A very special thank you to Allison Berryhill for hosting the February 5-Day Writing Challenge on Ethical ELA. We deeply appreciate your creativity in crafting the inspirations and taking care of our hearts and minds with your words of encouragement. Love all the tips for staying with the challenge! Looking ahead to next month, please join us in March with Jennifer Guyor-Jowett and then think about April for the 30-day writing challenge in honor of National Poetry Month when our community members will be leading the way with special guests, author-poet-teachers K.A. Holt, Gae Polisner, Jennifer Jacobson, and Padma Venkatraman. Subscribe below updates.
From Allison
Whew! Here we are on the final day of the writing challenge! I share with you the admonition I give to my journalism students each day: “Make it happen.” This means find a way to push through obstacles. Scratch out a poem–or at least a few lines of a poem! Celebrate good tries!
Allison
Inspiration
Last week as my students tried to absorb Kobe Bryant’s untimely death, I shared with them a poem he wrote as he faced his last season of basketball. I invited my school’s Creative Writing Club to write similar epistolary poems. They wrote poems/letters to gymnastics, a grandmother, and a treehouse.
Here is Kobe’s poem:
https://www.theplayerstribune.com/en-us/articles/dear-basketball
Also consider Naiomi Shihab Nye’s epistolary poem here:
Process
- Write a list of 8 objects to which you might have something to say. (I suggest 8 because rarely is the first item on your mind the one that actually deserves the poem!)
- Make a document with a two-column table.
- Paste the mentor poem in the left column, then compose your own in the right column.
Allison’s Poem
Dear Accordion,
I do not remember much about Linda,
the strange thin
foster sister who lived with us the year I was eight.
At 16, she still had a child’s white stuffed poodle toy that
I tossed toward the light.
The shattered bulb
cut my cheek.
I wear the scar to this day.
Dear Accordion,
I hold you now
and share your
heaving
wheezing
sonorous insistence
that life should be
hugged
and squeezed
Because Linda
brave, damaged Linda,
hefted that pearlescent monstrosity
on her thin shoulders
and poured out polkas
despite her unthinkable pain.
Dear Linda,
I play this polka
for you.
Write
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Yesterday I saw
someone seeing red
a fuming firecracker
full of frustration
her victim – the dog
too anxious, too needy
relentlessly annoying
He was all those things before
She had loved him anyway
But things have been changing
Yesterday I remember
she was spread too thin, dangerously unstable
kicked the dog out
spoke unkind words
too impatient, too angry
hopelessly unforgiving
Today it’s quiet
she sits in the calm
he curls in a tight ball at her feet
He doesn’t mind at all
the salty tears
on his soft black fur
The week is over. Once again, I have been enthralled with the poems, ideas, and companionship. Thank you all.
Thank you so much for being here, Gayle! For me, a 5-day push is just right to keep my poet alive (while keeping the rest of my life on keel)! See you in March!
Alison,
Your poem , so beautiful and so touching in so few words. Your words, “life should be hugged and squeezed,” speak volumes of what I’ve learned from you and other poets this week.
I immediately thought of my husband who played the accordion briefly before I knew him, and then rented one when I was pregnant with our first child. I was positive that our son would be scarred from his dad’s attempts to play it.
I can’t thank you enough for your prompts this week and encouragement to jump in and try. I’ve lurked and read poems for some time, always thinking that I could never measure up, but something about your words gave me the courage to join in.. Best advice you gave me was don’t read other’s poems before writing your own. The advice I didn’t stick with was setting a timer and then wrapping it up. If I’m to stick around, I have to do a better job at this.
Finally, thanks for the kind support from this community. It’s been a wonderful five days!
Ramona
Ramona, I am just TICKLED that you came out of the shadows and posted poems this month! I loved what you shared, and I’m thrilled that you felt buoyed by the exchanges with other teacher-poets. Please come back in March! <3
Dear favorite book bag,
You were a conference freebie,
with delicious words on both sides:
“Book Club Girl” on one side
(yep, that’s definitely me)
and “Reads well with others” on the other side.
It’s time to call you into service
to carry possibilities to our book club retreat
in just three weeks.
You know the rules!
Each member promotes just two titles
for the upcoming year’s ballot of books.
But you and I have
a couple of tricks in our bag.
First and foremost, you must keep
our possibilities concealed,
tucked tightly in your bag
as long as possible.
No jumping to lay out choices
on the table upon arrival.
Keep what’s in your bag
hidden and stealthily sequestered
while others openly parade their choices.
And if someone puts out a title
that’s in your bag, well then we can
eliminate that title.
The other trick is to listen carefully
in case someone hasn’t brought any books.
Slide over to them, and suggest they take a peek
inside to see if any of your surplus titles
might appeal to them. (Hey, it worked last year
when Leta shared The Pilgrimage of Harold Fry
and it was selected!)
So let’s start talking about this year’s choices.
Pachinko (one of last year’s unchosen),
We Were the Lucky Ones, Americanah, and The Overstory
are being slipped into your navy blue interior tonight.
What’s that? Four titles is too few for you?
Never fear, there’s time for
highly anticipated holds to arrive before March . . .
The Giver of Stars (or should we read
The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek?),
Meet Me at the Museum (an epistolary novel
for fans of 84 Charing Cross Road),
and Harry’s Trees (quirky & uplifting & endorsed by
favorite podcaster, Anne Bogel).
I could pop in Mary Oliver’s Devotions
(remember that book club when we talked about poetry?).
Or maybe this is the year to surprise everyone with
all memoir choices . . . Ordinary Hazards,
In the Country of Women, and Hill Women?
What’s that? You want me to count the titles?
An even dozen. You can handle that!
(You were the one asking for more titles.)
I know that you’ll be ready and willing
to carry whatever I end up deciding on.
And isn’t the delicious
mulling of titles half the fun?
Your favorite book club girl,
Ramona
Ramona,
I’m listening to book samples now – titles you mentioned. I love this choice of epistolary focus – – a book bag to conceal book choice surprises! Oh, what a charming bag – – I’m so glad you revealed to us all that is in there so I can seize the opportunity to steal those secrets and REEEEEEEAAAADDDDD!
When I retire, I am starting or joining a book club. I love your letter to your book bag. And all those wonderful book selections. I want to come along!
Ramona—May I join your book club??!! And I wholeheartedly recommend The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek! Love your conversation with your book bag and the secrets you carry!
Ramona,
I loved listening in on this letter and conversation w/ your book bag for titles. Such a treasure you’ve given us.
Ramona, I will return to your poem for book suggestions! I loved this punny line: “a couple of tricks in our bag” and the sound of “stealthily sequestered.” Your book club sounds like a blast! Thanks for sharing it with us!
Allison,
During each month’s poetry challenge the first thing I do each morning is read the prompt. Usually some inspiration finds me before I arise to begin my day and I am able to write my poem quickly. That did not happen today. Not until mid afternoon was I able to choose a topic, although I tried on numerous ones for size. I don’t know why this letter prompt perplexed me so much. That it did gave me a very late start, so I’m only now, as the day ends, getting around to commenting. Today life happened!
The accordion with its audible breathing in and out and its moaning seems a fitting instrument to express all the feelings about life, about dancing, about loving all children I see in your words. I love the symbolism in the accordion you’ve crafted here. But the lines that resonate most w: me are a few that connect us.
“The shattered bulb
cut my cheek.
I wear the scar to this day.”
I have three scars on my face, one in my right eyebrow from having been cut by glass. I’m constantly amazed by the way we learn about one another through the poems we post. And when I don’t manage to read all the poems each day, I know I’ve missed a chance to become better acquainted w/ a friend.
You have been a gracious and giving host. The prompts have inspired me in ways I did not expect. Thank you.
Dear Glenda,
Thank you for your supportive words and alert reading of my poem. I love how this space gives us a chance to talk directly to the poets. We create something larger than the poem itself when we get to say “I, too, have a scar!”
After a full evening of P-T conferences last night, I did not get to finish my commenting, so I’m back at it this morning and for DAY SIX! 🙂
I’m so glad we have built a friendship through poems here, Glenda. Have a wonderful month, and I’ll see you in March! <3
Allison
Dear microphone,
The moment I walked away,
Hanging my in-ear monitor
Near your cord,
Unsettled sadness surrounded me
In stereo.
We spent so many years together,
Adjusting bass levels with treble tones,
Perfecting EQs for house sound
And internet broadcast.
You were SHURE all the way.
The surgery robbed me of vocal control
And my six-week, soul-searching sabbatical
Brought me to an unfamilIar pianissimo.
So soft and scared but faithfully
Believing in the music’s staying power
I returned to you for a few years
But we could never find the same
Harmonious relationships interwoven
In our melodies.
You wave at me every Sunday
As I reminisce of times gone by
Although I may never publicly
Amplify these once-diseased vocal chords
The notes still visit me in perfect intonation
In unexpected and certainly unplanned occasions
Good bye microphone
I hoped for a reunion; however,
I wish you well and a long battery life
treat your next partner
With less static and more magnetic sound
On with the green light
Off with your red;
No more for me
Dear Jolie,
This poem is a story of love, loss, survival, and acceptance. I’ve read it three times now, exploring the creases of meaning tucked in beautiful lines: “Unsettled sadness surrounded me
In stereo”; “my six-week, soul-searching sabbatical
Brought me to an unfamilIar pianissimo”; “The notes still visit me in perfect intonation
In unexpected and certainly unplanned occasions”
In your closing stanza, your journey of losing your voice–and the self that lives in voice–seems to have arrived at a degree of acceptance as you pass the mic to the next musician. The lights blinking at the end are a sharp and spot-on image to leave with the reader. Thank you for this–and your other lovely poems this week! You inspire me.
Oh, Jolie — This made me so sad. You shared such a loss here, that I am truly feeling for you. As a soul sister in voice sounds, I so understand this lament. I do a lot of singing (every day actually) and have marveled at the capacity of a microphone to preserve and cradle my voice. The “harmonious relationship interwoven” is such a singular and marvelous experience… I know you miss that. I’m hoping to be as gracious as you are in “wish[ing} you well….[to] treat your next partner…” when the time comes for me. It will be right up there with the day that my loved ones take away my car keys — may that be a long long time in the future. I will remember your poem when that time comes and try to learn from you. Thank you for sharing such a touching tribute. Susie
Dear Future Self,
Hey hot mama!
How’s retirement treating you?
I hope you kept your promise to yourself
And you aren’t going into school
Claiming you’re just visiting
But really hoping they’d ask you to stay.
Your trip to Cameroon must have been incredible.
Were you able to connect more branches of your family tree?
It’s hard to believe you never visited the Motherland
When your father was living there
And working for U.S. AID.
Guess it was not meant to be.
And what about your grandchildren?
Is your granddaughter still a replica
Of your mom?
Is she playing Varsity basketball?
I always knew your grandson would be a mini-you
He takes after your son
He thought the world revolved
Around you when he was a young boy.
Dear Present Self,
I need to let you in on a little secret
Future Self doesn’t know about the books
You’re sitting on and procrastinating to write.
Or your trip to the Natural Museum of African American History and Culture
That you haven’t scheduled.
Future Self doesn’t have a clue about the home
You plan to own that your son and daughter will pay for
After they finish finding their way off
The path on which you’re lurking.
Future Self is completely uninformed
About the dogs that will be waiting for you
To walk them up to your meditation space.
Present Self, are you listening to Past Self too much?
You better start preparing Future Self.
We think it’s time you turn up the volume
On today and tomorrow,
We got your back.
Stacey, I love how you went back and forth between your selves. I am all in from the first “Hey hot mama!” Can we all step up and greet ourselves this way, please?!
Each stanza of your poem unfolds with a new story, secret, admonition. I find myself as reader rooting for all of your wise and loving selves, as they battle it out here in this letter!
May I just say that I love all of your selves, and I’m tickled that they showed up in the same poem here!
See you soon (March!), friend!
So fun! I love the way all the selves are connecting in your poem. My favorite part is when Present Sed first chimes in! “I need to let you in on a little secret” ah! I love the blend of playful/serious vibes and how at the end we know that you’ll always back you.
Hot Mama! Yes. These are goals, and “turn up the volume.” I love your creative reflection.
Stacey, I love this. I hope you print and frame this where you write so that you can read it over and over. I aim to use this poem as a mentor text for myself. Thanks for the inspiration!
Oh, dang, Stacey! This is spectacular! The whole discourse had me smiling and chuckling and wishing I’d thought of something so clever and artistic. You are amazing! Plus, you shared so much wonderful information about your life and dreams. I want us to sit up on your meditation spot and look out at the Pacific while you tell me the stories of now, the then, and the future. I want to wander around Cameroon with you while you uncover those connections and meet those family faces. You are not alone in those procrastination admonishments…the internal planning and the reality of enactment are tricky partners. So, glad you posted and that I got back online this morning to find your piece! Thank you so much, Susie
Thank you so much Susie! Yes, come join me!
Have a wonderful day!
Stacey—this made me smile all the way through. The exchange between present, past, and future self is wonderful—the warnings, the hints, the reviews of what you have done. Excellent!
Allison, what a wonderful week of prompts! Thank you for your thoughtfulness and generosity. You are truly an inspiration. I’m still a bit under the weather, so I’ll probably try to write first thing in the morning.
Thank you, Mo! We are all rooting for you to feel better soon. I will check back for the next few days to find your poem!
xo,
Allison
Mo — heal up, my friend! I’ll come back to find your post. Hugs, Susie
Dear Council Bluffs running route,
It wasn’t love at
first stride,
or even like
as my 13-year-old legs
strained against
the uphill pavement.
It was a willful toleration
and an eventual appreciation
of the three mile route
between Ferndale and Forest Glen.
I’d go slow uphill past Marshall’s Mansion,
vines wrapping tightly
against old brick,
and look for any truth
to the stories children whispered.
Then past Andrew’s
where Molly sat on the porch,
her bark turning quickly
into belly rubs when I stopped.
Past Jami’s on Rosebud Lane
Kayla’s on Golden Oaks
Up the grueling Canterbury Circle
The louder my life became,
the longer the runs grew.
Entire blocks dedicated
to short-lived arguments
and boys I can barely
remember the names of.
You cleared the fog
and left me a way
to travel back through time.
To know that girl
who hated running,
but is now so grateful
she did it anyways.
Love you always,
Lauren
Also, ALLISON, your POEM! My heart has been carrying it with me since I read it this morning. It’s beautiful and heartbreaking and important. Thank you for sharing it.
Entire blocks dedicated
to short-lived arguments
and boys I can barely
remember the names of.
I feel this! I’ve never been a runner, but I walked the dirt road in front of my parents’ house a thousand times as a teenager, trying to figure out my world.
Thank you for reminding me!
“The louder my life became”–oh, the loudness of life.
Lauren, my poet-runner kindred, I was immediately inside your poem. I loved the play of “love at first stride,” and was propelled from there.
“You cleared the fog
and left me a way
to travel back through time.”
What a great stanza! I feel you using the run for contemplation, reconsideration, and healing.
“Love you always” asserts the place running has earned in your heart.
<3,
Allison
The beautiful language in this poem is stunning! willful toleration, entire blocks dedicated to short-lived arguments…to know that girl. Wow. This really does have the loving feel of Kobe’s poem. Well done!
Lauren — You’ve phrased these lines so beautifully! I, not a runner, actually want to trace your steps in Council Bluffs…I’d want to walk that trail and relive the “three miles” through Molly’s bark and belly rubs up the tough hills that give me “arguments” and through the fog. I drive through CBluffs sometimes in summer, and am now tempted to stay and walk. My favorite lines: “the louder my life became/the longer the runs”… quite lovely! Thanks for sharing this! Susie
Dear Television,
I love you TOO much and
that bothers me sometimes.
You hooked me with:
The Brady Bunch, Bewitched,
I Love Lucy, and The Big Valley.
Once I was older, you had the NERVE
to show The Love Boat and
The Jeffersons on the same night!
Much of the time I watched them both but
sometimes my brother made me sit
through Roller Derby which
I NEVER understood.
How could my favorite gadget
betray me by showing people
fighting and skating at the same time?
During high school, you made me abandon the
good sense God gave me.
You FORCED me to ditch school
for three days in a row to get home in time
to watch Luke and Laura’s wedding!!
When I went away to college, I was gifted with
one of your little “step cousins” – a black
and white miniature version of you.
People thought it was odd that I carried you
onto the plane as if you were a kitten.
It seemed normal to me.
Around that time, my interests changed
and I elevated my tastes to The Cosby Show,
A Different World and Knots Landing.
My love affair with you became an
addiction once I learned of a new invention
called the VCR. My mother and I would vie
for your attention and of course she
always won since it was her house.
Once I was married, I was horrified by some of the
“male” shows you had that I had to sit
through – The Sci Fi channel, The History channel,
and endless boxing matches on HBO.
Eventually I put you aside once my girls were born
because it was ALL about them and their videos.
I don’t know HOW you did it but you put the
DVR idea in someone’s brain (probably while
they were asleep) and now I can throw away
those hideous black tapes that have shows
on top of shows on top of shows.
By the way, my eyes thank you for high definition.
I know you think I’ve abandoned you for
books, exercise, beaches, love, and culinary arts
but I haven’t. I learned years ago I had to
separate from you somewhat and put you
on a schedule so I can maintain
relationships, take care of myself and
miss you.
Thanks,
your forever love,
Seana HW
P.S. THANK YOU for Greys Anatomy,
Black-ish, Outlander, and This Is Us.
You’ve outdone yourself.
The P.S. cracks me up so much. I’m also smiling because I had to force myself to stop watching 30 Rock long enough to do today’s challenge. Also, Laura and Luke’s wedding <3 So sweet. This is fantastic.
Lauren, are you hooked on this group?! See why I love it? It’s been so good to have you here this week, sharing poems and support!
Yes! Your prompts have been perfect. I had my sophomores try the apology poem today and it was a hit. Tomorrow we’re going to imitate Kobe’s! Thank you!!
Seana,
This is perfection! I think we must have had similar childhoods because you hit on so many shows that struck a sentimental chord in me. Your details are phenomenal!
Seana!!!! What a grand finale to the week you have here! I love this so much. I remember the kitten on the plane and smiled. What I am really amazed by is your recollection of shows you were so connected to. Clearly your memory is great.
I love this part:
Once I was married, I was horrified by some of the
“male” shows you had that I had to sit
through – The Sci Fi channel, The History channel,
and endless boxing matches on HBO.
Thank God for our children being born to relieve us of the man shows! You have been such a trouper this week and I know it wasn’t easy. I think we all need to be given a week off from school just because we want to write. ?
The
P.S. is phenomenal! But tell me you didn’t intend to leave off Million Little Things? You are a fan right? Uh oh, if not, don’t blame me when you start and get hooked.
Seana, I LOLed here: “you made me abandon the
good sense God gave me.”
Your poem is a treat of allusions–including the delightful postscript.
I loved this sequence:
“put you
on a schedule so I can maintain
relationships, take care of myself and
miss you.”
I’ve enjoyed “meeting you” in poetry this week! Thank you for your wonderful contributions! See you in March!
Seana — Holy crimany… I am in hysterics here! You are soooo funny. This is a priceless piece of art. I am reading this to my cousin as soon as I see her next… It is just HILARIOUS! The whole “love letter” effect just works like a charm here….right down to the PS at the end. All those shows…the history of this addiction is tooooo real and toooooo funny. The HBO boxing really just sent me over the edge laughing…reciting the whole thing out loud. What a great Thursday morning treat this was for me. Thank you! LOLOLOLOLOLOLOoooooooo! Susie
Monsieur Rysselberghe,
Every day I clean
aqua-marine and emerald
and titanium white spatters
left behind by your brushes
on the studio sink and benches.
I’ve kept my promise
to never uncover
the central canvas.
Once,
my broom caught
A foot of the easel
A yellow corner escaped
–a moment only.
I wipe dust
from the high studio windows
so your light is good
or, as good as light can be
in our city.
I feel your fame growing
by the number of cigarettes
stubbed out in your tray
and glasses drained of creme de menthe
to wash and put away.
Someday, you will sell a painting
For so many francs all Ghent
Will celebrate your talent.
I will take my son
to the cafe. We will toast
your success and mine
for keeping our place so clean
And ready for greatness.
href=”http://https://www.wikiart.org/en/theo-van-rysselberghe/the-man-at-the-tiller-1892″>
Wow! This is brilliant. I’ve never seen this painting before, but I am so impressed with the direction you took this prompt in. I love the lines, “I feel your fame growing/ by the number of cigarettes/ stubbed out in your tray.” You’ve taken a small image and presented it in a surprising way. This is why I love poetry.
Dear Linda, I am awed by how you used the epistolary form to examine a painting. Using the voice of the custodian added a stunning layer of interest to your poem. Thank you so much for this beautiful introduction to the painting.
Dear Revlon, my hyperpigmented
patch needs camo. Natural light/medium
isn’t fooling anybody. Slash all you want;
it’s like whiteout telling the world of my
facial typo. Dear Justin, my sister is mad at me
because I let her calls go to voicemail; then
text her back, but after forty-plus years,
she should know I am better with print
than audio, don’t you think? Huh, no,
no receipt for my concealer. Dear Julia,
you really do have amazing stiletto nails.
Your postal customer may not have remembered
the zip code for Anthem, but he will remember
your Snow Day-themed claws. Dear NPR, some people
drive in intervals between rush hours. The Boy Scout
bankruptcy story is tragic, but why must you loop?
I’d love to hear the Tiny Desk Concerts instead. Note:
Donate to this member station. Dear sage bug, you really
need to go to the light now. You have been flying around
my fingers for days since I shook the sage. Go
to your resting place. Rest. Your frantic flurry is stirring
me to log off, take a stroll. Just a few
more syllables. Sincerely, Sarah
So real….the make-up and the post office, radio stories and the bug. All of these details add up to a day and then a life. But, do we remember? We can with poems like these. Thank you.
Sarah — This is such fun. I chuckled through the whole poem and thought how lucid all the details were. I particularly enjoyed “like whiteout telling the world of my facial typo” (such a great phrase, “facial typo”) and the reality that we notice and remember “stiletto nails” but not zip codes…LOL! And I’ve thought the same thing about NPR timing and my seeming lack of timing to catch the programming I love the most….and the “loop” sometimes drives me nuts…yet I too totally love NPR (and PBS). “Donate” indeed! I swear by it. Then, I giggled at the sage bug “stirring me to log off…” I love the whimsical tone of this. Thanks for supporting another wonderful 5 days! Susie PS… I rec’d. your Alone Together today and look forward to gobbling that up.
My favorite line:
it’s like whiteout telling the world of my
facial typo.
I love this simile – and those stiletto nails
– such imagery!
I am fascinated with the sage bug being told to go to the light, too. So comical. I love the random thought patterns that you are expressing – my mind only does that when I’m really, really, really trying to get to sleep because I have to be up in like 2 hours. That’s when a sage bug would be climbing around in my world…..
I simply love this, Sarah!
Making me laugh here! Love the energy and randomness. Especially the NPR riff!
This is just amazing.
“Dear sage bug, you really
need to go to the light now. You have been flying around
my fingers for days since I shook the sage. Go
to your resting place. Rest. Your frantic flurry is stirring
me to log off, take a stroll. Just a few
more syllables. Sincerely, Sarah”
I don’t want this to end. Keep writing! Start a new week tomorrow! I love your poem and I love what you’ve done for me and us in this community of writers. Friend in my head, who has coffee and tea and writes with me, I love you!
Love you! A “joy” to share this space and time with you.
What she said! <3 <#
Dear Sarah,
This is a ROMP! Thank you for using the prompt in such a personal, energized way. I love how you kept changing up the letter recipients. (My personal favorite may have been NPR!)
You are such an amazing role model for all of the teacher-poets who gather here. Thank you for sharing your poems and for inviting me to this rich experience of hosting!
Love,
Allison
Sarah,
This makes me think of the imaginary, sometimes audible “loop” of conversations I have w/ myself throughout the day as I begin w/ the reflection in the mirror magnifying what makeup can’t conceal:
“ my hyperpigmented
patch needs camo.”
The question tag to Justin echos those common family conversations that make us wonder why people we’ve known for years seemingly don’t know us.
Yet despite the NPR loop and the longing for “tiny desktop concerts” you find joy in the programming and focus on giving. Isn’t this the stuff of life? I love all the specific details that underpin the normalcies of nails, and sage bugs, and concealer, and radio programming, and all the simple, beautiful things in life.
A Letter To My Heavy Woolen Quilt
You are back again, my dear quilt.
Resurrected from the cedar chest every fall
To be packed away in spring.
64 log cabin squares of heavy wool,
Grays, tweeds, beiges and browns—
Once destined for “large men’s suits”
by my great Aunt Rose.
Who cared for her grandparents, then her parents,
And finally lived with her sister.
Sewing men’s suits and saving wool scraps all the while.
She never married
Never left her home base
Never complained.
Did she ever love, or dance, or wish for more?
We will never know.
Although, we did find that box of travel brochures in her drawer
When she died at 89.
Marked with routes and things to see, places to eat, things to do.
Plans never fulfilled.
She never traveled more than fifty miles from home.
She must have wanted more…
And so, dear quilt, you traveled for her, without her.
From a potato farm near a frozen lake in New York State
To a middling town in northern Maryland.
(Much more than fifty miles.)
Your scratchy surface carries the weight of a different time—
A time of waste-not, want-not
Of humble craftsmanship and making do.
Of taking the time to carefully cut one-inch strips of sober-hued wool
And stitch a 64-paned quilt,
Passing forward winter warmth for a great-great niece not yet born.
Gayle,
I am really tuning into punctuation today and how it works as and with words and spacing. These lines:
To a middling town in northern Maryland.
(Much more than fifty miles.)
Your scratchy surface carries the weight of a different time—
A time of waste-not, want-not
So intrigued by the parentheses, em dash and en dash — the breaks in thought, the parenthetical commentary, and then the rhythm. So cool.
Sarah
Oh, Gayle! You walked me right back to a “sober-hued wool” multi-paned quilt that my mom had made out on the farm when I was little. It too was stitched from old men’s suits, probably from long-gone uncles. You captured that weight, which I remember so well– quite different from the more bright and frilly quilts that offered florals and pastels…. being under that heavy wool felt sooooo good. I so enjoyed the “potato farm” and “the weight of a different time–/a time of waste-not, want-not/of humble craftsmanship and making do.” A lovely heirloom poem for an heirloom gem. Thanks for sharing this bit of your history! Susie
Wow, Gayle, you have written a beautiful poem. I love how a letter to a quilt can tell so many stories. Your “potato farm near a frozen lake in New York State” propelled me into an entire narrative. Thank you for this gift of a poem.
Gayle,
Your poem evokes so many memories for me, first of the quilts my grandmother owned and the way I snuggled into their mustiness on a down bed, second of the crocheted spread my step grandmother made. Like your quilt it is a treasure. And I can’t help but think of the book “How to Make an American Quilt.” Have you read it? There’s a movie, too. Specific to your poem, I love the journey imagery and the craftsmanship you honor with your words. The question you ask about her life “Did she ever love, or dance, or wish for more?” reminds me of the value of women’s work which so often does not get honored. The quilt has rhetorical significance, and you give its creator a voice in this beautiful tribute.
Oh, Gayle, I love this story of your great aunt who never traveled, but “must have wanted more.” And your words “passing forward winter warmth” speak volumes about your love for her. The weight you mention makes me think of the jean quilt my mother made for me. I have a favorite quilt poem (not mine) that I have to share with you. I was introduced to it on a test I took in TX for teachers. I think you’ll like it.
Not sure how to make the link work, but maybe you can copy and paste it –
https://www.matermiddlehigh.org/ourpages/auto/2011/9/14/43726634/My%20Mother%20Pieced%20Quilts%20Poem%20and%20assignment.pdf
Allison, your ability to bring Linda to life for all of us, to let us in with the snapshot of the “strange, thin foster sister” in so few words, to let us see the need she had to hold onto something to love with the “child’s white stuffed poodle” is so light-handedly done but carries such weight. I love that you connected the accordion through sound (heaving, wheezing) and touch (hugged and squeezed) to Linda’s existence and your memory of her. Thank you for sharing such beautiful words with us and for these inspirational prompts this week. I’ve looked forward to what each day brought (sadly missed writing on these last two due to company at our house and my attempts to concoct something at school between students and classes resulted in fragments, disjointed pieces that I hope to finish sometime soon). You have a beautiful voice, both in inspiring us and in your writing.
Oh, Jennifer, your words touch me at my core. Thank you. Do not apologize for missing days. Just jump back in when your life allows! You read my poem with incredible sensitivity. Thank you. See you in March!?
A few months ago I ordered a tree of life paint-by-number kit. I thought it would be fun. ?
“Dear Paint by Number Canvas,”
Your miniature amoeba-shaped forms
Blur into a kaleidoscope of seasons:
Spring buds burst with each brush stroke until
Summer’s leafy branches sway and tease,
giving way to
Fall’s fiery oranges and brittle reds swirling on wind songs into
Winter’s icy frost-glazed limbs and glistening frozen streams.
You beckoned me, dear canvas, with your
Empty vow, the promise of easy art
One numbered squiggly-shaped zygote
Squirming before my blurred orbs ad
Infinitum until the last stroke dipped and blobbed in forest green #25 congeals to
Reveal something less than whatever art.
Hour after hour You bend my arched body into
Submission, and torture me with
Multitudinous baby blue lines peeking through Opaque paint applied by my
Quaking hands extended beyond each canopy, and
I, prone to tenacity oblige.
Twisting this canvas toward the sun’s glow and
The Aspen posed in my window, I
Turn myself to your will,
Hoping these tiny tubs will suffice,
Praying mother nature’s miracle
Bursts forth before my fading sight.
—Glenda Funk
Glenda,
The first stanza is so vivid and inviting but by the time we get to stanza three…
torture me with
Multitudinous baby blue lines peeking through Opaque paint applied by my
Quaking hands
Isn’t this just the the way hobby turns to labor? Love it.
Peace,
Sarah
Glenda, I love everything about this! I was in Hobby Lobby today looking at scrapbook papers for penning verse, and the number paintings caught my eye….well, my blurred orbs. Your description shows us this painting as it is to be when finished and then you take us back to the
One numbered squiggly-shaped zygote
(Okay, I think this is adorable- It’s like a tagged Calf with a numbered ear and somehow I find myself wanting a squiggly numbered zygote of my own)
And I can only imagine the patience that you must have to climb that tree of life!
Happy painting, my artistic friend!
Favorite line: hoping these tiny tubs suffice— didn’t catch it until the second time through— then it brought back a million memories of that concern! What a wonderful detail!
Oh, Glenda, I heard myself chuckling aloud, line after line! You are so deft at word selection: “leafy branches sway and TEASE”; “prone to tenacity” (LOVE that line!); squirming, quaking, less than whatever art.
Oh my, I’m just repeating your poem to you! That is to say you have a treasure trove of word treats here! If your paint-by-number foray resulted in this poem, I must declare it a success! Bravo!
Dear reading,
From the moment
I heard my dad laugh at Dagwood’s
Sunday Stacked Sandwiches
And Blondie’s endless shopping trips,
I knew one thing.
I would fall in love with you.
A love that would take me
On far away journeys
To worlds both here and beyond.
As a little strawberry blond girl
Deeply in love with you,
I found Fletcher as he hatched
And the monster at the end of this book.
I saw myself in your stories
Longing to experience them all.
And so, I read.
I read backwards and forwards,
Cereal boxes, TV Guides,
Newspapers, Comic strips.
I devoured words and lost my heart
As your tiny letters changed my life.
I read while the MASH song hummed,
As the Jefferson’s moved on up,
And Archie pinned for those days.
Lost in stories of open sesame,
A sea foam girl, a house of candy,
YOU called me.
I was lost in you
Because that’s what stories do.
They make one leave this world
And intertwine in others.
You gave a little girl a new world,
Not because hers was lacking
But because there was more.
More stories than she could tell,
More stories than she could imagine.
Because of you, I’ve experienced
Sexism, racism, war, and poverty,
But I’ve also known
Sacrifice, acceptance, wealth, and strength.
I was with Celie when she found her voice,
With Santiago when he caught that fish,
I played chess with Waverly under Christmas Lights,
And I slammed that door with Nora when she walked into the cold.
And both you and I know
That you have been my key
To unlock every door
I have ever faced.
Because you found me,
A shy pig tailed girl
Laying under lamplight
Refusing to go to sleep.
Forever and always,
Laura
Welcome to my fellow Georgian, co-worker, and friend! I’m so glad you are a part of this supportive group of teacher writers. This is where I really am when I claim to be out clubbing.
Laura, I’ve known you as a reader for years – but not just a reader. A voracious reader with an insatiable appetite for books. Now I’m blessed to be learning some of the history of your love affair with books. I love it all – from the cereal boxes and comic strips to the little girl with pig tails who’d rather read than sleep. But this is the part that drive it home for me:
”Because of you, I’ve experienced
Sexism, racism, war, and poverty,
But I’ve also known
Sacrifice, acceptance, wealth, and strength.
I was with Celie when she found her voice,
With Santiago when he caught that fish,
I played chess with Waverly under Christmas Lights,
And I slammed that door with Nora when she walked into the cold.”
That’s powerful. Reading takes us places – places we want to go, and places we’d rather not go but need to go to understand and to walk that mile in shoes we’d rather not wear. What a gift – being able to read. Being able to see the world through the eyes of others.
Thank you for sharing and for reminding us that reading is a gift!
Thanks friend! I like your comment “shoes we’d rather not wear.” That’s life right there. I’ll wear the shoes, but there are others I’d enjoy more. That should be a poem.
Shoes I’d Rather Not Wear
Every time I chose a favorite line, I saw a new one! Impossible to choose. Your ending touched me—
“Because you found me,
A shy pig tailed girl
Laying under lamplight
Refusing to go to sleep.”
That little girl could have been me. Books really do change us.
Absolutely beautiful.
Laura,
What a powerful homage to reading. I love the many specific details that you include in this poem. It would be a great mentor poem for others to imitate, adding the ways that reading enriched their own lives.
Other than the many rich details, I also love these lines:
“You gave a little girl a new world,
Not because hers was lacking
But because there was more.”
I feel the same way.
Oh, Laura,
I love this epistolary ode to story and the lives within and beyond the pages. This is a tribute to your life as well and how you are reading the word and the world with your hands and body in these literal spaces that live in lamplight and with us here. I appreciate this glimpse into your reading life.
Peace,
Sarah
Laura — I so like the strength in the voice as you acknowledge the power of reading to transform and transcend. I particularly like that “shy pig tailed girl…under lamplight” — I have this same image of my eldest sister, the quintessential reader …. I’m certain that she’s sitting in her favorite chair up in Pennsylvania, reading away as we “speak.” I totally loved that you conjured up The Old Man and the Sea and The Color Purple and the Amy Tan … These references are intimate connections on the one hand and universal on the other. And the “Dagwood” Sunday funnies… I actually think this is one of my very first realizations that reading could be such a giggle… my whole family devoured the Sunday funnies. Laura, this is quite lovely. Thank you for sharing this. Susie
Laura, I apologize for my late reading of your wonderful poem. (I had conferences Wed. and Thurs.) This is a beauty. I love how you first experienced reading through the newspaper comics, and how you “read backwards and forwards” (I do too!).
This was so good:
“I devoured words and lost my heart
As your tiny letters changed my life”
I often tell kids that reading is the one way to live other lives besides your own, to “mind read” what others experience. You said this so well in this stanza:
“Because of you, I’ve experienced
Sexism, racism, war, and poverty,
But I’ve also known
Sacrifice, acceptance, wealth, and strength.”
But my VERY favorite stanza was the one that ended with Nora slamming that door! I do believe I caught every allusion! Wonderfu!
I hope to seen you again in March. Happy writing, Allison
Dear Civic,
From the moment
I sunk into your cream colored seat
And wrapped my fingers around the wheel
I knew one thing was real:
I’m bringing you home with me.
I was so proud of you, my first big girl purchase
Swapped your used car sticker
For a new UCLA license plate
And so I went with you
Down the 91 to Compton for work
Radio going a little too loud
You asked me for nothing
I gave you hand washes and wax
Because you were more
Than just a civic
Those years I worked through sweat and hurt
Lost friends and some students
Challenged administrators and professors
And at the end of the worst of days
I’d walk out with frustrated tears
To you
Always there where I left you
You gave me more than a reliable ride
And I’ll always love you for it
But I can’t hold onto you forever
This season may be our last
My heart will always remember
But we’ll need to say goodbye
And that’s ok.
I’m ready to let you go
It’s no longer just you and I
I know the car seat digs a little too tightly
And the stroller weighs uncomfortably on you
We’ve had a good run
And we both know, no matter what comes next
I’ll always be that girl
With the music a little too loud
One hand in the wheel
One on the cream seat
Cruising down the 91
Love you always,
Emily
Absolutely beautiful! I love the idea of taking an object, a car, and allowing it to become the memories of another life. This is perfect!
Emily, I cried when I had to sell my Honda last summer. Cried – needed Kleenex cried. I so relate to your relationship with your reliable and loyal friend. I like your line “we’ve had a good run.” I also like how you took the perspective of the car and thought that maybe the car was ready to part and meet another need as well. The washing and waxing was like bathing and lotioning a baby. But alas, they too grow up and move on….beautiful!
Emily—that first car. The image you provide at the end is amazing—
I’ll always be that girl
With the music a little too loud
One hand in the wheel
One on the cream seat
Cruising down the 91
I know you through those lines. Can I come along?
Emily,
What I so enjoy about this writing group (and why I ask for the city in the posts) is how we get to travel to the places of one another’s lives in some of our poetry. This trip to CA is a gift to me today:
And so I went with you
Down the 91 to Compton for work
Radio going a little too loud
Love that consonance in the last line ” a little too loud.”
Sarah
A day late but I hope you’ll see this, I absolutely adore this because I also had many a Hondas and they always treated me well, until my bank account and repairs didn’t quite match. I am happy your Civic treated you and yours well.
I can completely picture walking out of school
“with frustrated tears
To you
Always there where I left you”
Because that’s what our reliable cars do!
Hope you’re happy with the next car and that it makes Civic proud!
See you in March!
Dear Emily, MY first car was a silver Civic (manual!) and I loved it like a best friend! You took me back there!
I enjoyed watching how you used the mentor text as a structural guide. The images of the carseat and stroller digging in is a lovely way to show your life a-changin’! It’s a good kind of goodbye!
Beautiful! Thank you so much for being here. Come back in March!
Allison
Dear mirror, you are my most prized possession
I am never alone when I am with you
your presence is a reflection
of my identity
You reveal my most inner vulnerability
you have captured my most private obsessions
and record my life long
Craft
You are the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning
and the last bidding me good night
you never cease to remind me
of the growth that has taken place
Some things I do not approve of and try to hide from your stare
but your honesty reminds me that I cannot ignore your truth
I try to prolong my years with light, make up and positioning
Only to be jolted back to reality
Melissa, your poem reminded me of the last lines of a poem you wrote earlier this week: “What I want is
to be seen for who I truly am.” Your letter here suggests that in your mirror, you are seen for who you truly are!
Thank you so much for sharing your writing gifts with all of us this week! See you in March!
Dear Notebook,
From the time I was a teenager
with a dairy that locked,
I’ve written word by word.
Some days the pen scribbles nonsense
or a secret I will not share.
Other days, the blank page
inspires–my words play on your stage.
Whether you are lined or graphed or solid white,
I love the magic of empty pages
filling you with scrolled loops
and curved letters.
When I hold you near, I can smell
the freshness, the scent of flair pens,
washi tape, glue stick
like a writer’s incense.
I can be whoever I want to be
in my own little corner
in my own little notebook.
Margaret, I bet I’m not the only writer on this forum who feels you wrote this poem about my relationship to journals! I love how you call the mixed smells of the journal “writer’s incense.” “Scrolled loops
and curved letters” was a particularly strong visual image for me. Write on, friend! I’ve loved writing with you this week! See you in March!
Margaret, I see! You did write yours about your journal also. What a glorious feeling it is to have that lock on a diary when we first set out as writers I remember feeling like it was the key to my own house- my own space- where I was more grown and had my own room for thoughts. And that Washi tape: Heaven – especially in travel journals. I’m there with you looking at all the pens too. Oh, I love your poem today!
Hi Margaret, “I love the magic of empty pages” I love this line as it makes me think of master pieces that writers create.
I’m envious of your love affair with your notebook. I continue to try to acquire and love the habit.
Writer’s incense! What a wonderful simile with its focus on smell, a sense we often neglect.
I’m lucky to be someone who’s been inspired by your “word by word” writing for a long time!
Dear Mama,
It seems only fitting
that we find ourselves
again in a pile of words,
in letters inked
across the unlined onionskin pages.
Over the years I watched you lay out our lives —
to your first daughter
when she moved to the lonely desert,
to all the aunties, the sisters you missed —
as each of us,
one by one,
dashed off
to live our choices.
Through your string of letters,
images that you shared
in your ribbon of words,
you tethered all of us.
Dear Mama, your penned phrases,
your sense of words as play,
your steady hand
reaching through the mailbox,
grounded me, tied me
to the open space of a page
where I could lay out my stories,
my life lines,
when words could hemorrhage onto the page
and be rearranged, reinvented,
to stanch the bleeding
and find clarity.
So, I write letters still, Mama,
and though they fly off into cyberspace,
to this one or that,
lift from the songsheet,
and layer and beat through poems,
they are all
somehow always
deep down
for you.
Love ever,
Susie
by Susie Morice ©
Susie, our mothers’ voices never leave us, do they? What priceless treasures you have in the letters that you have saved on the onionskins – the choice “back in the day.” I love the words hemorrhaging – that concept of words flowing like blood, and then words healing to stop the bleeding is a great interchange of those ideas! The ribbon of words tethering – – makes me think of the typewriter on the onionskin page. This is a heartfelt tribute to your guiding light. It’s beautiful!
The art of writing letters is getting lost. I’m glad you are carrying on, passing on your mother’s graceful thoughtfulness. I love how you conclude that whatever you write is ultimately for her.
Oh, Susie. What a beautiful tribute. The lines,
“as each of us,
one by one,
dashed off
to live our choices.
Through your string of letters,
images that you shared
in your ribbon of words,
you tethered all of us.“
creates that picture of scattered families held together by your mother, and probably summoned home in the same way. What comfort those letters bring now.
I totally love this poem Susie, somehow you can’t get more personal that writing.
Dear Susie,
Here are phrases that brought me especial pleasure:
“we find ourselves
again in a pile of words”
“dashed off
to live our choices”
“in your ribbon of words,
you tethered all of us”
“when words could hemorrhage onto the page
and be rearranged, reinvented,
to stanch the bleeding”
Your poem is a beautiful tribute to a woman who gave you the gift of the written word. My relationship to my own mother is tense and complicated–but she, too, was a writer and a poet, for which I am grateful and indebted. Writing and words are a central joy of my life (and yours too, I know), and our mothers gave us this priceless gift. As you told your story, I read my own. Thank you, dear friend!
This is such a beautiful love letter. I especially love at the ending as well as these lines
“ as each of us,
one by one,
dashed off
to live our choices.”
It takes me right to my mom and how my siblings and I all left one by one. Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem with us!
Dear Study Lamp,
I picked you up at Service Merchandise for $10. You were half off–with your chrome finish and cast iron base and your remarkable resemblance to the Pixar lamp.
It was 1998.
For four years, you helped lend more light to my cinder block dorm room–illuminating the pages of my textbooks.
Then, in my first apartment when I was on my own, paying bills, staying up until midnight, working my way through grad school–You were there.
In 2008, as a newly minted librarian–I packed you up and moved with you to Florida. That summer you shined brightly over job applications on my laptop when I didn’t really know what the future held.
We stayed in Florida. You were on the desk in the guest room in 2014, when I got the call to host a 15-year old from Germany for the year–and you shined just as brightly over her school work as you had over mine.
In 2015, when I moved home, and home didn’t feel very homey–
You were there–on my nightstand–pouring light as I pored over my favorite books–trying to find a comfort I longed for.
Now it’s 2020, and you are in my office in the back of a library I love
providing light when the fluorescent overhead
becomes too much
and triggers a migraine.
Of all the things I own, you’ve been with me the longest–thanks for staying.
Rebecca ,
I get a kick out of this . . . that you still have the same study lamp since 1998. I get called a hoarder because I don’t get rid of much, yet I have many friends and family members who seem to donate to thrift stores things that have plenty of life.
I’m glad Study Lamp has been with you through so much . . . even your German exchange student got to reap the benefits.
My favorite line is “trying to find a comfort I longed for.”
What a great thank you to a trusted and loyal friend. Your poem got me thinking about things I may have that long….other than my husband (we were high school sweethearts). When I get home, I will be looking around my home using a different lens. Your poem is a testiment to keeping things as long as they are useful – not just until something new comes along.
Rebecca-I love the litany of your lamp’s life as you shared it. What a lovely time it had! I love the line, “pouring light as I poured over my favorite books”. Your play on pouring and pored made me smile.
I’ll bet you have a very happy lamp.
Oh, wow, Rebecca, I am dazzled by the way you’ve narrated your life through a letter to a $10 lamp! This is fantastic! You have created a series of mini-stories here, all linked by the lamp. Your final line of thanks is poignant. I am so glad you joined us tonight! Come back in March. I want to read more of your poems!
Good morning Allison,
I don’t want this writing challenge to end today. I think we need another week of Allison’s poems and prompts! So much fun. Today’s poem for Linda truly made me feel for both of you. I want to know Linda more. I want more Linda poems. I loved this stanza:
Because Linda
brave, damaged Linda,
hefted that pearlescent monstrosity
on her thin shoulders
and poured out polkas
despite her unthinkable pain.
It speaks to her resilience, something we hope all “damanged” souls eventually possess.
I apologize for not even thinking about the accordion. Linda stole my heart.
Hugs and thanks for an outstanding and empowering week!
Looking forward to today’s poem that I pray will come out sooner rather than later.
I’m with you, Stacey . . . I have lived for these prompts each day. I really seem to need the inspiration and the output lately. I may try to go back through the months and do some that I missed OR I may try to do some of these topics writing on a lighter topic with more economy . . . my two struggles.
Dear Basketball was my mentor text.
Dear String Bass,
You weren’t my first love;
that was the piano,
but you quickly became
my forever love.
I met you in the 9th grade
as a blind date because I was expecting the cello –
the instrument I had requested.
I was destined for another;
I was destined for you.
As a shy teenager, you made me stand out.
It was scary at first, but as I supported you on my leg,
you supported me In ways beyond my imagination.
You helped me grow as a musician,
as a person, as myself.
We spent so many hours together
practicing in the basement of the music wing.
I would play my scales and pieces
over and over until there were calluouses on my fingers,
and my arm tired of pulling the bow across the strings.
I wanted to be good, but you called me to be better.
I became section leader, and.
you gave me the courage to audtion for All-City Orchestra,
You came with me to The Academy of Music, and
as the curtain went up and
I played those first notes with the string ensemble
you calmed my nerves with the familiar feel
of your strong strings and your melodious deep voice.
I can remember it like it was yesterday.
You came with me to college as I started my studies
to become a music teacher.
Then we ventured into the world of parish music ministry.
We played for Sunday Mass, wedding, funerals,
and other special occasions.
We had a good run.
You gave me over 30 years
of your steadfast presence and so many musical memories.
Then it became harder for me to make you sing.
Arthritis and other ailments made it difficult –
difficult to stand and support you –
difficult to hold down your thick strings –
difficult to carry you from place to place.
But that’s OK.
I’m ready to let you go.
I want you to know that I will always be grateful
for the world you opened up to me –
for teaching me to love Bach, & Hayden
Handel & Mozart.
Maybe it’s time for me to really let you go –
to free you from your place next to the piano –
to pass you to the next musician
who can give life to your voice once more.
Love you always,
Rita
Rita — I TOTALLY love this. The whole image of an upright bass is a magical piece of genius in this poem. The bass feels so totally human…so strong and steadfast… “thick strings” … “sing” .. “melodious deep voice”…. the bass is even sort of sexy… I love that! The idea that you both sort of held each other up…that’s a great relationship! Totally WOWZA poem! I do, though, hope that beautiful deep voice can stay with you…right there by the piano keeping you company. Even though, I know you are willing to set this beautiful creature free to sing again for a new life… but hey, having this beautiful story right there is a touchstone to your heart. Love it! Thank you for sharing this on our last day in this wonderful week together! Susie
I truly feel like I just read an intense love letter . . . you pulled this off masterfully! I don’t want you to let the string bass go. What an unselfish love!
This is a wonderful love letter to a venerable instrument. I loved the way you addressed it—a wonderful companion for you through your musical life. It will be hard to send it forward into it’s new existence…
Dear socks, you are often
lonely, does that bother you?
Left on the floor, so close to
your companions in the hamper
Near the shoe rack or in a shoe
Then you are separated from your
partner more often than the
human brain can comprehend.
Dear lego piece, somehow you
ended up wedged in
a nectarine in my husband’s lunch.
I was to blame but didn’t take
responsibility. Be thankful you
didn’t end up in his digestive tract
Dear worksheet, as a parent and educator
I despise your arrival in my dwelling.
A name and a few fill-ins don’t earn
you a spot on our fridge or floor.
Enjoy the junk drawer or recycling bin.
I’d prefer you just not visit anymore.
Dear blankets, we love your snuggles
there are no apologies for dragging
you across the floor like a royal cape
or leaving you near the coat rack in
exchange for more appropriate attire.
Your unfoldedness signifies the kids’
need for you. Don’t be upset by
Daddy’s disgust of your overuse,
he is jealous and you are worth it.
Stephani — This is waaaay funny. I was here yelling, “Yeah, baby! Right!” Socks — I love the acknowledgement of the separation anxiety. LOL! And the Lego piece stuck into a nectarine….hahahahaha! Hilarious! And great tone with “be thankful you didn’t end up… digestive track”…LOLOLOLOL! You bet! Too funny. My favorite, though, is the doggone worksheet! Oh MAN…this would send me parking my parent-butt in the teacher’s face with one big question: When are you going to retire these and actually get my kid writing!? As you can tell…. I absolutely loathe worksheets in the classroom….when so much exciting writing and exploration and discovery and production and creativity and inquiry can be turning kids ON ON ON! Anyway…I’ll calm down now… and back to the hilarity of your poem. What a terrific cap to our 5 days of writing together. Thank you for cranking out this baby this morning! Susie
Stefani,
I’m still laughing at this:
Dear lego piece, somehow you
ended up wedged in
a nectarine in my husband’s lunch.
I was to blame but didn’t take
responsibility. Be thankful you
didn’t end up in his digestive tract
That has to be true – because no one could make up the random humor in that. Hilarious!
Your poem has more items of epistolary focus, so I’m thinking you write yours in the style of Nye. I do love the random items and think the Lego piece adds not only to the randomness of items but also to the randomness of out-of-place appeal, which is just perfect in this piece! I want to see face when he discovered the LEGO piece in the nectarine. What was his reaction – and the reactions If those nearby? “Building blocks of a more balanced diet?” Or “it beats stepping on it?”
I’ve just read and reread your poem so many times! I’ve just been smiling so wide as I read each little letter. My favorite are the worksheet and blanket letters. I love that it doesn’t deserve a place on your frig or floor! Just beautiful. I can see the well-loved blankets strewn across the floor now. Thank you!
I’m not crazy about this at all. I don’t think the metaphor of a relationship . . . falling in love, dating, marriage, potential divorce really works. But, here it is . . .
Dear School,
From my earliest memory of toddling
behind my dad into his office
at the old Lincoln,
I fell in love with you.
A romance so deep that I kept coming
back for more.
And more and more.
From the TV-table-turned-desk
in my childhood closet (my clothes were my students)
to my first classroom at the old JMS
and my bright and shiny new classroom at the current school . . .
my heart and mind were always filled
when surrounded by you.
We’ve all spent time with you
and many have hated most every second,
but
I could never get enough.
I love the feel
the vibe
the emotion
you bring.
I heard you call me
from a young age
and I never really felt a pull
to go anywhere else but
with you.
Your walls, floors, and ceilings
enclose me in a sanctuary where I feel
100% at home.
Your doors open to the seemingly endless flow
of eager and not-so-eager learners
day after day after day.
Once, your doors remained open all day.
Today, necessity and fear led you to
close yourself off,
protecting your inhabitants
from outside harm
With you has come droves of
impressionable,
insightful,
indefatigable
adolescents
who have taught me as much
as I have taught them.
They have inspired me
touched me
exasperated me
disappointed me
frustrated me
invigorated me.
There are days, it feels like
I have been with you forever
Yet others, it feels like
you and I joined yesterday.
In many ways, you seem unchanged,
steady, timeless
Yet in others, you feel revolutionary,
malleable, flighty.
22 years of dating you
Then 32 more of the full commitment of marriage
We’ve been together for decades
More than a generation
Friends have come and gone
I was young
I grew older
I got married
I had kids
You were with me every step of the way.
My constant
My guiding star.
I don’t believe in divorce
I suppose it’s necessary in some cases
when there are irreconcilable differences
I don’t feel that
Do you?
A trial separation?
To see if I have an identity without you?
Maybe we’ll fall asleep permanently
together
like Noah and Allie
Holding hands
dreaming of what was and what is and what will be.
~Susan Ahlbrand
28 January 2020
Susan, thank you for this poem, I think it works and had me questioning the cliche that we are married to our work. I like your play on dating and marriage, I had to reread to grasp its meaning. I also really appreciate the trial separation stanza, it made me both laugh and ponder.
I like your reference to The Notebook in the last stanza. Girl, Ryan Gosling would be proud.
I was wondering how many people would recognize that allusion!
Susan — You say so many wonderful things here that it makes me very glad that you are a teacher…that you and school have got it “goin’ on,” my friend! School/teacher…you were meant to be together “every step of the way.” Even the mixed emotions fit so well … “exasperated” and “frustrated” to “invigorated.” True to a long love. I loved the little girl at the beginning who played school. I’ve written about this very thing myself…playing school… foretelling. The “closed off” part was important…that change after all the horrors of guns…that really is the saddest thing. Alas. I really appreciated your poem a great deal. School Rules, Susan! Thanks, Susie
Awwww….just awwww. I love how you have perfectly captured what it is to be a teacher for the long haul. As I watch retired teachers return to the classroom, I can now see their official retirement as a “trial separation” that failed. Will any of us have an identify after our service ends.
Love this!
Braided Trio
Dear Moleskine Journal,
You’re a legend –
my favorite affordable luxury (don’t tell the Pilot).
You’re in MY hands, holding MY thoughts and ideas –
But before mine –
You held the depression of Hemingway- Ernest,
The renderings of VanGogh – Vincent,
And the adventures of Chatwin – Bruce –
Who first called you a Moleskine,
Packing you into his pockets for every journey.
If you can handle the depression and adventure of those explorers,
Surely you can handle my little old rural farm life and times.
Dear Pilot Varsity Fountain Pen,
You’re a classic –
My favorite affordable luxury (don’t tell the Mole).
You pick MY brain and share MY secrets –
But before mine –
You shared the side-splitting tales of Twain – Mark,
With his Conklin Self-Filling,
And the mysteries of Doyle – Conan,
With his Parker Duofold,
And the horror of Lovecraft – Howard (H.P),
With his Waterman.
Even Hemingway himself – Ernest,
Has Montegrappas designed for all the phases of his life –
The Soldier, The Traveller, The Fisherman, and The Writer.
If you can stretch into those deep-thinking wells,
Surely you can dip into my little old shallow basin.
Each of you has my heart –
And while I don’t play favorites
Or do love triangles,
I can’t choose between the two of you.
So we shall live our days as a braided trio –
My Pilot, My Moleskine, and little old me!
Kim, this is amazing and I am still laughing. I love all the literary references, the braided metaphor and denial of love triangles. I think you should submit this to the marketing departments for both companies:)
I love the “love triangle.” I can so relate to those special feelings we have with our writing tools. I also love all the literary references. You made me realize just how important little old me and my favorites are in the grand scheme of things. We aren’t that different – just not that published! Thanks.
I wrote a letter to my notebook as well. I like how you refer to those famous writers; Surely, if you done for them, you can for me.
Kim,
There’s a softness to your poem today. The way you whisper to the moleskin and the Pilot Fountain Pen conveys tenderness and care. I love the way you invoke writers whose craft turned on these common implements: Hemingway, Doyle, Twain, et al. These muses, the journal and pen as the writers whose words influence our own, privilege craft. I love the “if” and “surely” clauses, such as this one:
“ If you can handle the depression and adventure of those explorers,
Surely you can handle my little old rural farm life and times.”
Beautifully rendered.
“Each of you has my heart.” I adore this love song to your writing implements. And I like the references to writers with the inverted last name – first name. And I’m wondering, “How do you know about their writing preferences?” And how lovely to think of the three of you braided together sharing your rural farm life and times.
Here is one of the links
https://luxipens.com/18-famous-authors-and-their-fountain-pens/
And the Moleskine insert with the history is the other place. I read strange inserts 🙂
Dear sunshine-yellow mug,
It’s a ritual we share
early mornings before dawn.
No one else is invited
for this time is sacred.
The coffee chugs along noisily
while I prepare for this sacrament
So many other simple pleasures in life
lose their joy far too quickly
But this–my first cup of the day–
is a perennial treasure,
one that never fails to fulfill.
You remind me anew that “Life Is Good”
with your bright orange flower.
Thank you for sharing this time with me.
What a beautiful way to thank your brightly colored mug that set the tone for your day, with the rich dark roasted flavor of AWAKEN TO THE WONDER OF LIFE inside!
Julie, thank you for this poem. It makes me think of a book I recently read, Better than Before by Gretchin Rubin. The idea of habits and what is sacred to us is so important. We often don’t identify or write letters to those small elements that help support certain daily habits. I really like the phrases: “prepare for this sacrament” and “perennial treasure” as they add to the importance of this part of your day.
Julie,
Such a loving letter to your sunshine-yellow mug. I am a lover of coffee and cute mugs too. Funny how they take my heart for awhile and then on to the next. Do you only drink from that one? I admire that loyalty.
Sweet description of the “coffee chugs along noisily/as I prepare for this sacrament” I almost feel sorry for it for chugging along. LOL. Thank you for this reminder that tomorrow morning “Life is Good” again for me too!
Allison,
I want to thank you for all the wonderful prompts this week. Your gentle hand has led us in a way that worked for me. Your mentor poem today resonates with kindness and love for Linda. My husband and I regularly go Cajun or Zydeco dancing, so the accordion is a favorite instrument.
I did this activity with my students after Kobe’s death. I shared a few of their poems here: https://reflectionsontheteche.com/2020/01/28/slice-of-life-goodbye-kobe/
I’m sure I wrote beside them as I always do, but I can’t remember what I wrote.
Thanks again for a thoughtful and poetry-filled week.
Margaret, I love the poems your students wrote–that green pen! I love connecting to kindred teachers, and I believe we have done that this week! Thank you so much for being here, and for sharing your words and spirit! <3
Allison — Another beautiful example of your heart and art that are both so intwined in every stanza you’ve offered us this week. I was so moved by the symbolic “heaving/wheezing/sonorous insistence (loved those ssss sounds)/that life should be/hugged/ and squeezed” and of course, the connection to what brought joy both to you and to Linda. Plus, you captured the connecting moment so beautifully as she “hefted that …monstrosity” (almost like another burden) to her shoulders” — like her shoulders knew that “pain.” It gives strength to you both. Wow, this is really quite something. What a warm week you’ve given us…so fitting in this cold February.
I can’t write till later on today…have to zoom off in a few. See ya’ll later today. Hugs all around, Susie
Susie, you are a magician at showing me aspects of my poems I hadn’t realized–that monstrosity as another burden. It’s as if you shine a rosy spotlight on my words and they suddenly look better! You are the BEST reader! 🙂 I have parent-teacher conferences today, so I’ll hop on and read poems as time allows. Looking forward to yours, dear friend!
Allison,
Oh my goodness, what an impacting person/event from your childhood, and I love that it’s the accordion that you connect to Linda.
This is so powerful, and I especially love the power of the repeated P sound in these last lines:
“Because Linda
brave, damaged Linda,
hefted that pearlescent monstrosity
on her thin shoulders
and poured out polkas
despite her unthinkable pain.
Dear Linda,
I play this polka
for you.”
Your passion letter is to her after all.
Yet another fantastic inspiration. I had my students write these in the wake of Kobe’s death, so i wrote one, too. I wasn’t crazy about it then or now. I will try to hammer a different one out throughout the day.
Susan, I love that many of us shared Kobe’s poem with our students. I want my students to see poetry–both reading and writing it–as a tool for making our way through life. I look forward to reading your poem later in the day, but remember, we welcome all attempts here! I’ve posted “not crazy about it” poems in these monthly challenges. The kindest, gentlest readers still managed to find something nice to say! <3
Allison,
Thank you for all of your prompts and poems this week. Your craft is one to be modeled after.