Today’s writing inspiration comes from Kimberly Johnson, Ed.D. She is a literacy coach and media specialist in a public school in rural Georgia. A former public school classroom teacher for 20 Years, she taught all grades except 4th and 12th, and she is the author of Father, Forgive Me: Confessions of a Southern Baptist Preacher’s Kid. Meet Dr. Johnson at NCTE 2019 in Baltimore where she will be giving two presentations: Adventure Book Clubs and Project-Based Learning.
Inspiration
Storytime Poems: Our best times are often spent listening to the stories of others – stories are how we are raised, they are how we learn, they are how we are entertained. Stories are the fabric of who we are. Think of the stories – and storytellers – in your life. These may be family matriarchs or patriarchs, other family members, friends, or even professionals at storytelling festivals – – even podcasts such as The Moth. Write a poem about a storyteller or a story that has had an impact on you.
Kim’s Poem
“Family Dinner”
His greatest stories never started with words.
They began at his heart.
He patted down his shirt pocket
fumbled for his pen
furrowed his wild and unkempt eyebrows
slid his coffee and half-eaten pie to the edge of the table
flattened his napkin and ironed out the creases with the side of his wrinkled hand
clicked his pen
sketched a Parkinson’s- jagged diagram
grasped the bottom of an imaginary globe
drew in a raspy, phlegm-filled breath
and held his audience captive.
He still does.
-Kim Johnson
Post your writing any time today. If the prompt does not work for you today, that is fine– make-up your own prompt or a twist on this one. All writing is welcome. Please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Below are some suggestions for commenting with care. Oh, and a note about edits: The comment feature of this blog (and many blogs) does not permit edits. Since we are writing in short bursts, we all are understanding (and even welcome) the typos that remind us we are human.
Thank you, Kim, for a week of deep thinking, writing, sharing and encouragement. I look forward to revisiting these poems as I consider ways that poetry writing helps us, and our students recall, capture and reflect on people, places, and events in our past that helped shape our thinking about the people, places, and events we experience today
Kim, I love the way you use silence (without words) to prepare us for the storyteller’s words. I can see the family gathered round the table, rapt w/ attention, awaiting the story.
Thank you for this week’s wonderful prompts. You have made me stretch my imagination and challenged my skills. Poetry is hard! But I find myself wanting to write more. Thank you, too, for your kind comments and presence in this community. ❤️
Thank you, Glenda! I love our poetry weeks – and I particularly enjoyed this week of being able to share prompts and watch all the talented word artists create masterpieces that were so original and different and beautiful. I know we are all so grateful for Sarah’s time and commitment to our writing growth. And now I begin counting the days until our time back together in August. For those going back to school between now and then, happy first days back. I know a few of the fortunate ones will be savoring the start of retirement by lingering over coffee on the porch, pen in hand, writing more…….
I’ll be one of those beginning retirement. However, in September I’m attending a writing workshop at the Highlights Foundation. I won a challenge in March during the #SOLSC. I’m pairing the Highlights workshop w/ a memoir writing one run by Beth Kephart. We’re turning these adventures into a road trip, so I’ll be busy.
Candace’s Telling
Aunt Terry talks and reads to me
while I am still comfortably snug in my mother’s womb.
Her voice deep, smooth as silky chocolate, resonating in my ears,
wisdom evoked from generations of ancients.
Mom shares snippets of fables, and fairy tales,
just enough to make me crave the rest of those juicy lines from,
those heavy green and gold Childcrafts.
Mom’s mom “Mama,” cracks jokes,
poses riddles, writes catchy limericks,
characterizes all the family children
as they gather around with delight!
Dad’s mom “Gramma,” reads The Boxcar Children to Sis and me at bedtime;
We can’t stand the cliffhangers! One more chapter, page, paragraph…pleeeease?
I defer phone calls between 5 pm and 7 pm
to share bedtime stories with my little ones.
They don’t even stir when the phone rings anymore; they know what’s up.
Middle school history teacher, Mr. Buck, inspires my youngest
with tales of adventure in faraway lands that
he’s traveled to throughout the years.
Upon invitation, I join the circle of young scholars.
Oh, I can see why.
His tales were so very, very cool!
“I want to do what you do! Inspire to dream big too!”
Flashback to James and the Giant Peach,
The first book that really captures my attention in grammar school,
Excitedly sharing details with captive audiences of
Young friends and family alike.
Roald Dahl visited us here in the classroom –
40 years later, dreams of new friendships still resonating,
we return in kind,
visiting faraway land, mothering new narratives,
giving tribute, to this monument of great tales on the sea.
Candace, you have invited us on a journey through your life as a teller of tales and Hester of stories in this lovely poem. I read “James and the Giant Peach” to my children, too. And don’t we all have a Mr. Buck who taught us w/ stories? Lovely.
Candace, the stories of your family passing on the love of stories throughout life – from womb to adulthood – paints a great picture of how readers emerge. People who don’t understand how readers develop that love of reading would find this poem eye-opening. They curl up in bed, they read spellbinding books, they ignore the phone. They make reading time a priority and invest time in it. I still have my old set of Childcraft volumes that have been my friends since childhood – my very favorite is POEMS AND RHYMES (fittingly, volume #1). I can still recite the entire Purple Cow and parts of Pirate Don Durk of Dowdee. The Boxcar Children are still my childhood friends, too, with their one fork they found. You bring all of these stories back to us and remind us of our wonder of stories as a prerequisite for becoming good readers. Thank you for sharing with us!
My Mother’s Stories
Tonight she can’t remember that she fed Rex five minutes ago.
She skirts hard questions like “Did Adrienne visit today?”
by deftly tugging my father into the conversation:
“Alli wants to know if Ade stopped by.”
My mother’s acrobatic mind once soared without a net
twirling allusions and polymath knowledge
at stunning heights.
A line of poetry balanced
atop a galloping reference to
political conditions in Tanzania.
And she was a storyteller.
Propelled
by the urgency of her stories–
Possessing an honesty so shocking,
her audience was at once
magnetized and repelled.
As storytellers do,
she honed her art.
Telling and retelling
the stories of Chuck’s death,
her children’s births,
of losing her breasts.
And tonight
She can’t remember if Ade took her to Fareway this afternoon.
But she tells us how
Chuck’s right cheek grew dark on the pillow side
as his left cheek paled,
so she knew he had died
even as the iron lung breathed on.
Allison, this poem breaks my heart. What I hear in your poem is more than a story about your mother’s “acrobatic mind” and her stories about Chuck. I also hear the story of a daughter’s pain as she watches her mother grow old and observe her faculties change through the ravages of time and disease. You are brave to be so open. Thank you. Your poems make me feel way down deep in my soul.
Oh, Allison, you take us to that moment with you – – and we understand so fully that we’re superimposing our own names and faces into the poem and seeing our own mothers and hearing their voices asking our fathers if our siblings stopped by, and checking the dog bowl to see if there is food, then checking the garbage to see if there is an empty can at the top because our own Rex can’t answer this question. Your poem is so real and so vivid, so sad that we feel tears coming, but so humorous at the same time because their clever strategy to get to whether our sibling dropped by is so trademark smart that it shows they still are good at figuring things out – just as our mothers have always done. I love that her audience was at once both magnetized and repelled with her brutal honesty. Those insights make us question what our children will one day say about us. I love that you share little snippets of her memory about the dark cheek and her children’s births, because the snippets seem to be what lives on when they progress that way. You show us how when the memories fade from what was once a glorious full picture, it was always really a mosaic, and only certain fragments of it remain. Thank you for sharing your own memories, and thank you for resurrecting ours of our own mothers and sometimes overfed and sometimes underfed family dogs.
Our stories are who we are,
but only if we share them.
How much of our lives, then,
do we keep hidden away,
never letting those around us
know who we are deep inside?
When we are gone,
who will remember our stories?
Will they be shared freely,
or will future generations
have to work like detectives,
piecing together evidence
and deciding who we were?
I love the questions you ask here. The power of stories are so important, not just in a larger historical level, but a personal level. If you don’t tell your own story, who will? Your last question is so powerful and something f I think about probably more than I should! Thank you for sharing!
Mo, I love a wise poem. You have me thinking about how we are all telling our stories in verse in this space, how we are bearing witness to one another’s lives but still have to be detectives to fill in the white spaces until we learn more. Thank you
Thank you for this poem, Mo. You are optimistic to suggest future generations will try to piece together our untold stories. In case they don’t, let’s tell them now!
Mo, you pose important questions about the narratives we construct about ourselves. It isn’t easy to tell all our stories, and I’m not sure we should. Are our own stories true? I think a lot about the silences inherent in stories.
Mo, your poem raises interesting questions. Why don’t we share more stories? Are we that private? The fear of personal criticism, the chance of losing support of others or even jobs in some cases, the likelihood of disappointing family members, the need to not tip our hand for strategic reasons….all of these and more keep so many stories and truths from spilling out in full color like a bag of M&Ms in a candy jar for all to enjoy. I think of the assumptions of stories we create about others BECAUSE we don’t hear the true story – something we don’t even realize we do until we’re at a relative’s funeral later on down the line and hear the story from the “other” cousins’ perspectives and realize that our version didn’t align. I love this poem as a reminder to share our stories – to write them down in a journal, to go to the dreaded family reunions and put the iDevice down and listen, to blog, to talk, to ask questions, to seek understanding of who folks are – – and who we ourselves are. Thank you for sharing with us!
I recently found a note that my grandmother had written to me in 1999. I learned another small piece about the woman she was. She suffered from Alzheimer’s, so she wasn’t able to tell me all of her stories.
The stories you could tell
they show in the soft silver of your hair
as I gently combed it for you.
I saw them in your hands
as they held mine
just like when I was a little girl.
They spoke through your eyes
when you could no longer find your voice.
I learned the story of your love
every day we shared
I learn your story from those who knew you
“You know…”
They tell me.
But, I don’t know.
You listened to me,
Loved me,
and I loved you.
I learn your story from your notes
“Remind the children to work with each other”
I learn your part of story
from my mom,
who can just bear to tell me
after 14 years.
I learn your story
when I look in the mirror
as I get ready to teach,
just like you did.
Your story comes to me
slowly, one piece at a time.
The imagery in the opening stanza – hands, eyes, love/heart – is a lovely tribute to your grandma.
The story of a life, and the stories communicated through eyes, expressions, and physical touch in your poem are sweet. Alzheimer’s is a thief of time and memory, but not a thief of love and family. I love that at the end of the poem, you realize that you are carrying her legacy as you teach a new generation of children how to work with each other. This story will continue unfolding throughout the coming generations as her family expands and shares their memories. Thank you for sharing with us today!
Kate, there is so much to love about your poem. Unfortunately, I think many of us can relate to losing a loved one in a similar way. Your tribute to your grandma is such a lovely way of keeping her stories alive. I can also feel your mother’s pain so clearly. Time heals all wounds, but some wounds take a very long time to heal. I’m sure your mom is so proud of how you have taken after her mother.
So beautiful. “They spoke through your eyes” and “when I look in the mirror” are two lines that really got me thinking about reflection and how those we are reflect and are reflected by us. So beautiful, Kate. Love getting to know you in this way.
“Seeking Storytellers”
With the flatness of a lost
Horizon receding into infinity,
Missouri, Kansa, and Colorado
Stretch into Rand McNally infinity.
The cartographer, unknown to travelers,
Measures each line with the
Precision of the Surgeon’s cut,
Sketching and tracing lines
Along facsimiles guiding seekers of
Geographic and familial tales.
Destinations speak of lost stories.
Journeys are the story in medias res.
There’s the trip and the post trip
Penned in a car’s odometer and the
Travelers’ evolving anecdotes.
On Rocky Mountain face between
Estes Park and Lyons the storytellers
Settled and shared their lore, tales of
Escape from the coming flood.
In their philosophical doom I
Heard mythologies tinged with fear and
Delusion, a crazy born of hope and loss.
Estelle and Louise: Two muses lighting
Metaphysical and geographic journeys.
Stories told to me and for me, a
Young girl mesmerized in the fantasy,
Compelled to seek once upon a time.
Glenda, the collision of journey and story is what I loved most about the Arthurian Legends, and I get a sense of that quest in your poem today. How exciting! It’s neat that you use words like evolving anecdotes, lore, tales, and mythologies and end with “once upon a time.” The stories that mesmerized you as a child prompt you to action even years later. Your poem makes me think of the power of books to move us to seek places, truths, and adventures that would never have otherwise occurred had we not heard those stories and wondered. Yours is the same hunger I wish for all readers – books and stories that inspire us to seek new landscapes! Thank you for sharing with us today.
Glenda, this is fabulous. You’ve brought me back to every cross-country trip I’ve taken in the last 40 years or so. I sometimes get lost thinking about who else has made the same trip, what they saw 100 or 200 years ago, how difficult things would have been, and so on and so on. I feel like you’ve taken it a step further by connecting the stories to these travelers. And your word choice- WOW!
Oh wow! Every line bubbled with strong language combinations–such an energized poem!
Two of my favorite parts:
“the trip and the post trip
Penned in a car’s odometer and the
Travelers’ evolving anecdotes.”
And this:
“Stretch into Rand McNally infinity.
The cartographer, unknown to travelers,
Measures each line with the
Precision of the Surgeon’s cut”
Loved this! Your poetry pulses!
“The cartographer, unknown to travelers,
Measures each line with the
Precision of the Surgeon’s cut,” resonates with me because these lines remind me of an unsung hero, who gets no credit for all the advances made in society, especially in the transportation industry. I know for me, personally, there have been a lot of places I would never have taken a chance to travel to when working in transportation had it not been for the expertise and accuracy of the cartographer’s skill in the Rand McNally and Thomas Guide. Thanks for sharing.
Kim, you’ve given us the story of the storyteller. The actions, patting and fumbling. The character with wild and unkempt brows. The sounds, raspy and phlegm filled. The setting, what I imagine to be the kitchen table. I love that he begins with his heart to hold his audience captive. What a beautiful image. Thank you!
I was totally in when you used the patting of the pocket to make concrete the “from the heart” origins of his stories. The Parkinson-jagged diagram said so much. Thank you for leading us in this week’s poetry journey. Your prompts took me to surprising places in my thoughts and words–which is just what I want a prompt to do! I hope you’ll be back to write with us in August!
Thank you, Allison. I’m so glad you found the prompts enjoyable and challenging all the same. I will be here in August – these weeks of immersion in writing and reading and sharing are the weeks I breathe. I grow as a writer, as a reader, and as a person – because of the spirit of this group.
Thank you, Jennifer. Interestingly, I had a text from a friend yesterday who read the prompt but isn’t part of the group. “Cool poem. Your dad?” she asked. I replied: “Actually, a conglomeration of three of my favorite storytellers: my grandfather and my mother (both deceased) and my husband.” And all 3 keep me tuned in still today. I’ve enjoyed the week with you! See you in August.
Untold Stories
It is the unwritten stories,
the ones sitting between the folds,
buried in the wrinkles and
hiding under glass surfaces,
that linger the longest.
Clutching at unraveling threads
and deepening the shadows.
Ghosts of our pasts
Partners of our presents.
Children of our futures.
Closet dwellers.
Dark horses.
Chatham House members.
The alcoholic’s concoctions.
The cheater’s spun tales.
They speak the loudest.
Reverberating.
Recoiling.
Existing.
Etched and chiseled
into soul stones.
Longing to be free.
I appreciate the way you’re using line breaks and punctuation. It creates a hushed tone and a measured pace that fits the locations of many of the stories (i.e. “between”, “buried”, “hiding”, “closet”). The stillness of the poem is beautiful.
Oh, Jennifer, I think every time I go into a cemetery about the stories of lives buried there and the secrets taken to the grave. I think our world would be crippled if there suddenly emerged an app with untold stories that could suddenly be accessed and heard. Maybe you have the recipe for the next addictive Netflix series here in your poem that raises questions about the stories we’ve never heard and never will……unless for all this time they’ve been being secretly preserved somehow…… I love this poem. It’s a real thinker. Thank you for raising our eyebrows in wonder today.
Jennifer, the topic of untold stories fascinates me. I always feel like there is so much we don’t know, even if we think we do. Your word choice of “linger,” “clutching’,” “dwellers,” “etched and chiseled'” and your -ing verbs make me feel like you may think the same way.
Jennifer, had to read this one several times because the imagery that I was experiencing as I read through it played like a macabre movie in my mind, and I had to start over when I became too distracted. Gave me chills. Thanks for sharing.
Jennifer, I just read through my comment again, and I am not sure if what I meant to say is conveyed here. What I really wanted you to know is I enjoyed every reading and reflecting moment. Thank you so much. ?
Thank you for both comments. I appreciate them and gathered from your first comment what you said in your second.
Jennifer, your diction is crisp and specific. Every word counts, making this an amazing, tightly-structured poem. When I began reading I thought the first lines “sitting between the folds” and “buried between the wrinkles” would be my favorite, but every line and word is my favorite. Splendid work.
CHANNELING JOHN PRINE
The days of classroom recitations
“The Village Blacksmith,”
Hamlet’s soliloquy,
may seem lost to “back in my day”
more aptly,
merely evolved
to other ways of telling,
of voicing all the stories
that matter.
Stories — the world taking full-on advantage of its axis,
spinning us from day to day,
generation to generation,
“eye to eye/soul to soul/ cheek to cheek/
come on, baby, give me a kiss/
that’ll last all week.”
Stories— mapped in a rise
of lump in the throat melancholy
to “cryin’ ice cubes,”
the tickle line
that plants a smile and taps a toe.
When I melt into John Prine’s words,
when the image scrapes across my own truths,
rasps in my throat,
tightens that moment’s breath,
and transports me
till my “feet are wet from thinking this thing over”
while walking off a loss in the rain
to feeling the life drain
from “a hole in daddy’s arm
when he “popped his last balloon,”
I’m laced in Sam Stone’s shoes,
and knowing “broken hearts and dirty windows/
make life difficult to see.”
I remember the grandpa
that “rocked me on his knee/
let me listen to the radio before we got TV/ he’d drive to church on Sundays
and take me with him too/
stained glass in every window/
hearin’ aid in every pew.”
I’d remember that stifled, bottled-up husband and ask
“how the hell can a person
go to work in mornin’, come home in the evenin’
and have nothing to say?”
I’d remember the fumbled relationships
and wish, “Just give me one extra season/
so I can figure out the other four.”
And as I get down to the end of things,
I hold on to the chuckle lines,
and make the kids promise they won’t
“bury me in the cold, cold ground/
I’d rather have ‘em cut me up and pass me all around…
Venus de Milo can have my arms/
look out, I’ve got your nose/
sell my heart to the junk man/
and give my love to Rose.”
Because “in spite of ourselves/
we’ll end up sittin’ on a rainbow/
against all odds, honey/
we’re the big door prize.”
Prine reminds me to say a little prayer,
“forgive each other till we both turn blue/
then we’ll whistle and go fishin’ in heaven.”
by Susie Morice, channeling John Prine
My grandmother helped me to memorize poetry “back in my day.” Those words are with me still. I never thought of this as voicing the stories that matter so thank you for offering that. I had never heard of John Prine and after looking him up, listened to some of his music. I’m glad for the chance to read and respond, but most especially to learn and to discover. Thank you for your words today. Thank you for letting me discover something new and learn along the way.
Susie, I’ve spent some time today on YouTube listening to John Prine – Sam Stone, and with Bonnie Raitt singing Angel From Montgomery to hear these lyrics of stories that you wove through your poem. I love your creativity of the stories told through lyrics set to music. I also love that you made connected classic literature and today’s lyrics both as conduits for sharing timeless messages that matter.
The lines from your poem that I kept re-reading were:
to feeling the life drain
from “a hole in daddy’s arm
when he “popped his last balloon,”
I’m laced in Sam Stone’s shoes,
and knowing “broken hearts and dirty windows/
make life difficult to see.”
Then I listened to the song – “There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes.” You remind us to take a look at our students and consider all the stories they are living. Some are happy, but some are not – some have fearful outcomes and have seen more of that side of life in their few years than their teachers will ever see, and we as teachers must remember that we may be the one constant in their lives that they can count on. I’m so touched by your poem and this powerful reminder today. As someone who has known the pain of a family member with drug addiction – and its devastating impacts – I’m grateful that you bring an awareness that there are those we love and care about living all types of sad stories that beg us to be alert to ways we can make a difference.
Susie, another wonderfully thoughtful poem! The lines
“When I melt into John Prine’s words,
when the image scrapes across my own truths,
rasps in my throat,
tightens that moment’s breath,
and transports me”
reminded me what it’s like to be young and fall in love with and relate to a song so much so that you are living and breathing it. Thank you!
First favorite lines:
“the world taking full-on advantage of its axis,
spinning us from day to day”
“when the image scrapes across my own truths”
And then as you spun into your fabulous Prine-entwined stanzas, I wanted to note them all!
I don’t know most of the songs you alluded to, but I appreciated them nonetheless, and my sister (the REAL Prine fan) will love this on even deeper levels when I share it–which I will do now!
I’m so glad you’ve joined us as a fellow poet this week! My invitation for a little front-porch writing still stands! I-80 Exit 57!
Reflecting on the power of stories, reminds me to encourage teachers to build in time for reading, and encourage students to view reading as a way of learning about themselves and others. Reading widely worked for me; I’m confident it be equally vital in the lives of others. Here’s my story of stories.
Story of a Prize in Fifth Grade
Reading is a way to get away without going away.
I longed to leave, so I read and read and read each day.
This reading won me a prize. I beat the girls and the guys.
Reading more than anyone. That year I was number one.
My teacher took me, the winner to buy,
Thee best book that caught my eye.
MYTHS AND ENCHANTED TALES.
Oh how reading it healed my ails.
At the memory, tears stream, and I cry.
How little I knew about knowing the myths.
They enhanced my understanding of more.
On the really hard essays in history and English
Knowing those myths increased my score.
How little I knew that knowing the stories
Would stoke and teach me how to try harder.
Aphordite, Athena, and Artemis, their glories!
Their stories for me were a starter.
Reading myths from Africa, Asia, and Europe
Showed me how much we’re alike.
Reading stories took me away. That is true.
Yet learning to live where I lived was a psych!
No more need to escape, to avoid my life,
Reading to get away.
I had stories to read. They helped with the strife,
To deal, to thrive, and to stay.
This right here:
How little I knew about knowing the myths.
They enhanced my understanding of more.
On the really hard essays in history and English
Knowing those myths increased my score.
I love this! Reading enhances our understanding of more – – and gives us greater perspective! Your love of reading and a teacher who encouraged your love of reading improved your life from the beginning. I like how you see the “alikeness” of other cultures through reading and inspire you to try harder. You remind us today of the value of myths and stories in our lives, the power of reading, and the importance of being a reading cheerleader! Thank you for sharing with us today!
I can relate to your opening two lines. Reading has been with me for almost as long as I can remember. And sharing the love of books with students is one of my greatest passions. Thank you for showing us what reading was for you and reminding us of why it’s so important to share it with students.
Hi Anna!
Yours is the voice I need. I like the way your words dance between being instructional (“Reading is the way to get away…”) and being vulnerable (“At the memory…I cry.”) This poem makes me contemplate how much of teaching and learning is about the willingness to be emotionally and academically vulnerable.
“Reading is a way to get away without going away.” This line resonates with me because my students have taught me that as much as they enjoy digital media, games, and so forth; they appreciate quality reading time in a peaceful, quiet setting. Since many of my students cannot get that in there home environment, they appreciate “Way Cool Wednesdays,” silent reading in my class. Thank you so much for sharing the value of being well read in these lines.
The Holy of Holies
Our congregation of cousins would prostrate ourselves in play
making believe in hushed tones
while above us two generations of uncles and aunts
conjured the ancestors
spinning our lineage.
They were all swollen ankles, ashy heels, worn trouser socks, and dusty work boots.
Their voices would float above us
thick clouds of hymn rich with cigarette smoke and guttural laughter and residue from midnight’s tears.
We’d brush the hems of their garments
careful not to break their annointed threads.
They would tell
of a brother crouching behind a bush
bee bee gun in hand hunting a mean
grandfather
of a cousin traveling to Paris, TN to confirm
that father’s long journeys produced
another family — twins for each of them.
Their gaffaws quickening us to our knees.
They’d weave together the garments of sharecroppers who pastored, men who warred for ungrateful countries, wanderers who went insane.
They’d tailor robes for women who danced with hips of hypnotists, women who fought like men, birthed babies, and gave recipies like sacrament.
They methodically quilted kindred by
repeating the names
GD, Addie, Frankie, James,
Ruth, Barker, Bertha Mae
like glory pouring into our souls as we played.
Natalie, these were my favorite kinds of stories when I was a kid – – the kind that you are describing is where the adults think the kids are out of earshot and so they let it fly. The things we weren’t “supposed” to hear but did – – in adult language and expression – – no censoring, no holding back. That bee bee gun had me laughing, knowing it wouldn’t do much damage but was a threat nevertheless. I love the idea of conjuring – – we know the ancestors are long buried, but yet we can almost see their ghostly images upstairs laughing with the relatives who are remembering them in such entertaining ways. The whole idea of being such a “stitch” (humorously) is carried in your use of words like weave, quilted, tailored, anointed garments, and threads. Your use of the stitching to show a closely-knit family is so effective here in this poem. Thank you for sharing with us today!
Natalie — This is marvelously rich in images and slam-dunk voice. I love the elders that clearly mark The ancestral stories while the kids create their own stories right under the feet of what came before. “voices would float above us thick clouds of hymn rich with cigarette smoke and guttural laughter…residue” — so packed!! The description of the women—powerful women. “Repeating the names…like glory pouring…”. Just wonderful!! Love this poem. Really love it!! Susie
Wow! You brought us right into your ritual storytelling, a baptism of sorts. I love the word choices (thick clouds of hymn, weave together the garments, tailor robes) throughout this piece. You showed us the reverence for the stories. It brought to mind all of the stories told over and over again at our own family gatherings. This is beautifully written. Would you object if I shared it with my students as an example of rich writing? Thank you for offering this up to us for reflection today.
It’s fine with me if you use it in class. I may work on it a bit more. Would you like for me to send you the final draft?
Natalie, your opening lines drew me in right away, not because this also is my story, but it’s one I wished were mine. We did not live in town with cousins when I was young, so I missed the “congregation of cousins”. But, we, later did hear stories told of our ancestors that both made us proud and challenged us to “do them proud”.
“Our congregation of cousins would prostrate ourselves in play
making believe in hushed tones
while above us two generations of uncles and aunts.”
.”
Thanks for sharing the magic of story telling.
“conjured the ancestors
spinning our lineage.”
I thought this one would be hard. It came more easily than I expected. I haven’t decided if I will share it with who I wrote about or not. I hope the formatting comes through.
He is the stereotype….
Wears the “veterans” hat
Supports the noble causes
The ink scars of Vietnam on his skin
The unseen scars on his heart
His are the stories…
They are not shared often.
When he begins,
All other chatter ceases.
He holds the room with his words.
He is the time-machine…
Transporting us to the jungle.
We see the bridges taking shape.
We hear his buddies’ laughter.
We feel the tension in the air.
His are the memories…
We are blessed to share.
I love the line that says, “He is the time-traveler” because that is the essence of storytelling. It moves us above the laws of physics and beyond space and time. That entire stanza puts me in the room with the listeners. Thank you for that.
Martie, your lines
“He is the time machine…” summarizes for me the power of family stories.
Listening to them helps us see our elders in ways that are different. They link us to our ancestors in ways that photo albums just don’t.
The lines,
“When he begins
All other chatter ceases
He holds he room with his words.”
Are equally powerful. Interesting that talking stops talking! What a image!
Thanks for sharing.
Martie, you’ve done it again! Oh, my! The picture is right there in my mind. You dressed the time machine, gave him a hat and a voice and an audience. I love the ink scars and the heart scars: scars proudly sported and others kept hidden. Your poem reminds me so much of “Ambush,” from The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien. You’ve got a way with words, friend, and it’s a true gift. Throughout my life, as a preacher’s kid, I’ve known older men to sit around and tell their stories at covered dish suppers. Where others walked away and warned others, “He’s telling his war stories again,” redirecting the paths of perceived victims, I was the one beating a path to his table – – and ironically, not for the stories but for the visible time transport that you describe in your poem. When a veteran speaks, the eyes no longer see anything in the present day – – there is passion and excitement and other-worldliness to a veteran telling a story – – reliving the heroic actions of ages past. Thank you, thank you, thank you for bringing us this poem today!
Thanks for the kind words and encouragement. Thanks also for the great prompts this week!
Oh! I hope you do decide to share this. You honor him with these words. I love the ink scars and the unseen heart scars and how he holds the room with his words. You have placed us there with him as well. I am so glad you are blessed to share his memories. He should know that too. Thank you!
“I have a story for you,” she said.
“Let’s have a snuggle while you listen,” she said.
I pulled the heathered pink blankie
satin corners gnawed in anxiety
up to my chin and listened.
“But what—-” I interrupted,
sitting upright with excitement.
“Hush, no questions,” she cajoled,
nudging me back to snuggles gently.
And so I listened,
filling in the gaps,
falling into the fissures
of her wild and glorious
story.
She will be just fine
in first grade.
Sarah, I wasn’t expecting that twist at the end, and I had to think for half a second and then figured it out and smiled. Children win the storytelling contest every day – their excitement, expressions, confidence they still have in the world and people, and their need to convince us that we are listening to the most important thing we’ll ever hear. I liked “filling in the gaps, falling into the fissures” as you listened. I love that you chose a child as your greatest storyteller! Thank you for the smile to start my day.
I love the flip of what is traditional and having the child tell the story and control the narrative. They are so filled with imagination and awe. I also lobe that the edges of the pink blanket show the anxiety the speaker is feeling about the child entering first grade. Even when we know our children will be fine we cling to moments like these to share their worlds and reassure ourselves. Thank you for sharing!
I love surprise endings that make sense, even when I re-read and see that the clues were all there!
Your repeated use of the letter “f” demonstrates the powerful poetic device of alliteration.
Thanks for telling a cool story and modeling how carefully chosen words can tie ideas together efficiently.
Yay for our littlest storytellers. Their creativity and natural voices are often lost. Thank you for capturing this moment, with its gnawed satin blankie and comforting snuggles. I hope this child is a part of your life, perhaps was even you? We need more wild and glorious, along with the tender parts, in our stories.
Sarah, The image “filling in the gap” and “falling in the fissures” are such a wonderful reminder of the way we each construct a story anew w/ each telling, and I can feel that pink blanket in your words. I’m comforted by the images in this lovely poem.