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
PHOTOGRAPH. An old photograph or a recent one evokes a moment captured in time. We see in a photograph a frozen moment. Were you to take that same picture 24 hours later, a year later, ten years later, a generation later, something most assuredly would be different. In that way, the photograph conveys a unique opportunity to freeze time. Today’s prompt asks you to look deeply into the frozen moment and take note of what is there and, even more interestingly in some ways, what is not there or what was missing. The evidence just outside the frame of that picture might hold a story/images all their own.
Of course, write about whatever moves you.
Process
- Pull out a scrapbook, your laptop Photo stash, a box of old photographs you’ve had stored on a shelf. Select a few of these photographs – perhaps 4-5 – make them photos that are more than just pretty…they matter to you for whatever reason.
- Zero in on one photo.
- Show that photo to someone, and engage in a conversation about the photo. Jabber on about what was happening at the time, who was there, why it was taken, when it was taken, who took it. Notice as many details in the photos as you can. This discourse helps loosen up details that you might otherwise have forgotten.
- Make some assumptions about the photograph image…it doesn’t really matter if it’s true or if it’s accurate… let yourself create a moment of meaning surrounding that photograph. Perhaps, consider what might have been just outside the frame of that photo.
- Poetry is recreating and creating – let your imagination walk through your senses – colors, sounds, comments being made, tastes and smells, the play of light across the scene…
- Begin to scribble some ideas about that frozen moment, recreate that frozen moment, bringing it to life in your poem.
- NOTE: As much as I’d like you to post your picture, I’m not sure the website supports our pics. But your poem will unfold the image!
Susie’s Poem
“Missouri Spring”
When it rains,
it rains
and rains
steady sheets
till the Missouri turns that milky chocolate
brown with roiling eddies that take the bottomland
and the wearied cottonwoods,
as it unbelts itself
in a long exhalation
to the Confluence and on
down to the Delta,
all the while reshaping her edges,
ignoring levees and sandbags and silly strides to girdle her dimension.
Greens redefine;
emergent hues expand the verdurous palette
with viridescence and chartreuse.
Spring–before the chiggers
claim the wooded paths,
when morels push between the soaked mat of leaves
along the creek beds
where fallen hickory limbs grow soft
in the fecund damp–
sets off another cycle of birthing.
Wood ducks with their harlequin heads
of green and blue and black
parade on creeks, a train of downy ducklings.
Sun streaks lining the nimbus
spotlight terrapins,
unstirred as flat rocks
on low-slung limbs wedged in the flotsam.
I am awash in Missouri spring.
Post your writing any time today. If the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome — any topic, any form. Please be sure to respond to at least three writers, too. 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.
Susie – I love the details of spring (milky chocolate brown, harlequin heads). Having grown up in Utah with “real” spring weather (unlike the wannabe spring of Las Vegas), it took me back to the river’s edge and the new life that emerges.
Ann K. (1953-2008)
Leo didn’t believe the boy with the bowl cut and striped shirt is me.
“It’s me!” He would declare.
It could be him.
Pontificating on some important theory regarding bugs. Or the unusual coloring of a Jay.
Or the best flavor of ice cream at Snelgrove’s.
I see images of that day in my memory. Or is it my memory of the photographs themselves?
The photographer, Ann K., was like an aunt to me. A guest at every party – as was I.
The “precocious” kid who was always welcome.
Until that much-too-talkative boy told Grandma that Ann and Aunt Helen were in the basement “smoking doke”
– that story never gets old. Grandma hates that story.
Ann K. was in a wheelchair the last time I saw her. Her husband looked pale and tired.
Ann had MS. She couldn’t talk anymore.
She held my hand, barely able to hold her own head up in the chair.
Which park did you take us to, Ann, on that photo shoot? What did we do afterwards? Did we get ice cream?
I wish you were here to talk about it.
Link https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B7kj_ouQCf8KTDhFNV82bi1NbnF5TTlaNVN2M0RyN0xwYWtV/view?usp=sharing
Shaun, I kept flipping back and forth from the photo to your poem. I love how you wove a series of memories into this poem. I “met” Ann here. Thank you for extending her life to me and the others who read this tender poem.
These Hands
These hands . . .
Once youthful
No wrinkles or age spots
Fingers moved with ease
They rocked you as a baby.
These hands . . .
Changed your diapers
Fed you meals
Fixed your hair
They clasped your hand as we walked across the street.
These hands . . .
Propped books as you fell in love with words
Guided your fingers as you learned to form letters
Signed countless forms and permission slips
They enclosed yours as I taught you how to pray.
These hands . . .
Spanked you to correct unwanted behavior
Clenched the armrests as you sat behind the wheel learning to drive
Fiddled as I waited anxiously for you to come in by curfew
They write down prayers for you I no longer share out loud.
These hands
Touched
Caressed
Comforted
Soothed
Nurtured
Loved
All past tense
The older you get the less my hands intermingle with yours,
The less they touch you.
These hands have grown old
And so
have
you.
“as it unbelts itself
in a long exhalation”
Ohhhhhh! Wonderful!
“Wood ducks with their harlequin heads
of green and blue and black”
Sometimes I tell my students WIWI! That means “Wish I’d Written It”! That’s what I tell you now: WIWI
I live in Southwest Iowa, within 60 miles of devastating Missouri flooding this year. I FELT this poem.
Oh wow, Allison — I’m feeling your pain. The mighty MO can be wicked. They just shut down another big road where the Missouri has blown through another levee in the St. Louis area. I’m heading your way next month, on my way out west. I always stop in Des Moines to visit my cousin and then go on west. The rivers all over Iowa are a fright. The pic above that I posted with the poem (the one with the bridge) is actually the Mississippi River last week where it has swamped the Missouri side across from Chester, Illinois. The other pic is the Missouri on a “non-flood” year. Thanks so much for the supportive WIWI — I’ll remember that acronym! Susie
I am 1/2 mile north of I-80 mile marker 156. Look north as you drive by and you’ll see our farm. Better yet, pull off on Exit #57 and come write poetry on my porch with me! Twenty minutes! I’ll set the timer. The invitation is sincere. aberryhill@atlanticiaschools.or 🙂
Allison – I jotted this down. I’ll try to stop and do this! Will keep you posted. Susie
Candace’s Poem
A visit to Los Angeles
Culture
International dining
Inviting cuisine
Aromatic seasonings and flavors
Beckoning the would-be diner
Patrons
Happy chattering
Soft Latin rhythmic drum-beats
Serenading smiling faces
Comfy diner
One is lured to the one that is loved the most.
What?!
Crunchy yellow roasted chilis!
Mouth watering
Sour green lime & salty sparkling red
Sprinkled seasonings
Infused
Craving for this cultural candy
Satisfied
Farewell till next time!
Candace — I just crawled into bed, and now I’m hungry! Ha! Very effective in evoking a need for a nibble! –“roasted chilis/mouth watering/sour green lime & salty… infused.” All I need is a bit of Latin music, and I’d be all set! A fun way to wind down my day! Thanks for posting your culinary temptation. Susie
And my mouth is watering! I want to visit this place with the beckoning flavors and soft drum-beats. I can tell how much you love it and love that you will return as your last line suggests. Thank you for sharing!
Because my mother took the pictures,
she is not in them.
My father looks like parent of the year:
daughters hanging on his neck, kissing his rough cheek, running to his open arms.
His smile is genuine
because his contact with the clinging, sticky, needy children
is brief–
an hour of dusk.
Therefore:
my memories of my father are of all things good:
his smokey smell from the office
his laughter
his bedtime stories of Witch Scale
My mother (not pictured)
was cross.
Of course she was.
The doctor’s wife
who did not fit the bouffant expectations of that role.
No pearls, or even mascara,
save that six-month experiment with “Beauty and Charm” school
where Javier taught her to wear a wig (it was the ’70s).
Her gift of mind
was used
to tend
to tend
to tend
Her smile was reserved
for sardonic laughter.
To bend
to bend
to bend
The tortured twig no longer recognizes itself.
Allison – The tempo of the poem, with the acknowledgment of where your mother stood in the scheme of the image, really works. Her absence in the photograph, her “reserved” smile, her “tending” — even the wearing of a wig — it’s own false image – worked to point to something askew. You’ve accomplished that sense of “torture.” Photographs unearth complex dynamics! The surface can seem so smooth, but the deeper look is a kicker. The final line’s “tortured twig no longer recognizes itself” is poignant. Thank you for sharing this important family reflection. Susie
The tortured twig is evident from the opening lines of this piece and makes me wonder what else might be causing the lack of recognition (alzheimers, for eg). The anguish of the mind being used to tend, and a gift of mind at that, is especially effective. Thank you for sharing.
Oh my goodness! This poem hit me hard in the feels. I have had these same thoughts about my own life…seldom in the pictures, my husband always capturing the fun for an hour before bedtime.
So, I love this because I can relate. But then I began to love it because of the descriptions, images, and emotions. The insight you are able to show about your mom’s layered reasons for being cross (love that word choice) is impressive and takes time to have that perspective.
I love how you show that she had gifts that she wasn’t able to use.
The tortured twig…great culminating image.
Mountains snow capped, looming over a crystal blue lake reflecting itself.
In front, stands a family , missing one.
They smile, arms around each other.
Happy, but missing one.
A trip to help forgot or remember.
Walking, thinking exploring all the while,
Missing one.
Tricia, the contrasts of the beauty of location and the smiles to the “missing one” was powerful. The double meaning of “exploring” (the surroundings and the grief) added another layer…reminding me of yesterday’s two-sides prompt. Thank you. And peace be with you.
Tricia — I can sure see the the image of the mountains and the lake, and against that beauty a real sense of loss. The photo has framed two opposing sensations with the repeated “missing one.” You’ve evoked a story in these lines with a strong tone of sorrow, yet beauty. I’m amazed how quickly strong emotions can be aroused. Nicely done. Thank you for sharing what is surely hard to remember. Susie
Oh! Such beauty and sorrow here. The repetition of “missing one” shows us how much it affects the family, and how it always will. I appreciate that there’s a story behind the story in this poem. It makes me want to know more. Thank you for sharing these emotions.
HI Tricia–I saw an empty space over and over again because of your repetition of “missing one…missing one…” Always missing that one–your writing so poignantly identifies how unique and special the one missing person from many families was/is after they’re gone. Thank you for writing this.
The dull gray of the early 60’s–the backdrop to a “we’re off on a honeymoon” photo.
My mom and dad, she 18 and he a decade older, with wide, friendly smiles.
Yet they’d both been hiding all their lives.
My mom from the hatred of her own mother,
My father from being the youngest of eight, the only male–the humid pressure of success upon him.
There’s no smell from the dingy white gardenias spiraling around the arch behind them.
My mom’s white wool suit looks like something Grace Kelly would wear,
Yet she swelters in it.
My father in a Rock Hudson suit,
but with a personality I imagine as closer to Robert Mitchum,
Like a movie star with strength to lift any woman he saw.
Who else was there? Who was her maid of honor?
How many children did they imagine having?
How did they plan to make their lives better?
She, with her platinum blonde hair and flirtatious eyes,
He, hiding early alcoholism behind his charisma.
She, not knowing how to love,
He, not knowing how to rise above pain.
Oh, Dixie — The story that this photograph carries is as vivid and real as any image I could have imagined. Those old wedding photos…your mom in that too-hot suit, your dad more like Mitchum… those photos had such powerful shadow stories. You’ve opened that glimpse with “they’d been hiding all their lives.” What strikes me that hardest is that the smiles were there but the reality was so much more complex…what was to unfold over the years. This is so effective in taking a moment and unveiling a lifetime. This really struck a cord with me, as my own folks, though married for over 50 years had photos that on the one hand had those smiles, but in the reality over the years had some wicked, ugly stories. My dad was the oldest of eight, and it took him an entire lifetime to “rise above pain,” if indeed he ever did. Families are sure complicated! Thank you for sharing this very personal piece. Susie
Love this. I can see this photo and feel the emotion through your words. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for the phrase “shadow stories.” I hadn’t heard that before.
Thank you for seeing, Susie 🙂
“Humid pressure” was the phrase that made me sit up and pay attention. I love what you did with this poem–finding the stories behind the vibrant imagery: dingy white gardenias, sweltering white wool suit. I especially like how the ABSENCE of smell from the gardenias is, in fact, an olfactory image, as if absence of smell is itself a sensory experience. Your final lines are why I read poetry: it turns the pain of the human experience into something beautiful.
I could picture this so well from your description. And there’s as much not said that allows us to fill in blanks while still leaving us to wonder as you did (maid of honor? plans?). Your last stanza is especially powerful. I love the line “she, not knowing how to love” and the contrast with the line that follows. Thank you!
Susie, this imagery is fabulous:
Sun streaks lining the nimbus
spotlight terrapins,
unstirred as flat rocks
on low-slung limbs wedged in the flotsam.
I love the simile, the imagery, and I love the vowel sound combinations especially in the last line with the flotsam. You are a master of word choice! I’m so glad this group is back together writing for 5 days. I have missed this so much, and I’m happy to have this writing focus as part of my day again. You stretch me.
Kim — I really appreciate your feedback both on the poem and on the regathering of poets through the year. This is pushing all of us to enjoy our wordplay…somehow, that never gets old. Glad you are writing with me! Thanks! Susie
This week is my first time joining the 5-day challenge, and I especially appreciate permission granted by the directions to just give it 10-20 minutes and GO. I am getting as much pleasure out of reading and responding to others’ writing as I am out of unfolding my own thoughts. THANK YOU!
Allison — Glad you’re here with us! Susie
Mother/Daughter
We stand with
windswept hair.
Hers a pixie cut,
some strands brushing her cheek.
Mine framed within a bonnet,
its ruffle pressed against my face.
She smiles,
wide,
lighting her eyes.
My brows buckle in,
slightly,
a frown or a disruption
marring my visage.
She wears brown,
a burnished chestnut crewneck
under plaid, the jacket open
just skirting her trim frame.
The color of the earth,
mundane,
understated
seeking no attention.
I am enveloped by pink,
the swirls of fabric
overtaking my one year old body.
The pattern of my dress
unidentifiable and blurred.
She looks directly at the camera
while my gaze is caught by something
just below the frame.
She stands,
one arm embracing me,
the other raised
in triumph,
A slight fist
celebrating.
Powerful
Giving rise.
My hand tucks into hers,
barely visible within the folds of a blanket.
Sheltered
Secure
Quiet.
She was my first hero
My first fierce female
My guide and direction.
I hope I have grown up
to deliver what she raised
deep within me.
Jennifer,
I love this picture of mother and child and especially appreciated the way you contrasted the colors and clothing to highlight your mother’s pride and attention to your one-year-old self – pink swirls of fabric against the “color of the earth”. Your poem also made me think that your mother has been the salt of the earth to you. Thank you for sharing.
Julie
Oh, Jennifer, I did not need your picture to see this image, but I love it anyway. And I love that your momma was your first hero, “first fierce female.” As I have gotten to know you a bit this last year, I enjoy thinking about how “fierce” has many shades, and you, my friend, are fierce. I also love that fierceness alongside the earlier stanza as you describe your young self:
“I am enveloped by pink,
the swirls of fabric
overtaking my one year old body.”
So much of how we see fierce and female is defined by our bodies, but I love how you shift from clothing to heart as what is “Powerful/giving rise.”
Peace,
Sarah
Jennifer — This is a beautiful tribute to your mom. I’m moved by the careful detailing that captured you in her hold in such a mother-daughter loving way — the sense of shelter, security, and quietness. This is a wonderful mom… strong with her arm raised in triumph — yet focused on her sweet kiddo. The last 6 lines really drive home the love — your hero, guide… deep within. I had that deep abiding love with my mom as well– I’m always amazed how a photo can bring forth such affection and love. Thanks for sharing! Susie
Jennifer,
I can FEEL you looking at the photo through your words. That is a lovely experience. “Giving rise” was a line that snagged me both on first and second reading–and then is reverberated in your final lines (rise/raised). YES! I also really liked “my brows buckled in”: that determined baby!
Jennifer, I enjoyed this poem so much. I felt the solidarity between you and your mother, so interesting since you were so young. After I finished reading, I immediately went back to your first lines, which could’ve easily ended the poem as well and that represent that solidarity: “We stand with windswept hair.”
Hello, writers! If you want to share your pictures with us, just email me the picture, and I will make a collage of our images and post them on this blog post. sarah.j.donovan9@gmail.com
Three little girls
go camping
with their father.
“Are we really going to sleep on the roof of the van?” asks One.
“Yes, so that we can see the constellations
so that the stars can catch our dreams,” says Dad.
“What if I fall? What if ‘someone’ pushes me off?
The stars can’t catch me, can they?” says Another.
“Oh, no worries, I have bungee cords
to hold your sleeping bags in place;
you’ll all be safe.”
An end-of-summer camping trip
to celebrate One’s entry to elementary,
to punish Another’s smart mouth,
to give Mom a weekend of peace,
to give Dad time to bond after a long work week.
The shadows of the trees tremble,
making glimmer the patient constellations.
One reaches her hands for the stars.
Another notices, reaches, too.
Their fingers dance with the branches,
flickers of fireflies blossom between.
I reach
for One and Another,
give the girls a squeeze,
wait for the stars to catch
our dreams.
Sarah — Aww, those sweet little girls, each with their own mindset about camping and sleeping on the roof of the van is priceless. Total memory candy. I was right there lying next to you girls, looking up through the tree branches to the stars. The innocence is so precious…. dreams, fingers dance, flickers of fireflies. Dad taking the time to share this moment makes him a pretty special guy. I really love his response “the stars can catch our dreams.” He was a bit of poet as well! Thanks for sharing the world through those little girl eyes. Susie
All the togetherness – – the reaching, squeezing, fingers dancing, bonding — is so sweet, but I also love that you feel the threat that ‘someone’ might push, but that is squared away already with bungee cords. Advance planning to prevent the falling from a push – – someone was thinking! What a unique experience to have had. Not many kids can say they’ve slept on the roof of a van to have their dreams caught by stars! Fun childhood for sure.
You have managed to capture the moment so that I can see the image perfectly. Capitalizing the unidentified girls layers the piece. Your use of verbs (shadows trembling, fingers dancing) is beautiful. I almost see a hint of the father from Alone Together here, but perhaps I’m projecting. Thank you for sharing a beautiful moment.
I appreciated the capitalization of Dad, One, Another–a choice that manages to keep the inclusion of anonymity alongside the intimacy of specific identification. I also connected to “give Mom a weekend of peace, to give Dad time to bond after a long work week” as that was a reality I explored from a different angle tonight. This was a happy poem, and I felt is childhood joy. Thank you.
Sarah – I love the image of little hands reaching for the summer stars. I am excited to imitate this very scene next month!
Captured in a photograph –
Two sisters,
Twins,
Slim shoulders touching
Young adult faces smiling
21st birthday celebrated
on Father’s Day
Starved Rock State Park
decades in the past.
Carefree days,
first jobs,
first apartments,
entering adulthood with anticipation –
youthfulness embalmed.
Two sisters
Twins.
Mothers now,
one divorced,
one married
four children,
two stepchildren
between them.
Aging parents,
mental illness,
challenging children,
divorce,
politics –
life takes its toll.
But,
slim shoulders touching,
they lean on each other.
Sisters.
Twins.
Celebrating their 57th birthday
Father’s Day, 2019.
Julie! I so love this concentrated memoir of twin sisters. The journey of a lifetime in just a few stanzas that captures everything while leaving space in between the lines for more. The gesture of shoulders touching is gentle and communicative. Thank you!
Julie, you have taken us through the years with the fun of 21st birthdays and the challenges of aging parents and divorce, mental illness and challenging children- – the stuff of life — all through the eyes of twins who lean on each other through it all. And what a blessing to have not only a sister, but a twin sister! Beautiful journey here.
I love how you bookended this piece with the shoulders. I also love that you are able to lean on each other still, and that it’s implied that you could throughout the 57 years. What a beautiful bond captured in the sparseness of your words, all while giving us so much more. Thank you for sharing!
And how the second time this “shoulder touch” is leaning on each other. So good.
I, too, loved the circular use of the shoulders and they subtle difference of adding leaning
Julie — In such a concise poem, you have unfolded a relationship that has so much depth. You are lucky, lucky, lucky to have so many important issues and still have managed to be connected. It makes me wonder if being a twin has helped that bond in a particular “twinning” kind of way. I have three sisters, and I’ve only managed to stay connected to one of them. The varied events drove a rent among us in some ways. Our common ground shifted. Your “slim shoulders touching” is so poignant. Through the “carefree” to the “aging” and the “toll,” it isn’t easy to have the beautiful connection you have. It was lovely to have you share this with us today. Thanks, Susie
As a mother of twins, I was riveted immediately. Three of my children have gotten married in the past two years, and alongside my joy is a heaviness of knowing that life is a sequence of struggles. No life (relationship) is without them. You captured this and gave me words for what has been brewing in my mind. Thank you.
Picture Perfect?
Snapshot Berlin:
Brandenburg Gate
I walked through
All alone, without you
Snapshot: London
Westminster Abbey
Crowns and scepters tell who’s who
Doesn’t matter – they’re not you
Snapshot: Paris
Strong Espresso
Non-Americano brew
Tasteless beverage without you
Snapshot: Florence
San Miniato al Monte
Overlooking scenic view
Nothing’s stunning without you
Snapshot: Rome
Colosseum
Last adieu
Not a victor without you
Smiling proudly, checking in
Friends all liking where I’ve been
In my heart, not even Rome
Compares to what I have at home
-Kim Johnson
Typo I couldn’t correct – the colon in the first line belongs between Snapshot and Berlin, not after Berlin
Kim,
This is my first time posting to Sarah’s summer writing challenge! I enjoyed reading your poem and couldn’t help but wonder why that person was not with you. I felt the tug at my heart for enjoying the beauty of your travels while missing your companion. The repetition of each location was effective in creating each stanza. Thank you for sharing your writing.
Julie
Kim —
Your are telling a story here with so much suspense as I wonder with each new location where is your “you”? I feel grief, loss, and sorry not knowing if the person has passed or resistant. I wonder who it at home and why he/she could not or chose not to share this with you. There is more to this story and yet the story you have here says it all.
You all are so sweet to wonder why my “you” is not there. I led a group tour of Europe with students earlier this month, but my husband had to stay home and work. He wasn’t resistant, and he didn’t pass……he just wasn’t there, and I missed him. It’s no fun making memories all alone, because I can’t say, “Remember that time…..” when I’m the only one who’ll remember. I did have some fun students with me, though!
From your title throughout each stanza we are left to wonder why it’s not picture perfect, what happened, and who is missing. I love how you structured this – giving us snippets into each image, showing us what you gained while reminding us of what is lost. And oh, how I love your last line. It relieves the tension in the piece. Thank you for sharing!
Kim — This is a compelling poem, drawing me in to want so much for the “you” to be there with you. The tone strikes a melancholy that comes in the contrast between images so lovely and the repeated loss of “you” leaving each snapshot with a void until the end, and we are grateful that “home” is the good place. Your title delivers! Picture Perfect? certainly addresses that absence if the “you.” I really liked reading this. Thanks! Susie
Kim, I am a rhyming poet at heart (though nothing I’ve shared this week rhymes). Your rhyme pulled me along, and I loved it! Personally, I did not need to know who/why “you” was missing–though your final line gave me a pretty good idea. I like to fill in the blanks (within reason) when I read poetry. I hope your reunion was <3 <3<3!
A snappy poem that also has depth, building curiosity. Seeing grand places doesn’t matter as much if your “person” isn’t along.
The rhyme truly adds, especially in the last stanza.
A beach is a beach, no matter where you are
There might be more people or less
Clearer waters or choppy gray skies
A beach is a beach
But my beach is mine
I love it so
My beach might seem plain or average or dull
My beach might look like nothing special to you
But to me, my beach is extraordinary
My beach has pale sand, intermixed with sharp shells that scar the soles of feet
My beach has shifting waters that always appear different to whomever views them
My beach is scarce of people but full of life
My beach is nostalgic
It’s scorching sand scars my soul
It’s waning waves wills my busy mind silent
Whether day or night my beach steals the breath of every creature that views it
It is home to many
My memories among the many which call my beach home
My beach has worn me and shaped me just like sand and rock
My beach is home to beauty
Shells and gulls
My beach is not exactly like any beach at all
Madalyn — This is a beach that certainly brings adoration from you… and would, no doubt, to me as well. It makes me miss the “pale sand,” “waning waves,” and “shifting waters.” I particularly like the capacity of this place to wear on and shape you “just like sand and rock” and call you “home.” The repetition in the phrasings are effective in bringing me back to the power of this place to be just yours and just right. Aah, here in the flooding waters of Missouri, your beach sounds pretty darned good! Thanks for taking me along on the walk. Susie
My favorite lines: Its scoring sand scars my soul and Its waning waves wills my busy mind silent. Love the alliteration and vowel sounds — these lines are even more beautiful when read aloud. Thank you for taking me to the beach – – I heard the wind and the gulls and smelled the salt air today, and just for a brief time my busy mind was there and only there before life rolled in like a wave……..
Madalyn,
I especially liked the line, “My beach has worn me and shaped me just like sand and rock”. “My beach” is in South Haven, Michigan and I know when I sit on it, I am allowed the time and space to be “worn and shaped” in my mind. Thank you for sharing your poem and connecting me back to a memory of my own.
Julie
Madlyn — You do so much with sound in this poem. The anaphora in “my beach” creates such rhythm and then with the alliteration in “waning waves wills” along with consonance in “shells and gulls.” You have brought the sound of your beach to life for us and revealed how your beach has “shaped” you in its physical and even spiritual existence. Lovely.
There is so much power in the line, “My beach has worn me and shaped me just like sand and rock.” We can see and feel the wear and tear throughout the years. Yet we realize the beauty that is found there, for you and for any who have that “home.” I also really loved they rhythm of the first line. Thanks for bringing wonderful beach memories back.
Madalyn – “It’s waning waves wills my busy mind silent” got me thinking about times when I would retire to a beach in Wales after a long day of study at the University. I would just sit, stare across the ocean, relaxing and letting my mind drift into the tranquility of this peaceful setting. After some time, I would gather myself together and start the 3-mile trek to my flat up the hill. Thank you for sharing.
Susie, I am awash in Missouri spring now as well! I was caught up in your line, “ignoring levees and sandbags and silly strides to girdle her dimension.” As much as we want to control nature, it does its own thing. And the fact that it’s a her speaks volumes. Thank you for sharing the morels pushing through soaked mats of leaves and the downy ducklings. I loved your use of unbelt. Thank you for sharing this moment and season.
Susie! I love how your poems have so many effects for me. I swim in the beauty of your language (pun intended) but also appreciate the educative quality of your writing. I always learn something new because of your word choice — like every word illuminates something specific about a place or time that only someone there would know, but I get to learn and experience through your verse. Like this:
“till the Missouri turns that milky chocolate
brown with roiling eddies that take the bottomland
and the wearied cottonwoods,
as it unbelts itself
in a long exhalation
to the Confluence and on
down to the Delta”
eddies, bottomland, cottonwoods, Confluence, Delta — all vivid while, to a degree, jargon of the region . Love it.
Sarah