight on my heavy heart,
setting it aside.
by Susie Morice
Susie, this is a lovely metaphor. No, a cake needs its eggs, something I’ve thought about this past week when I baked a St. Louis gooey butter cake for school and had only enough eggs for one cake. Love the image of your father stirring and all the ingredients mixed into the cake that is your family. Is humdinger cake a thing? Maybe it’s in an old issue of Kitchen Katter magazine. It sounds so midwestern. This poem is so sweet. I’m sharing it w/ one of my admins, Jena. She’s quite the cake baker and will love it.
Your analogy of the cake to the family is positively brilliant. I love this part best :
We mixed sweetly
at times,
fell loose
when temperatures weren’t quite right
My cake is also absent the egg and Dad is trying to find another recipe but it ain’t workin. We tried to tell him it was a bad egg but he hasn’t figured it out yet.
He will.
I adore this cake family metaphor! Way to keep it real.
Kim — Thanks for sharing that you, too, are “absent the egg.” It sure blew my family apart. Families are surely complicated. In matters of the heart, I’m not sure any of us can advise… we just have to eat cookies instead sometimes. 🙂 Sending you a hug over the cosmos, Susie
Kim,
Your last stanza is so touching because cake may be enjoyed again, but it will never be quite the same. I also appreciated the word choice of “separated” with its double meaning. You are very talented at using the prompt as a springboard and coming up with something totally unique.
Susie! I am so sorry. I tried to fix, but it was too late!
Susie, my favorite line is “we couldn’t quite name:
the nuts that gave a fancy flair,” cause I’m a middle child. So, I’m nuts, but I give the fancy flair. Of course I’d like that line!
What is encouraging is the line “finding other recipes” reminding us that there are more ways to bake a cake and we have to search for those that work for us.
Thanks for sharing.
Where are you in this mix? The baking powder, definitely the baking powder — providing the lift every day! This poem is just a wonderful description of your family, whom I happen to know personally. You have such a wild and wonderful imagination, Susie. Congratulations on a 7-layer masterpiece!
“Picking Up Rocks in the Garden”
On Sundays cousins plucked rocks
Rooted through rows of beets and beans
In the red clay Missouri soil
Sticking to Skin, it would not wipe away.
Small price for rabbit and dumplings.
“It’s chicken.” Aunt Fern’s
Little lie rooted
Twisting through rows of
Thorny verbiage
Repeated with each Sunday’s
“Thou shalt nots” sprouting in
Little seedlings. What’s a little
Lie to spare little ones’ watery tears?
Still rocks multiplied like sins. Finding
Sustenance in Show Me Ozark clay.
Stones Spread spores in sticky soil.
Beyond the garden’s green victuals
Hidden under a canopy of trees
Vines dripped Shady secrets.
Only rabbits, relatives, and makers see
“It’s only chicken” when Uncle Tom
Prunes a plump, beady-eyed
Sacrifice from its hutch and Commands
Cousins “Go pick up rocks.” Prays Jesus
Keep secret the source of Sunday supper.
What’s a Little Lie to feed a little family?
Rabbit blood dripped from furless
Skinned Bunnies hanging like tree vines
Tied to a sturdy oak branch.
Rope twists around unlucky feet.
“It’s chicken.” Little Lie wormed in
Cousins’ ears planting seeds, questions.
Doubt grew alongside greens. Cousins
Tired of the same last supper.
Tired of bending and picking up rocks.
Tired of the sin-filled sermon refrain
Preached from a plump, ripe evangelical pulpit.
Confess. Repent. Salvation is near.
Who will pick up rocks in the garden now?
Glenda — Holy cow! This is fantastic! I LOVE this poem. Jeez, we could’ve been sisters for the familiarity that rings through this poem. I grew up on a middle Missouri subsistence farm, and those images are so darned real! The godawful images of rabbits being prepped for dinner, and sending kids off to “pick up rocks” to get them away from the carnage of seeing your bunnies ending up on the plate. OMG! This is such a farm image that I remember. They sent us off to Sunday School with the neighbors when they slaughtered the calf. We later sneaked down the path and saw what my dad and the neighbor farmer didn’t want us to see… totally stunning images. “Rope twists around unlucky feet.” Oh man! That red clay in the Ozarks is so vivid. “Stones spread spores in sticky soil.” Such a harbinger pointing to your final line. I just really love this piece. It’s wonderful! Thank you for walking me back….pretty icky, but absolutely real. Susie
Your imagery – the safety of the untruth and the reality of rabbit death – – it reminds me of the Mary Oliver poem where the reader is told that they may think that the chicken soup is served in nice blue china bowls but she herself knows the truth because she has been in the hen house and seen the carnage – just like here. I love your lies told to feed a family and the truth of what we eat and how it comes to us. The Santa Claus rocks will have to be faced eventually, but for today the rocks are fine…..Awesome poem!
Glenda–You told this story so well. I enjoyed how you seamlessly worked in the church symbols throughout. A white lie and a distraction to avoid the tears! My question is, can you eat rabbit today or were you permanently scarred?
I don’t eat rabbit but not because I have a particular aversion to it. I’m just never at a table where it’s on the menu. I’m more bothered by factory chicken and hog farms, including “cage free” chicken since the birds are so crowded they peck each other until they bleed. It’s so brutal.
Magnolia Tree
It grew from a gate
that fenced in
a patio of secrets.
A gate like
wrinkled hands,
dry
gnarled
ashen.
The tree had grown
twice as tall
as the gate
arching into
our patio of secrets.
I spotted
the first pink blossom.
An open palm
an invitation
to dismantle fences.
Sisters J-squared saw
the plethora of buds,
promised the cold
would snap them
from branches.
Brother T declared
hundreds of buds
the size of thumbs
he would not
sweep.
Dad gazed in silence
hoping, I think,
T would be wrong,
that the buds
would survive
and bloom —
but he did not move.
At sunrise,
I gathered J-squared
in their sleeping gowns
and snow boots
onto the patio
to reach up
to warm the buds
with our hands
to pray the buds
into magenta blooms.
And as the sun set
a sweet sixty degrees
that April day,
the buds’ fists opened,
hundreds of hands revealed
their secrets.
The ashen gate
flowered open.
Sarah — This is a beautiful moment. Watching your dad watch this all unfold is particularly poignant. The hope of little ones to bring something to life….there’s a lot of nurturing going on here. Brother plucking those blooms and dad not intervening but understanding the is a lesson in the experience. The images of the magnolia growing in to and over the gate… metaphor of the gate…lovely. I really loved the “buds’ fists opened, hundreds of hands revealed their secrets.” You really did create with tight, short lines a super effective layered poem. Quite dandy for a Sunday morning! Thanks, Susie
Sarah, I’m drawn to every complicated image you’ve woven into this poem: The tree growing and crowding the gate “that fenced in / a patio of secrets.” This and the comparison of the rotting gate to old hands make me think about how complicated families are and my own family secrets. The care w/ which you and J cup the buds and protect them even as the fence is breached is such a maternal image. I lived in Arizona six years and recall threats of frost to orange groves and farmers covering and warming the buds to protect the harvest. I love this poem. It reminds me of a passage from “The Beet Queen” by Louise Erdrich and of a Derek Walcott poem.
Sarah–
I can visualize the buds being prayed into magenta blooms. What a mesmerizing image! It seems magical and a perfect spring poem.
Other respondents have pointed out the poignant moments in this poem, so I’ll just say “Ditto” and thanks so much for sharing this metaphor of family, fences and growing up ”
gathered J-squared
in their sleeping gowns
and snow boots
onto the patio
to reach up
to warm the buds
with our hands
to pray the buds
into magenta blooms.
Reminds me that our actions of love usually are blessed when we pray.
Mayan Frost
6
Big round waking orb
Eye opening slowly
Peering out over the blanket of pines
Ready or not to face the day
7
Rising slowly
Sluggish day jobber
Not quite ready to fully emerge
But still you rise
8
Both feet on the ground
Embracing the day
Extending full rays
Flashing a just-brushed toothy gleam
To a rapt audience
10
Like an over-charged cup of Starbucks
Sudden jolting glares
Blinding sunglassed drivers
Through windshields
12
You shine most brightly
At the height of your day
Climbing the ladder as high as it can take you
In this job
Lunch on the run – airplanes, kites, birds
Fuel for the day
2
Rain and clouds darken your shine
But you steal their thunder –
A light surge of effort for you
6
You clock out and head home
Miles to go before you sleep
Change into more comfy duds
Shed all the glinting bling
9
You stretch out to reflect on the day
Glimmers of hope for a brighter tomorrow
Succumb to a nightcap
Feet-first, climb under the covers
Call it a day
12
Big round blanketed orb,
Shooting stars patting your upturned bottom
Dreams alive in other worlds
Until tomorrow
-Kim Johnson
Kim, Such a lovely story and tribute to a day — the sun and the teacher. These lines ” Rain and clouds darken your shine/But you steal their thunder –/A light surge of effort for you” — really capture resilience in the imagery with nice alliterative music in “their thunder.” I just so appreciate the idea of the “light surge” to resist darkness.
Kim — The clock device is excellent in carrying me right through the “you” day and night. I really love how this works. Dang, I want to try this. I should’ve waited till I read your post before I began today…I love the sense of winding up and winding down… so authentic. I really felt like noon was the peak of energy and strength, and then it so gracefully wound down to “shooting stars….” Neat! Susie
Kim-
I had to read this a couple of times to determine if you were talking about a person or the sun. This was so well-written! I love the image of the sun flashing his pearly whites at people during the morning commute, and the “shooting starts patting your upturned bottom” is a striking image as well!
Kim, The repetition of “Big round orb” with so much action squeezed between “waking” and “blanketed” bookends your poem to show all this “jobber” does in a short span of time. I love the numbering and the way it emphasizes what’s happening throughout this long day. It’s a subtle and effective way to celebrate and emphasize the labor. This is what poetry is supposed to do. Love it.
Kim, your stanza
You stretch out to reflect on the day
Glimmers of hope for a brighter tomorrow
Succumb to a nightcap
Feet-first, climb under the covers
Call it a day
Reminds us of the value of reflecting on our day. The fact that we’re there to do it, is a GOOD THING!
Thanks for sharing. (Ditto on numbers for hours. They puzzled me at first and made me read carefully to figure out why the heck did she start with number 6!!!!?????)