Today’s writing inspiration comes from Susie Morice, writer and editor. She is a consultant with Santa Fe Center for Transformational School Leadership and the Institute for School Partnership at Washington University in St. Louis. Susie is also a Teacher-Consultant with The Gateway Writing Project, a former public school classroom teacher for 30 years, and a poet, who is the winner of Member-at-Large Best Poem, 2014 – Missouri State Poetry Society contest.
Inspiration
Artifact – We have with us evidence of our connections to moments that matter to us. Sometimes those moments are seemingly solitary, and other times these are moments with people that made a difference to us in some way. The evidence is often a concrete item, an artifact, that triggers for us images that poetry can recapture where other forms fall flat.
Process
- What is an artifact for poetry? Sometimes it is a fishing pole, a handkerchief, a hat, a sewing basket, a hammer, a watch… It’s something you’ve hung onto for one reason or another.
- Gather a few artifacts and stare at them for a while. Pick them up, examine them, maybe use them for a moment. Maybe one of those artifacts resonates with you more than the others just now. Zero in on that one.
- If you can, jabber about this artifact to someone…anyone!
- Let yourself think about that artifact. What was it used for? Who used it? Who wished they could use it? Who comes to mind (if anyone)? Walk through your senses and list words and phrases that begin to unearth that artifact from your life.
- Craft a poem that brings back a snapshot of the artifact, recreate it, give it life, and its connection to you.
- Have fun!
Susie’s Poem
“Taking Measure”
Daddy played his slide rule,
like a magical instrument—
perhaps Gershwin understood so many positions yielding
answers—
Fingering his rule’s center slide back and forth,
Daddy knew precisely what he was looking for.
He Eversharped his late-night calculations
in code,
then closed his eyes as if something inside his lids
would grant him epiphanies.
And again, he rubbed his fingers over the straight edge,
unearthing its numbers, recalculating,
slipping up and down the options
for the perfect number, that sweet spot.
His mouth was set
in an embouchure poised for perfect pitch,
his jaw locked,
he pulled hard at the Marlboro
and held it in so long his exhalation measured
against the quiet chuck-and-chuck-and-chuck of his clock radio on the oak desk.
Leaning back in his chair in the sweet swirl of tobacco,
he reached, gripping at the back of his neck,
cracking once, then twice, then again,
as he rocked his head slowly left to right and back to left,
tapping out more code,
till he lowered his face to the rule
then lifted with a slow stretching smile that said it all:
scratching one more scherzo of digits,
he thumbed dead his cigarette among the other butts and ash,
the coda of his long day.
Post your writing any time today. If the prompt does not work for you today, that is fine. 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.
“Lavender”
The aroma started when I was three years old
laying in my parent’s bedroom,
my mother nestled underneath me
The vanilla and lavender lotion
smelled calming and almost bringing me to ecstasy
every night when I would lay in my parent’s bed,
the smell was present
Growing into my skin,
I distanced my nose from the room
I forgot
and moved on in my busy life
Then as I was in the store in my second year of college looking for a candle to buy,
I found an oil that said
“Lavender”
A part of me arose
but I couldn’t place where
I unscrewed the tip and
placed it to my nose
like a sudden and surprising kiss from a long lost lover
I knew
I remembered
It reminded me I was loved
I was mothered
I was still a little girl
and being little isn’t weak
It is simple, sweet, and pure
just like lavender
I immediately bought it
rubbed it on my neck and wrists
I felt more alive,
because it reminded me I was a daughter
a sister
a lover
and now a mother
Grandma
My dearest Karyn
Handwritten notes
Heavenly prayers
Her scent
Her smile
Her style
Time stands still
Time keeps ticking away
Prayers said
Prayers answered
Peace and love fill my heart
A smile settles on my face as I feel her embrace.
Karyn – This is a sure-fire “take me back” kind of feeling… looking over “handwritten notes” and conjuring the “scent” and “smile” and “style” brings Grandma right back. I particularly like the contrasting time movement “ticking away” and halting “stands still.” Your poem works like a journey back to someone precious. Thank you for sharing. Susie
My familia is not my own
My Familia is the world
They praise me, they love me, they adore and glorify me
My familia loves me dearly, they love wholly and completely
They celebrate me
So why do I feel so empty?
Inside my temple, surrounded by tributes to my might and glory I feel nothing
Where did my joy go?
To what plane did it leave me for?
Why is it no longer here, with me, among these ofrendas?
I used to feel triumphant up on that stage
That feels like a million heart beats ago
Back when my bones weren’t so old
That was when I had Hector
Now it is just me
Mi y mi familia
Ernesto De La Cruz
I can feel your desire for answers, your love for your family, and your heartache. Thank you for sharing!
“Grandma’s Quilt Pieces”
Today Great Grandma’s quilt pieces came home.
Grandma Ellen, born in 1893,
Sat in her Marquette Park apartment and
Stitched tiny pieces together into
The Grandmother’s Flower Garden pattern.
You know it…
We’ve all seen it,
The brightly colored hexagons
Sewn together into a colorful blooming mosaic.
Grandma got the fabric from her mother,
Great Grandma Bridget.
Who knows where she got it?
Perhaps at the dry goods shop
On the banks of the River Barrow in County Waterford.
After Grandma Ellen died
Leaving the quilt unfished,
My sister inherited the pieces
In the hope that she would finish the quilt.
Instead, the pieces went with her as she learned
To weave her own story-
Chicago, Kansas, Minnesota, Chicago, Montana, Kansas, New York, Kansas,
And now back home in Chicago,
More faded and worn, and definitely more fragile.
A labor of love.
Seventy-five remaining heirloom pieces,
Too delicate to sew, now framed
For so many great, great, grandchildren to appreciate.
I love the story you have told! I can imagine the quilt traveling from person to person over time, and still it’s journey is not over!
Sorry I posted to the wrong day.
To Dima, the Best Man
The small clock tower stands on my desk.
Four inches of painted clay.
A constant reminder of a distant past.
I remember your first trip to England. I was filled with pride.
You studied and worked and paved a grand future. Wife. Children. Work.
You gave me the miniature Big Ben when I saw you the last time.
Just a small trinket, but I was honored. Am honored.
The phone rang in the middle of the night.
There was an accident. You didn’t know the transformer was charged.
You were just doing what the border inspectors asked. Your job was to make sure the paperwork was in order.
Your job was to organize the project. Your job was to help the Russian speakers who needed money to communicate with the English speakers who had the money.
You always went above and beyond. Responsible. Loyal.
That was your last responsibility.
I look at this little statue and remember.
I will always see your broad smile (once gold teeth – then white).
I will always remember the trips in your too clean Volkswagon Jetta.
I will always remember our first dinner together at your parent’s house. Playing Beatles songs on your guitar.
I will always remember crying with them.
Coffee Mug
Fifteen years holding the bitter, steaming, brown liquid of morning,
Supporting sweet add-ins,
a dollop of half ‘n half and a few pink packets of chemical sweetness.
Your warm, round rim anticipated my lips each day–accepting of a half-hearted woke state.
The mechanics of tipping, first slightly, then spiritedly, even sensuously–
fulfilled your purpose, Coffee Mug, of delivering this sweet dose of caramel-colored heat,
The warmth of a morning that craves energy, delight–a surge of power I couldn’t find without your help.
As times passes, your status as a coffee mug changed, because I have changed.
The current of energy I once needed with your help now arrives from the inside–
not the inside of a coffee mug, but from inside of me.
Yes, now you are filled with caffeine-free green tea.
Ah the metamorphosis into a healthier lifestyle! I love your vivid words that deliver the mood of anticipation from the point of view of the mug – “accepting of a half-hearted woke state,” “fulfilled your purpose,” and “a surge of power”- A very visual poem indeed and very creative! I too am trying to make changes to a healthier lifestyle, so bravo to you!
I like how the speaker is okay after the change – not something I could do!
Funny how it becomes “status as a coffee mug” – like a demotion. I laughed.
Porcelain Form
A moment in time
Sealed forever
in porcelain form
A tiny hand, a tiny foot
Reminders of how fleeting
these moments pass
Hung in your nursery
with a little blue bow
was that really 13 years ago?
These moments in time
so precious…
Remembering those fingers
reaching toward me
discovering your new world
Watching those little feet
stepping bravely forward
as they learned to walk
Footprints in time
Sealed forever
in porcelain form
Judy, when words evoke memory, they are powerful. I was taken through my own sons’ journeys from little baby feet to gigantic man feet while walking through your words. I loved “footprints in time sealed forever.” If only we could capture the moments in our memories as easily as in porcelain form. Thank you for this journey.
Good morning, Judy — Your piece reminded me of Keats’ urn — “sealed forever.” I really felt the tone of a gentle memory that has lasted for the 13 years of life that moved “bravely forward” in life — it is touching. The acknowledgment of how elusive time is with the question “was it really 13 years ago?” really works to connect us to that universal amazement at how quickly kids discover their “new world.” Thanks for taking the time to share this, even if it was late last night, you night owl you! 🙂 Susie
Thank you! I had to finish a couple of assignments for a grad class I’m taking, and I had forgotten about this writing commitment until I checked my email late last night. Luckily, I write well under pressure (always have)! I just let the memory come through me. I appreciate your nice words.
I saw the porcelain piece and it reminded me of some my friends have, and how we thought about doing it with our kids and never did. What a great way to remember those special times.
Kip’s ashes sit on our mantel
in a machine-carved box
offered by our gentle livestock veterinarian
who also helped us usher Kip to her eternal sleep.
Eloise will not acknowledge the box.
At 29 she is still our most electric child.
On. Off. On. Off. Electricity works that way.
She found Kip in the ditch.
Abandoned here in rural Iowa
“Iowa Nice” we’re called.
Eloise named the dog “Kiss” because the
traumatized mongrel inched
toward her when she made a kissing sound.
But the brothers over-ruled her name choice
and the dog was christened “Kip.”
I have never figured out how to parent.
Each decision opens a choose-your-own-adventure array of options
for the impossibly tender lives
entrusted to your care.
I failed you, Eloise.
You should have been here to hold Kip’s heavy head
and stroke her farm-dog’s rough fur
as we closed her life.
We did the best we could
But it wasn’t good enough.
Allison – You’ve shared a tender poem that gives us a sense of your connection to Kiss/Kip. Words like “usher” help us feel that tenderness. I felt that Kip will leave a quiet spot at the farm … as I watch my ol’ boy age (he’s 13), I feel sad that I will want to be there to hold his “heavy head,” but it’ll rip me up. I’ll try to do “the best we can.” Lines that we’re particularly poignant were the parenting ones…do any of us really figure out how to parent? The loss of a family member (in my home that definitely includes my ol’ Watty Boy) surely asks us if we did the best we could. You’ve taken me to these complex introspections. Thanks for sharing this piece. Susie
Allison, well now I’m crying! What a beautiful tribute to Kiss (I’m going with your daughter’s name choice here). What a powerful line, “as we closed her life.” Having lost several dogs, I know the sorrow. Thank you for writing so much into so few words. I am gad you shared the narrative in this piece.
Jennifer, thank you for your supportive words and for hearing me.
Oh, Allison…..all the emotions of loving and losing a rescued pet are bubbling up – – (I’m one who has been both a rescuer and rescued by my dogs)! I love how you describe Iowans as “Iowa Nice” – folks who would as easily abandon their dogs as they would discarded clothes. Somehow we all feel this way when we come to the final line of your poem, to the final breaths of our beloved pets – -that what we did wasn’t good enough. Thank you for the heart flutters of this poem!
Kim, thank you for hearing my irony in “Iowa nice.” You HEARD me. Thank you.
I know I’m late responding, but the beauty of your words evoked strong emotion in me. I know your poem is about your dog’s journey, but it goes so much deeper into the relationships we have and the choices we make. I love the parenting perspective of having to make decisions in a “choose-your-own adventure array of options.” Yes, I have 3 children, and each of them are so very different, especially emotionally. It is sometimes very hard to know how something will affect them. I love your words “we did the best we could” and “the impossibly tender lives entrusted to your care.” What a heartfelt message to your daughter and a beautiful apology for an event in time that was so powerful for you and your family. Hugs!
I’m with Judy…love how this is about the loss of a dog but so much more. My favorite line is the “choose-your-own-adventure array of options.”
I wondered if that line was corny, but it felt so true! Parenting is this on-going should-I or shouldnn’t-I experience. We do the best we can in the moments we find ourselves in, and then…well, you know the rest.
Judy, your words and response mean so much to me. Thank you. I feel heard.
Wow! Such great word combinations: electric child, Iowa nice, impossibly tender lives.
Thank you, Shaun. “Electric child” was a very satisfying combination of words for me. Our relationship is so…ELECTRIC. Thank you for hearing me.
“Cabin”
The sun slowly rises over the tree tops
Birds call “Good morning” to each other
Walking down the dirt road
I smell the pungent aroma of coffee
Grandma and Grandpa have been up for hours already
Patiently sitting at the kitchen table,
Watching the river laze by
Waiting for me to visit them at their cabin
A Saturday morning ritual
Heat of the day
My shadow is not long as I run and play my weekend away –
in the fields, in the woods, along the river
Running down the dirt road
Grandma is sitting outside on their porch
Quick stop to say “Hi” and then
Off and running again
Sun creeps below the trees
as the frogs begin their nightly song,
Grandma knows I’m coming
To their cabin on the river
Where the lights are turned on low
And the radio hums in the background
Stealthily sneak through the screen door
To keep the mosquitos out
“Night, Grandma.”
Big hug
“Night, Grandpa.”
Big hug.
Out the door again
Back to our cabin down the road
Oh, Allison, I love how your grandparents are the axis of this memory for you. They are like the sun who “Creeps below the trees” an the frogs with their “nightly song” and the radio “hums.” The landscape of a happy summer. Thank you!
Allison – The pace of this memory has a strong sense of a valuable, long-held and prized memory. The bond between your grandparents and you is so vivid as you wake to carry out a ritualistic Saturday connection. I could see the grandfolks at the kitchen table, knowing you’d appear on the scene, and then on the porch. You were surely as much s gift in their lives as they were a gift to you. The radio, the screen door, the innocence of a time are so effective in eliciting a warm sense of a sweet time. Thanks for taking us on this kiddo’s journey. Susie
Do tell me the artifact that inspired this imagery-rich memory! Lovely.
Allison, I loved taking this day journey with you. You’ve captured the carefree days of summer so well in the sounds (nightly song) and the feel (heat of the day). The word laze is so beautifully used in “watching the river laze by.” I want to return to these days. Thanks for bringing me back to the carefree days of childhood.
The Picture
I’ve always admired your diverse artistic talents –
Sanding down a piece of furniture to enhance its beauty,
adding gold leaf with precision that still amazes.
My mind’s eye remembers the final product yet
the one thing I still have hanging in my home, so many many
years later is the framed picture of flowers, painted with an amateur’s
hand, crinkled foil behind it and encased in an old-fashioned wood frame.
Pink roses, yellow daisies, bluebells and greenery come to life.
I think of you, godmother, each morning as I glance at it hanging on my wall,
so precious, so delicate, so you.
Thank you for your love and support, never forgotten; the time I almost lived with you
to finish school; all the times you helped mom learn Lebanese recipes; the way you sliced
Halvah so thin it would fall apart then pick up the fallen shavings with an index finger; and begging
my mother not to name me after you.
You won that one, but I won having you in my life.
Jacki! The detail here is so vivid: “crinkled foil behind it and encased in an old-fashioned wood frame.” And your direct address brings us right into the picture, witnessing this “thank you” poem. I especially appreciate the glimpse into your culture — for the “Lebanese recipes, the way you sliced Halvah so thin it would fall apart.” Beautiful.
Jacki – This is a loving tribute to your godmother. Remembering the gold leaf on the picture with the roses, daisies, and bluebells in a wooden frame reminds me of a picture my cousin still has of our grandfather sitting on a horse in an old oval wooden frame. The Halvah “ sliced so thin” is another effective detail. We pay so much attention to the habits and rituals of the adults around us as we grow up. This is a lovely evidence of that. Thank you for sharing this and reminding us to pay tribute when we can. Susie
“you sliced
Halvah so thin it would fall apart”
Lovely, on so many levels.
Jacki, your last line is powerful – the yin/yang of winning but still having closeness. I loved the thinly sliced Halvah that falls apart and the colors of the painting. Thank you for sharing!
Hi Jacki–Thank you for this piece! By Line four, I was already thinking in my mind’s eye about some of the meaningful artifacts from important people in my past/growing up years. I love being reminded of those special individuals that brought beauty into our lives when we most needed it (godmothers, aunts, etc). “I think of you, godmother, each morning….:)
What is that pushed under the bed ?
Stacked neatly in the corner
Wait, small round circles in paper covers along side.
Pull them from the darkness
I’m taken back,
Elton,
Queen.
Captain.
Michael
Stare up at me!
Oh how I’ve missed all of you
Your friends.
The sound of the needle touching the correct grove
Fills the emptiness with the music of memories.
Which vinyl should I play?
33
45
A side
B side
Push them back.
Find my player.
Bring life back!
Tricia — Those records took me right back to my own vinyl days. What a golden find!! I loved the needle in the groove, the paper covers, and the capacity to regain parts life through those musical memories. Fun to read this! Thanks, Susie
Tricia, I love the line “sound of the needle touching the correct groove” – I can hear it now. My son was just exploring vinyls and Barnes and Noble. He keeps hearing how much better the quality is and he’s a music lover. I hope you find that player so that you can relive that experience. Thanks for bringing a bit of my childhood back too.
Tricia, Thank you for taking me back to remember my mom’s love of music.
I loved how you listed the numbers and sides, each on their own line. Powerful
Tricia,
I love the way your poem unfolds. I read the first five lines with anticipation of discovering what you had discovered “pushed under the bed.” The names sound like superheros, but, of course, I know their super power is perhaps better than the Marvel and DC characters. You have certainly resurrected their memories for me!
Peace,
Sarah
Susie, I loved the description of your father rubbing his fingers over the straight edge, unearthing (such a beautiful choice) its numbers. The sensory details (the long Marlboro drag, the quiet chuck and chuck of the clock) evoke mood so well. It placed me in the moment. Thank you.
Jennifer Jowett
Gathering
Then, I gathered syrup and lilacs,
brown speckled eggs,
and sweet spring peas,
still secure in their pods.
I nestled them deep
Into the woven basket
slung from my arm,
tanned and warmed
from morning sunlight.
They lay surrounded
in the kerchief,
its sprigged floral pattern,
red and white,
home to the browns, greens, and purples
plucked from beneath chickens,
picked from garden rows and
branches reaching skyward.
Now, I gather
Those thoughts and memories,
snapshots in time,
a kaleidoscope
collected from my grandmother’s land,
furrowed and wooded deep,
deep enough that neither of us will forget
even though time makes it harder for
one of us to recall.
Even now we gather,
us two,
to bring the memories back.
I can totally picture all the things from your childhood. Such memories m
Jennifer – Having grown up on a farm, I was right there with you. “Sweet spring peas, still secure in their pods” was so vivid. I loved that sweetness. The basket with the kerchief— aah, yes. The farmland “furrowed and wooded deep” becomes more precious all the time. It’s terrific that you captured this. Thanks for sharing these images! Susie
I was right there with you with your descriptions. I appreciate how you juxtaposed the word gathering.
Jennifer,
The sounds in your word choice accompany the imagery so beautifully — the assonance in “speckled eggs” and the alliteration in “sweet spring” along with the steady meter in the first three stanzas. I can just feel the rhythm of your memory unfolding in your tanned arms. Lovely!
Peace,
Sarah
Beautiful. I’m curious (and appreciative) of your choice to begin your poem with “Then…”
The imagery is rich in a multi-sensory way–so delicious. I loved how you moved from gathering eggs to gathering memories. This is why I read poetry. Thank you.
Thank you. I was hoping to show the difference in the gathering we used to do physically from the land (then) and the gathering we mentally do now (memories). I hope this is the way it came through to the reader; though, I’m curious as to what you thought it might mean as well.
I loved the lines “a kaleidoscope collected from my grandmother’s land.” What a wonderful way to express your memories of this happy time of harvest with your grandmother!
My Auto”Box”Orgraphy
In my garage
rests a box,
the gatherings of my life:
cleats,
knitting needles,
eighteen writing journals,
my collection of heart-shaped rocks.
Untouched for years,
it wants me
to prop its lid,
to look inside,
to add
snips
and
snags
of my life.
It looks at me now
with waiting eyes
wishing to hold
my ripened
troubles and treasures.
I box up
drunken voices
and memories
of my bruised mother.
I box up
baking soda toothpaste and
spoiled powdered milk.
I box up
the prison
of living in a
double-wide trailer.
I box up
poverty and
clothes lines and
one pair of bluejeans.
I box up pungent
scents
of my father’s cigarette butt
smashed
on my dinner plate.
I box up
hatred
for his boozed breath
and deliberate fist
on my mother’s cheek.
I box up
the shame
of saying
“Yes.”
I box up treasures, too.
Baby blankets of
four children born
with dreams and hopes
and memory-book firsts.
I box up
my husband’s love
first uncovered
at Fort Sam Houston.
I box up
Napa Valley
and the beauty
of yellow butterflies.
I box up
Grandma’s prayer book
and
Mama’s cross-stitched picture
of The Lord’s Supper.
I box up
the joy of my first grandchild
who calls me
Nana.
I box up
my favorite poets
and their compassion
for words.
Finally, I box up
all my sacred memories
of days done gone.
Gently,
I close the lid
and honor the box
for savoring
the gatherings
of my life.
Valerie — This is just so much more than an artifact collection. Holy Cow! I am here with giant tears in my eyes and a connection to what you’ve boxed for so many years. This is wonderful! The shortness of the line pulls a stiff punch with every dose of words that reach deep inside something so ordinary as a box, a baby blanket, the journals… and brings me to the depth of those “snips and snags” of your life. The wicked images of your mother’s bruising and father’s boozed breath. These are images that ring way too close to my own and therefore extremely real to me. And you’ve delivered these with grace and the clear sense that we honor so much in our keepings… you’ve kept a full spectrum of those things that shape us and shared a marvelous poem. It is not easy to put a life out there in words, but you’ve done this with such meaning that it rings utterly true. I so appreciate your poem! Thank you heaps for sharing this. Susie
Valerie — Also, I love the title! Susie
Wow! Susie, thank you! I appreciate your encouragement! Valerie
Valerie, there is so much contained in the honesty of your boxed items. I felt these memories right along with you. I loved your growth throughout the years. Thank you for taking me on the journey with you.
Valerie! I am deeply moved by the narrative of this verse — the story of your life that you unpack for us. It is a privilege to bear witness to your life in this way. You seem to be healing yourself with every word leading to “I close the lid/and honor the box/for savoring /the gatherings/of my life.” Your honor here is brave and humbling. Much gratitude, my new friend.
Such a powerful poem that uncovers all your important memories that have shaped you as a person. I , too, echo your bravery in exposing all your life events, both good and bad, with sheer honesty and carefully chosen words. Bravo! I loved how you ended it with “savoring the gatherings of my life” to show how you have cherished every memory.
What a fantastic poem. Love “ripened treasures and troubles” and then you go on to share them.
Especially powerful: “I box up the shame of saying yes.”
So honest and raw.
Running shoes
Gathering dust
Waiting to be worn
The holder of so many miles
So many unfulfilled
Sitting questioningly in their spot
Will today be the day she has courage
Will today be the day she starts to care
About herself
About her dreams
About her goals
Gretchen — You’ve created a very real mood with these short lines. I’m a fan of pay attention to packing a punch with a short line, and you’ve done this. The shoes are haunting… they “question” your courage, and boy, do I know that feeling! It’s amazing how something so seemingly innocent carries such weight! I truly like this. Thanks, Susie
Gathering dust! Something every one of us can relate to. It speaks to all of the dreams so many of us leave on a shelf. I love your line “The holder of so many miles.” We can see the history you have with your running shoes. Thank you for sharing!
This is me !! You must have looked in my closet!
Oh, Gretchen! I hope today was the day you put on the shoes, but if not — tomorrow. I love how you personify the shoes and give them a voice that it so patient and wise welcoming “her dreams” and “her goals.” You have me now thinking of what my “running shoes” are that I have to learn to listen to once again!
I also loved the hopeful anticipation created in the “voice” of the shoes. I used to be a runner but now just love walking for exercise. I hope you put on those shoes!
Alone in a Crowd
By myself
in a gym
full
of people.
An empty heart
void
of connection.
Across the gym
on the sidelines
stands my husband
but tonight
he’s the coach,
strategizing, adjusting, and motivating.
To my right
a bulging student section
stands
bursting with black and gold
taunting the opponent
supporting the Wildcats.
Our daughters mixed in
proudly cheering.
Up to my left
our two sons
sit with buddies
munching on popcorn
dreaming of climbing the ladder
and cutting down nets themselves.
All around me
pairs, clusters, groups
of fans
cheer, mingle, yell, cuss
enjoying the game, the environment,
the fun
Together
Connected.
Inside
I feel isolated, alone, disconnected.
Outside
I clap, I cheer,
I force a smile
The corners of my mouth
weighted down
by the gravity of sadness
A tug-of-war over the smile erupts
It’s Hoosier Hysteria.
The game pulses with energy and excitement
“Back Home Again in Indiana” bellows
from the deep, rich voice of John Kendall.
The squeaks from sneakers
and the occasional whistles
from the rulekeepers
assault my ears,
my senses taking note
of the littlest sounds
that sound so big.
For my entire life
I’ve perched In bleachers in March.
Basketball mania courses through my veins
I love the sport
I love everything about gyms during tourney time.
So . . .
Why do these tears push
at the corners
of my eyes?
Why is there a semi
sitting on my chest?
Why do my ears
ring with nothingness
instead of the Hoosiers theme song
that wafts from the speakers?
I grab my phone,
text my best friend:
“I’m in a gym full of people
and I’ve never felt so
Alone
in my life.”
Saying it helps.
and
hurts.
It’s a shout to the void
No one understands
No one gets it
No one notices
the fresh tear that drips from my eye.
I swat it away
like an annoying fly.
The acid in my stomach climbs
toward my throat.
How can I not be relishing
in this event that I have spent
my whole life loving?
No one notices me crumbling
Melting into the red wooden bleacher
That makes my back moan in pain
No one notices another tear escape
The eyes that feign focus on the action
No one notices
Not the coachhusband on the sideline
Not the studentdaughters cheering in the student section
Not the wanna-be ballplayersons up behind me
Not the couplesfriends all around me
Not the familyfans scattered about
No one notices
the hole inside of me
the hole that is as empty as
the gym is full.
Susan, the irony of the alone-ness in a crowd is so real – – those curveball moments that catch us by surprise and leave us wondering what is going on in us. As a reader, I can so clearly identify with the extreme introversion I sometimes feel in a world of extroverts, and I love your use of repetition at the end that reinforces that no one notices. Not this person, not that person, no one. I also noted that your friend did not text back – which further reinforces the feelings of isolation as well. You masterfully expressed the way we experience on the inside the opposite of what is happening on the outside. You normalize the abnormal. Thank you!
Well, we must be distant cousins because I, too, love basketball. I connect to your entire poem, but especially to . . .
For my entire life
I’ve perched In bleachers in March.
Basketball mania courses through my veins
I love the sport
I love everything about gyms during tourney time.
I see myself in the speaker’s lived experience, and I appreciate the turn in the poem that examines the speaker’s inner turmoil. Poems are meant to evoke emotion, and yours did!
Susan — You’ve shared a visceral sense of the quiet gap between what is expected on the outside with all the noise of Indiana sports and what you are actually experiencing on the inside with a true sense that your exterior and interior and gigantic odds. The sense of deep-down out of synch comes in the contrast of silence and noise… cheering, coupling, theme songs, whistles, squeaks are all thrust up against the silent, yet screaming, emptiness that this experience weighs on you. These are very real feelings, and you accomplish this with almost invisible tears, the interior acid rising, the semi on your chest. This juxtaposition of noise and silence magnifies the impact till I feel that empty hole. Wow! You have a very strong poem here. Thank you for sharing something that is so difficult to put into words, and yet you’ve done it with such honesty. Susie
This is so very powerful and I can relate feeling all alone in a crowd. Your description was so real and raw.
Susan, thank you for capturing a too real feeling, one that demonstrates what it feels like to be alone with your feelings that don’t quite fit in a place that should embody happiness. I love how you created further connection and contrast with your invented words (studentdaughters, coachhusband). Your last two stanzas are especially powerful.
Susan,
I am near tears reading your poem and then reading the responses because you offer us a perspective that so many people in crowds or even at the dinner table fail to observe or note in our loved ones. Further, our outer gestures, smiles, even words are not always congruent with our inner sense of our existence. You take us through this so beautifully with description — you are a keen observer, your poetry helps us see. Thank you.
Sarah
I am humbled/honored that I writer whose bookI have read commented on my poem.
This inside/outside, two sides of the coin could work for today’s assignment.
I am struggling. Thus, I am going back to comment on these!
Blessed Oblivion
travel journal
back to Covent Garden
street performer strums and sings
Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”
nine-year-old boy ten feet away
chubby Down Syndrome dancer
dances like no one’s watching
gray t-shirt, denim shorts, red Velcro sneakers, horn-rimmed glasses, blonde hair
jumps, spins, and sways,
OUT OF SYNC
immersed in the music
stealing the show
arms raised, face skewed skyward
oblivious to all else
IN SYNC
with the moment
loving life as so few do
– Kim Johnson
Hi, Kim — The image of this kid is so joyous. To be both “out of sync” and so “in sync” with what really matters is a wonderful lesson to us all! And a perfect title to boot: Blessed Oblivion. My favorite images are the “arms raised, face skewed skyward.” I just want to be this kid at this moment. Wonderful thing to have your journal unearth this sweet memory! Thanks! Susie
What a powerful moment. Thank you for sharing the beauty of the moment the Down Syndrome dancer finds. It allows us all to experience it with him and you. I love that he can be both out of sync and in sync – it’s what we all should embrace (our perfect imperfections).
“We have a few old mouth-to-mouth tales, we exhume from old trunks and boxes and drawers letters without salutation or signature, in which men and women who once lived and breathed are now merely initials or nicknames out of some now incomprehensible affection which sound to us like Sanskrit or Chocktaw….” William Faulkner
“Hope Chest”
Inscribed inside the oak hope chest
Grandpa scribbled my name.
Crooked letters reaching topside
Yearning to unleash cultural bonds.
Instead of dishes and towels and
Relics designed for homemaking
Books, old school papers, handouts,
Letters and the detritus of learning
Filled the chest cavity.
I wonder if in seventh grade my father—
Who commissioned the chest—-or
Grandpa suspected a budding
Feminist lurked in my twelve-year-old
Self longing for something more
I could not name, a story I could not yet write.
Hope not a thing with feathers but
Belief in words etched on pages
Reminders of possibility and promise.
I lift the lid of that old chest from
Time to time—often after many years—
Peer into its wooden cavity
Shift papers from one side to the next
Read into the past and ponder
Like Faulkner’s Bon the lives held in
Words penned on flat blue lines,
The stories buried in dusty memories,
Then close the lid, and listen to each hinge squeak.
—Glenda Funk
Glenda,
For most of us, writing doesn’t just spring from our mind into our fingers. Even more so, the mind often feels detached from our hands or our hands can’t bring themselves to articulate, bring into some semblance of comprehension what we want to say (perhaps because we don’t know what that is).
What I so appreciate about this piece is how you simply and beautifully begin with description: “crooked letters….books, old school papers, handouts.” And then you move into what you are wondering and in that, we learn something of your father. You have unburied and dusted off some stories for us here.
Thank you,
Sarah
The hope chest you describe is so full of great memories – and even greater promise for the one who cherishes the past but chooses not to live there. I get the strong sense that this young girl understands she has the potential to change the future, and that’s where her hope lies……
Hi, Glenda — I really enjoyed that reference to Faulkner “exhuming old trunks.” How fitting! I kept picturing myself sitting there with the big trunk, moving keepsakes and papers from one side to the other…that ritualistic act of reconnecting with the past — not culling the past, just pushing it around a bit. A past that perhaps gave few clues to your grandpa that you’d be this feminist decades down the road. Makes me smile. That look back into your youth when you still didn’t have the “story I could not yet write.” I love that you come back to the trunk over and over, letting years shift you and yet the trunk bears witness to what was….those “dusty memories. The final line is, perhaps, my favorite: “close the lid, and listen to each hinge squeak.” The years talking to you. This is another wonderful poem that I’m so glad you had time to share. Thanks! Susie
Glenda, thank you for taking me along with you as you explore the chest. It brought back instant memories of the pieces my own grandfather made for me (a carved wooden Paddle to the Sea canoe, a small picnic table, red white and blue, with three stars painted on its surface for my third 4th of July birthday). I truly appreciate the mood you invoked through your memories and mine. I love the phrase “and listen to each hinge squeak” – just like we listened to each of your memories speak to us.
Roller Skate
It’s odd to think about how often
I played alone —
one of eight girls ‘n’ three boys,
I’d be drawn to solitude.
On a summer’s day
I would imagine
our two-car garage
as a private roller rink.
I would blow the dust
from the boom box,
pop in a cassette tape of Billy Joel,
sweep the rink of debris–
piles of saw dust from Dad’s canoe
shove obstacles aside–
boxes of clothes destined for Amvets,
long abandoned big wheels and tricycles.
I would desperate dive
into the community roller skate box,
pulling apart intertwined laces,
loosening ties and knots
to find a match.
The first, from summer last — too small.
The second, a decade old — too wobbly.
The third, good enough — but
where’s the match?
“Only the good die young,”
sings Billy.
In frustration, I push the skate
across my debris-free rink.
And when it meets the tricycle,
I see other
waiting to take me
for a lap.
Sarah, the roller skates in a community box — priceless and so tells the times when kids didn’t really care about the baloney of ‘branding’ our junk. This brings an innocence that is unmistakable — skates with knots and ties. The already grown-out-of-em sizing in a year’s time. You took me back to a house we had when I was just pre-teen; it had a concrete basement where I swear I skated a groove into the circle I made around the furnace…the whole time singing at the top of my lungs. You had Billy Joel, which fits perfectly. Quite a bit older, I was bellowing “Daisy, Daisy…” You’ve generated some wonderful recollections with this artifact piece. What is particularly poignant to me is that you had a passel of sibs, and these skates took you to a Sarah time…your own time. Quite cool! Thanks for sharing! Susie
As I read your poem, I realize how blessed you were – to have played alone, to have been able to problem-solve the community skates, to have been frustrated with skates and not an iPad or other digital screen. You definitely take us to that garage, full of all kinds of items – – but more than that, full of memories of a childhood from a generation that still knew how to entertain ourselves and still had the greatest music artists that were more than one-hit wonders. I love your choice of lyric selection – – and I’m right there listening with you!
Sarah, your memories brought back so many of my own. My sister and I also made our garage into a roller rink – we used to take all the brooms and shovels and create a course to skate through. I loved that you were drawn to solitude and that contrast against the group of your siblings. The line from Billy Joel adds an interesting layer, which gets the reader thinking about what you might have been thinking in that moment. Thank you for sharing!
Private roller rink, totally brought back memories of my basement roller rink. You searching for skates, what terrific words. I felt your disappointment.
Sarah…
Your poem transformed me back to my early teenage years. Playing alone. Making do with the clutter. Makes me feel very nostalgic. And sadder than ever for kids who don’t and likely won’t know the feeling of digging around a garage full of things to find entertainment. It’s a click away for them, yet they are so empty.
I love the simplicity yet duality of the title. Is it the object? The activity? The action?
I think my favorite part is the descriptions of the different skates you pull out…
I love this poem.
Susie — of course I love the musical references here, from the introduction of the slide rule as an instrument, through embouchure and scherzo to coda, but my favorite device is your changing the noun Eversharp to a verb and your inclusion of the brand names (incl. Marlboros) to evoke a time. Come to think of it, the slide rule itself may now be an — oh, what’s the word for old fashioned — anachronism? Your poem evokes an atmosphere, a mood, a wonderful picture. We readers are THERE! Thank you!
“Leaning back in his chair in the sweet swirl of tobacco” is what evokes the greatest memories and the images that I can connect to my own grandfather (who did the same thing but with a pipe), but your whole poem is full of movement that supports the movement that I sense most – – those wheels turning in his mind as he calculates. I love this vivid memory that you describe and have preserved so succinctly in words.