Inspiration
The temperature in Chicagoland is warming up. Where do you live? Can you go outside? Yes? Perhaps today’s poem can be inspired by your neighborhood or literal (even figurative place) in the world.
Go to the place. See if your sidewalk (or street, or grass, or gravel) brings you a poem. (Inspired by “Where the Sidewalk Ends”.)
Poem Pointers
- Begin with the first line “There are no X here.” There are no houses, birds, grass, streets, lights, children, swings, etc.
- stanza 1: continue by imagining “it” is lost or has died or does not exist (grass, playground, sky, birds, flowers, streets, light posts, lines in the street, people, basketball court, baseball/soccer field, people in the stands). Why has it ended? Is it no longer safe? What has taken its place? Why is it important to the community, what would be lost if soccer fields ended, for example?
- stanza 2: discover that it does exist and even advise others to take advantage of it. What do people need to STOP doing or START doing to appreciate what these places can do for humanity? Or what needs to change about these spaces to make it SAFE for humanity?
Sarah’s Sidewalks
There are no sidewalks Here
to carry our family
to the park,
to our neighbors,
to buy a gallon of milk.
Why have the sidewalks ended?
What is that you say?
I must go outside to see
indeed there are sidewalks Near?
Ah, those concrete squares are walk
ways. Oh, they are Here.
for us?
to carry us?
to
each
other?
Then, let’s go for a walk.
I’ll meet you outside.
I struggled with the prompt today, so I posted one that I wrote as a model with my eighth graders who were assigned a poem that captured the essence of an activity:
Insanity
Early morning.
Y A W N
!STARTING BELL!
Begin with a slow jog.
Transition to spider l u n g e s.
Muscles groan, the mind complains.
Keep going!
5 minutes in–heart rate up
Feeling strong, feeling capable
Stiffness leaves my limbs
Keep going!
10 minutes in–starting to sweat
Activities intensify–
Rotational burpees, frog jumps, plank jacks
Becoming breathless
Keep going!
20 minutes in–grit is all I got
Instructor pushing
Higher, faster, stronger
Fighting to maintain momentum
Keep going!
30 minutes in
Can we do any more squats
Breath come in gasps
Fifteen
More
Seconds
!FINAL BELL!
Stop and S T R E T C H.
Any poem is welcome, Gail. Thank you for taking us into these movements and the jargon : “rotational burpee, frog jumps.” Fun but intimidating!
The Vast Expanse
There is no sky above-
only billowing clouds in browns, grays, and blacks
from tall belching towers that press my spirit into the ground.
Lost is the blue with white puffy clouds,
the purply/pink/red setting the horizon on fire,
and the endless black dotted with diamonds.
Gone is gazing at the vast expanse,
watching my soul soar free from its binding chains-
I weep.
My own sobs wake me-
free from the grip of a nightmarish vision,
a glance at the window eases my stress.
I bow my head in thankful silence and
move to the porch to rest my eyes on
miles of endless blue.
Join me, won’t you, to gaze at the vast expanse and
watch our souls soar free from their binding chains-
we appreciate.
The Last Days
Gray muzzled
When she came to us
for eight years
She’s harrumphed and sighed
as I made the bed around her
She’s trotted toward
me as though she wanted petting
She’s ducked away
at the last second
She’s stood beside my chair and growled
To get her back scratched
She’s jumped up and trotted down the hall
when we asked if she was ready to go to bed
This morning,
standing and stretching,
she fell
Walking to the shop,
fell from the porch
Heart
Murmur
Arthritis
Fluid
Build-up
For
now
she
lies
gently
snoring
behind
my
chair
Melinda – Your poem shares a very touching and familiar heart. Living and “making my bed around her” are pieces of my life with my ol’ boy as well. I get so sad to see him age. I hope the sleep is gentle always. Thanks for sharing what is so much a part of your heart. Susie
Thank you, Susie! Now we only adopt old dogs, and she is the last “youngster” that we rescued. These last months are always difficult.
There are no birds here
to welcome the sun
to chirp news of life
to tune up the air
to tweet “All is well.”
Why are there no birds?
Wait! What is that I hear?
I still my soul and listen —
maybe there are birds near?
Ah, the dove coos and the cardinal cheers
and the mockingbird sings a cheeky ballad:
All is well.
Oh!
All
Is
Well.
I love to hear the beautiful songs of birds. This poem warms my heart and makes me glad spring is here. My favorite line-“I still my soul and listen.”
April 5, 2019
MARBLE-LESS
Where’d my marbles go?
They were here the other day,
pinging off the walls,
rolling under my feet,
scrambling my gait;
some were cat’s eyes,
orbs of clear perception
with those vertical pupils by day but
ghoulishly round and able to see things in the uncertain dark;
others were big ol’ shooters
for blasting away the other demon marbles,
aggies with marvelous win records,
coveted by the marble-less;
but today
my marbles are gone, spent,
swirling down the rabbit hole
after too much editing and bleary-eyed computerizin’.
It’s happy hour,
and I’m off to find my marbles.
by
Susie Morice
Ha! Love the way this sets the reader up for a literal interpretation of “marbles” and moves us into the symbolic “losing our marbles.” Happy hour is a good plan for recovering marbles.
Susie – you know I love almost everything you write, but this one made me laugh out loud. Girl, you are a looooong way from losing your marbles!
Thanks, Jackie!
????????
Susie– Pure joy. You had me smiling with the first question: “Where’d my marbles go?” I have not uttered this phrase in some time, but I am going to revive it! Indeed, it is happy hour. I am going to enjoy a few more poems and then join my husband for some more happiness — maybe I will find a marble in the bottom of my Sav Blanc.
As others have noted, your twist from literal to figurative is brilliant! I am still chuckling.
Clothed in burnt clay brick,
she is a beauty to behold.
An oasis for intellectuals,
her beating heart is books.
Purveyor of knowledge,
protector of possibility,
may you ever stand tall
nestled among the oak trees.
-my library
I so appreciate your celebration of your library here. I can’t imagine a life without books. “Purveyor of knowledge/protector of possibility” — beautiful alliteration and hope.
What a beautiful tribute to books! I love that it is clothed in burnt clay bricks – very classic and stately! Dignified.
“protector of possibility” — amen! Libraries really are alive things. Thanks.
“Where Hope Ends” by Ms. M’s 7th grade English Class
There are no villages here
to hold the fur people
and before the Janjaweed came
the lands of Darfur
the land of the fur
the land of golden wheat, milking goats,
now lays scorched
blackened ash
bombed, burned in brutal raids.
There are no people to wake the moon.
Where are the people of the Land of the Fur ?
Mostly elderlies,
women,
boys,
girls
babies
forced to flee in search of safety
to a place where freedom ends.
Yes, they will walk with a walk that is dangerous and dark
and will go where they are free of potential attacks
For the Darfurians know, and the government knows, they are marked.
To a place meant to provide a haven
To a place where there is little hope of returning home.
Where are the people of the Land of the Fur ?
**thank you for inspiring me to use your idea and write with my students. We are responding to “The Red Pencil” by Andrea Davis Pinkney, a novel in verse about the Darfur Conflict. This is our class poem!
I just got this book today. I’m so glad to see your students wrote the poem with you – what a beautiful collaboration. This book is part of The Book Love Summer Reading club. I can’t wait to read it – now I may choose it first ahead of the other books! Thanks for the poem!
Whew, what a grand teacher you must be to elicit this wonderful poem from 7th graders! Congratulations to them and to you.
What a fantastic idea! I love this book, and what a treasure your students created. Thank you For sharing!
Thank you, Deb. I am not sure if you know but my doctoral dissertation was on reading genocide literature with middle and secondary students. I am glad to know you are uncovering this atrocity with your students using the tender verse in THE RED PENCIL. Thank you for this poem that grapples with the questions that defy answers, unimaginable.
This poem that you wrote with your students is so rich! It really shows compassion toward the refugees suffering. My favorite lines: “bombed, burned in brutal raids. There are no people to wake the moon” and “forced to flee in search of safety to a place where freedom ends.” Thanks for sharing!
“Coming Up for Air”
And on that day
I said to my preservice teacher,
enjoy, explore, and experiment –
the classroom is yours –
I am off to explore the depths myself.
Leaning off an edge
I once teetered upon, I splashed –
free diving –
into my work.
As the surface faded
my focus narrowed
on the dark unknown
where the waters,
in their inky darkness,
call to me from the depths.
I marveled
at bioluminescence
of far-off flickering lights –
chasing them –
getting lost –
enveloped by
invisible pressures.
For weeks that seemed
like months I lingered,
growing accustomed
to sensory deprivation.
Gaining knowledge.
Gaining confidence.
Gathering inertia.
My lungs burned
in the blue-black
of those depths and
I look up
seeing a circle of light
wavering
in the distance
and longed for home.
With a flurry of legs kicks,
my hands cupping water,
I climbed to the surface
and came up for breath.
There,
bobbing in
the salty sea,
a new fear
washed over me.
I had been gone
for so long,
would I be
welcomed or
wished back
into the sea?
I secured my poems,
stood at the door
of my classroom,
and drew a deep
apprehensive
breath.
Faces I recognized
from long ago
smiled and one said,
“Who is this stranger
I see before me?
He is so familiar.
Welcome.”
And on the day
of my return,
I learned
a return home is,
at times,
better than
the latest
goodbye.
Thank you for sharing this experience of learning how to be away from the ‘faces” and then the experience of rejoining them once again. There is habit of mind and being that you express so beautifully with the extended metaphor of water– interesting the juxtaposition of “gaining confidence/gathering inertia.”
That dive is a fitting comparison to the time out while your student teacher took the reins! I love the feeling of air deprivation when you felt like you were somewhere you don’t breathe as easily!
Andy — That last part…what a great finale. I remember leaving my classroom and the weird feeling that was to leave my kids to the mercy of a student teacher or a sub…egads… at one moment a total rush and then it just feels so odd and uncertain. You have a clear connection to your students, and this poems makes that very clear as you don’t want to suddenly be a “stranger.” The water images are very effective … “blue-black” “bobbing in salty sea” — the sense of being a fish out of water in some ways is very real. Cool poem. Thanks for sharing and having a chance today to break away and be a poet again. Susie
I appreciate the swimming metaphor you weave throughout your poem and the image of a deep dive into your own learning while hosting a student teacher. I’m curious about how symbolic vs literal your deep dive is. I’ve had colleagues who wave goodbye on a student teacher’s first day and return in the last. Having hosted eight interns in my career, and not straying too far away, I’m interested in others’ approach.
It was effective to compare the time away from your classroom to a dive. You really aligned the two experiences well! It’s nice to have an opportunity to explore, but that makes the “return home” more sweet. Thank you for sharing your poem!
i obviously did not write this today, it was a 2 year project, but i think it fits the prompt. the poem is actually four rondeaus under a single theme. thank you for the space to share.
Rondeau pour les Quatre Saisans
For the woken long since abed
moraine strewn highway spans ahead.
Embattled stretch; asphalt; concrete.
Dismal hostage revealed beneath
as winter’s white succumbs to ebb.
Grayscale hues from granite through lead
gives way to nature’s vibrant breath.
The chickadees sing nature’s suite,
for the woken.
Harbinger’s cue—not all is dead.
Soon the return of cousins fled.
Whispered nature through rustled leaves,
bluebirds of days grown longer tweet.
Soon their song with the garden wed,
for the woken.
For the thriving in nature’s sway,
there’s shorter nights and longer days.
Come the evening, the sun still bright,
photogreen lungs breathe in the light,
exhaling their fragrant bouquets.
In silver maples sparrows play,
flutter and flit then fly away.
Revel and fancy in their flight
for the thriving.
Flowers host an airborne ballet.
Honeybees float dip and sashay,
integral pollinating sprites
harness energy born of light.
Affirming life giving display
for the thriving.
For the waning days approaching
chlorophyll begins its slowing.
Production becomes no more,
reds and yellows the new décor
shed in ritual unloading.
The sky gives an air foreboding
to the vibrant things provoking
apprehension for what’s in store
for the waning.
With winter’s chill encroaching,
living things are set to motion.
Creatures gathering their food stores
before Autumn’s closing encores
when the green things cease their growing
for the waning.
For the dormant safely sleeping,
slowed heartbeat and shallowed breathing.
Subsisting on their stored supplies,
many long moons until they rise
to conclude their dormant dreaming.
Along the ground frost is creeping,
ponds and streams succumb to freezing.
Elements yield no compromise
for the dormant.
To the sun the chill conceding,
comes a time the frost receding.
Anon the birds return to sky.
The creatures rouse to spring’s reprise.
Wind and warmth restores life’s meaning
for the dormant.
Steve – Love the way you capture colors, moods, and routines of the seasons. I read from last stanza back to first and enjoyed the cyclical form. Thank you for sharing.
I took a cue from Andy and read backwards, too. Love the use of the dash. Love the alliteration: flutter, flit, fly. Love the musical imagery and the circularity of seasons. Your poem reminds me of a Gerard Manly Hopkins poem called “Spring to Fall,” I think.
BEYOND THE WALLS
After I quit teaching
Friends asked me if
I missed it.
How do you answer a question like that?
Do I miss mandatory testing?
Yeah, like an ingrown hair.
Do I miss potty duty?
Yeah, like an ear infection.
Do I miss that 5 a.m. alarm?
Yeah, like a pimple on my butt.
Do I miss the wisecracks?
The slam of locker doors?
The smell of pencil shavings?
Do I miss fresh haircuts and stale excuses
And sudden understanding?
Yes. Like every day for the rest of my life.
Jackie – Your comparisons to bodily irritations like, “ingrown hairs,” “ear infections,” and “pimples” ground the school irritations seem a natural, however uncomfortable, reality. Thank you for sharing.
Hi, Andy — I was trying to keep it sensory. Glad you got it. Jackie
This is the struggle: so many frustrations, so many problems to solve, yet somehow life would be a little empty without it all. I enjoyed reading your poem!
So appreciate all of the imagery here, Jackie. Truth! It is such joy, a privilege, to witness these experiences.
? I’m still laughing about the pimple! I love your humor in the truth and the realization that you really do miss it!
Jackie — Aww, it made me smile to read this…to get to the end and see that last line. You really are a teacher to the bone. Those recollections of locker door, pencil shavings, john duty…. yeah, that’s a piece of the career that never leaves us. Thanks! Sooze
Of course testing is a boil on the butt of education, but I get the irony in your list and the truth in that last line. “Ingrown hair” is funny.
Signs of Hope
There is no water here.
The flow stopped.
The weeds have grown.
Where will the ducks nest?
Where will the kids play?
There is no clean water there.
Why did industry leave?
Why did they leave such waste?
Woe to insensitive lawmakers who refuse to act.
Woe to industries who refuse to clean up.
But, will that community have clean water again?
Is there hope for clean water?
Dear God, move lawmakers to act with haste, not waste.
Dear God, inspire us help neighbors with kindness, not condescension.
We pray for clean water to flow there again.
We pray the the ducks will nest and swim there again.
We pray that children will grow up to play again.
Ah, I see the sun is rising earlier!
Ah, there is hope here.
Winter is passing.
Water will flow again.
Ducks will fly in again.
Kids will come play again.
Thank you, Lord, for sending the signs of hope!
Anna – the contrast between industrial/political waste and the vision of hope you offer is uplifting. Thank you for shining a positive light through the smog.
My 7th graders wrote this poem prompt today, and I was so surprised to see how the tone became one of activism and a reflection of social justice issues. Your poem is stunning. The shift to apostrophe — to directly address god — also with anaphora — repeating Dear God…well, that is just so powerful. Such urgency.
Anna, I can’t help but think about Flint as I read this contemplative, prayerful, questioning poem. You know I look to you as a poetry mentor. This reminds me of poetry as argument and Jennifer Fletcher’s work.
Spring Thaw
Bounding joyously through the snow
Up the deck from down below
Through the sliding door you enter
Cold but clean
Your paws in winter
Spring arrives and moisture seeps
Puddles and pools and muddy deeps
You romp and play and find them all
The messy remnants
Of spring thaw
Up the deck from down below
Through the sliding door you go
Now mud and mire from winter’s war
Lay printed across my kitchen floor
you could have been in my back yard when you wrote this (if those paws belong to a yellow lab…?). love the alliteration “winter’s war” and the imagery with the kitchen floor. from the start the rhythm compliments the active verse.
Oh, my heart melts for the dog play you describe. It reminds me of Mary Oliver’s poem “The Storm.”
I love the focus on the feet through the seasons. Ruth, Drop. The. Mic.
oh how I can relate to this poem… my lab seems to be mimicking your pups actions…finding them all! I love the playful rhythm.
I smiled as I read your poem. Thank you for sharing!
Love the line “Now mud and mire from winter’s war” — the sound of this and the vivid image remind me of our beagle-pointer growing up who track mud into our kitchen because we were too lazy to clean his paws.
Ruth — This was so exactly what has happened here today and my old beast roamed all over the muddy yard, rooting around…. he comes back to the door and stands there looking just like the images you created here. “mud and mire from winter’s war” is absolutely “printed across my kitchen floor” as well. Ha! Fun! Susie
Oh, my goodness! This is my life everyday. I have two Sheltie pups, and oh, the fun they have frolicking in whatever mess they can bring in the house. Does not help my clean floor fetish. Thanks for the smile!
Kindled
The wind swirled the broom handle
of the raging fire
sweeping our farm house into a pile of ashes.
My heart cries
not for the library of rare and cherished books
not for the framed recipes written by my ancestors
not even for the family photograph albums.
My soul yearns
for the back porch swing and the front porch rockers
the first birthday gifts you ever gave me
true gifts of your self, your time, your love, your life
the place where we traded the traffic counts of the city for
the confused rooster, pattering rainfalls,
chirping redbirds, chipping woodpeckers,
languid Loblollies, whispering windchimes,
neighborless peaceful tranquility
of the country
where we held hands and
shared a cup of coffee and a Klondike Bar
prayed fervently to begin the day
talked long into the summer nights of crickets and fireflies
cried over the troubles of our children and
laughed at their silliness
thanked God for their successes
tousled the morning bedheads of our grandchildren
hushed their sobs of bruises
Band-Aided their bumps and bangs
Illegally Cuban-cigar tobaccoed their hornet stings
Breathed the dust settling from the tractor-mown pasture
relaxed our heads against each other with lapfuls of lazy dogs
said goodbye to Archie the night before the cancer won
read scriptures to comfort and reassure us
decided on important matters and made choices together
where we rocked through rough and swung through sweet
swing and rocker glue strengthening and solidifying
connecting and holding
Even if the fire of a nightmare reduced to rubble the rockers and
scorched the swing to nothing but charred cinders of chain and cushion
A phoenix would rise from a single burning ember
Porch swings and rockers kindle fireproof vaults
-Kim Johnson
so descriptive, visual, and emotional. although you express your loss you, at the same time, recognize what was saved. the phoenix metaphor is brilliant.
With the embers and the burning, my body was a chill as you brought us through the history, memories. I was bearing witness to your life and, for that, I am grateful. These lines –” tousled the morning bedheads of our grandchildren/ hushed their sobs of bruises” illuminates the innocence and bonds of family.
The paradox of fire: it destroys and creates, and this is one of the many things I love about this poem: beginning w/ destruction and ending w/ the hope of something arising again. The imagery is wonderful: rooster crowing, sharing a Klondike bar, Cuban cigars, fireflies. All of it is so lovely. I’m wondering when your home burned. Was it the Camp Fire? I know a couple teachers whose homes burned and a friend whose parents’ home burned a few months ago. I’m thinking of them as I read your poem.
Kim — Wow! This is wonderful! I really was glued to this as I was reading. The images of losing so many things and finally knowing that your phoenix would rise is quite a journey. You’ve shared those country images of the woodpeckers and crickets and hornet stings and whispering wind chimes…that take me right to that place. Lines that sounded so lovely as I said them out loud were “rocked through rough and swung through sweet” . And I loved that so much can be vaulted and fireproof… no one can take away these memories. Love it! Susie
From a Walk
Yellow Light,
Formless Energy,
The eternal constant.
The being, of all being,
Infinite beyond knowledge.
Faith?
I could only presume
Outside my realm of reason.
The common bond
Blue filter sky
Photo-green leaf,
Gatherer – converter.
The girl in the pink dress,
Progeny glucose pulsing through her
purple veins.
The gray stone? Yes, the gray stone,
Life, is more than we can imagine.
You do it every time! You write beautifully – I love your use of color and the emotions and questions and beauty connected to each one. You just took us all in your nature walk and had a deep conversation with us!
I want to go on walks with you! Thank you for showing us light, sky, leaf, girl, stone with fresh eyes, This, for me, is the gift of this poem “challenge”: in writing and reading poetry every day, my way of being and seeing begins to shift, and my words uttered, considered, and written become more conscious.
Lovely call to observe. Favorite line: “I could only presume / Outside my realm of reason.” Some things must be taken in faith.
The Couch Sitters
—for Jacob, Gideon, Zach, and Spencer
Jacob sits upon the couch
As quiet as can be
Gideon stretches a short nub
And touches Jacob’s knee.
Spencer leans close to Zach
Protector of his pal
Quartet of teens they’re all male
And sans a single gal
Whisper, wink, grin and nod,
A close knit bond they know
They care not for and still ignore
Their teacher’s daily scold
The way these boys act each day
Adults you’d think they’re not
To hazard a guess one might say
They’re more like four small tots.
*This is a silly poem about four boys in my AP Lit and Comp class. Two live in my neighborhood, and I taught siblings of two in the same class three years ago. I posted a photo of the boys on my blog and am sharing this poem w/ their permission. ?
That is so touching that you used a poem about your students. I was picturing my Schnauzers in the action acting like kids until I read the footnote! I know they love this and you capture the way they distract each other so vividly with the way Gideon stretches over and touches. I can see the video!
As I read this scene, I kept thinking of the game Twister and how lives of our students (and bodies) are entwined in the spaces we create in our classrooms. This feels safe and comforting. Thank you for nurturing these moments for the human beings with whom we are entrusted. Much gratitude.