Chea lives in Temple, Texas where she teaches remotely at Purdue University. She primarily teaches pedagogy courses for mixed content areas but tries to sneak poetry and young adult literature in there wherever she can. She is obsessed with how place shapes who we are as people and teachers and runs Literacy In Place, a site dedicated to the teaching of rural young adult literature. She also hosts the Reading Rural YAL podcast where she talks all things YA books and with the writers who write them. She spends a good bit of her time chasing around her three kids under 5 and two rescue dogs.
Inspiration
It’s embarrassing every time it happens – when I say or do something that mismatches what the environment calls for. A double negative, an “I reckon” in an academic space that positions rural me as lesser – a country bumpkin who doesn’t belong there. Or “correct” grammar, a discipline-specific term at home that shows academic me is gettin’ above my raisin’.
In any given moment, where we’re from, where we’ve been, and where we are, are telling us who and how to be. Our relationship with the physical and social geography and topography of where we’re from and where we are tell us how to act, speak, be in ways that are ‘appropriate’ for that space.
We can, but don’t have to, listen.
Process
In your verse of choice, write a poem that captures how a place you claim—either where you’re from, where you have been, or where you are while writing—tells you who and how you can be.
Perhaps make a list of ways of being, acting, speaking, listening, etc. that are considered (un)acceptable and then think about whether or not you choose to listen/act accordingly and why.
It is my hope that writing these poems will provide us all an opportunity to learn more about the various people we are during the course of our lives and how those identities and actions are connected to the places in and of our lives.
Chea’s Poem
Place and the Possible Me(s)
The cornfields tell me to be
small
The stalks envelope me in their greenery
But they also tell me to be
resilient.
The Mill Street tells me to be
friendly
To visit the farmer table and say hello
I know pretty much everybody in there
So it also tells me to be
guarded.
Home tells me to
speak my mind
Ideas
are paramount
And
school grammar
Don’t matter
And honestly
Ain’t preferable.
School tells me Home is
dumb
uneducated
School listens more to the
Words as I say them
Than the
ideas
The words create.
I listen and
I hear it all.
Whether I want to
or not
It all becomes part of me
And I believe it all
Until I won’t
I follow the rules
Until I don’t
I decide to be the
Me
I want to be
But place has still shown what
Me
Is
Possible.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Chea, thank you for this prompt and the opportunity to reflect on who I am and where I’m from.
What Did You Say?
Where I’m From tells me
I can have the best of both worlds
as long as those worlds do not intertwine.
Where I Am tells me
I can be myself – ish…
as long as you’re not too emotional.
Where I Work tells me
I can be whatever I need to be
as long as you meet their needs.
Society tells me
I can be anything I want
as long as I remember my place and check your passion.
What I tell me matters the most…
Thank you, Chea. Read your prompt and knew I had to write a Jersey poem. Just took me a little longer.
Jersey Girl
On the parkway
Down the shore,
Springsteen is king.
“Bruce!” they bellow.
On the turnpike,
Smoke stacks
Spew gray clouds
That choke your lungs.
Small crowded towns,
Pizza joints, ice cream,
Burgers, fries, doughnuts –
True Jersey community.
The Garden State?
Is that a joke?
You might think it is
But look again.
Rolling green hills,
Mountain lakes,
Farmland abounds
American pastoral.
Cows and cornfields,
Horses and red barns,
Farmstand after farmstand
Take a taste of a Jersey tomato.
Just another Jersey girl,
Proud of her complex state,
Crowded and industrial,
Beautiful and bucolic.
Hey Joanne! I’m still catching up from like Day 20. 🙂 I loved your poem and the way it disrupts dominant narratives and single stories of Jersey. That would be an interesting approach to apply to every state, I think. The “yes and” of your poem is wonderful. Industry does sit alongside farmland. What we know of a place through popular media is never the whole story. Thanks for writing and setting the record straight about Jersey. 🙂
Thank you, Chea. Your right – when I travel to various states and countries – the travel brochures don’t match the reality o the places. And I love uncovering the realities – both are beautiful – both paint the true picture.
I’m grateful I carved out time on the road and in between school events because this prompt nudged at me all day. Thank you, Chea.
All of Me
The 60s and 70s taught me to dance
To laugh and play in the ocean
To swing as high as the sky
The 70s and 80s taught me to shrink
To eclipse my inner sun
To sip and swallow sweet poison
The 80s and 90s taught me how to die
To serve the marrow of my bones
To swim with human sharks
The 90s taught me motherhood
To cocoon and nurture innocents
To fight the demon in the house
Turning 50 taught me to jump ship
To fly solo without fear
To resurrect and manifest joy
Today teaches me I’m still here.
To dream in beautiful colors
To behold all of me
ⓒStacey L. Joy, 4/27/23
Stacey,
Overlapping decades reminds me how complex life is and how we’re always still learning. Having read many of your poems, I recognize familiar themes of resilience in the face of adversity and finding joy despite all the struggles. You are a shining example of that, and I’ve learned much about always looking for the light and joy from you.
Stacey, thank you for this! Like, Glenda, reading your wonderful poems for the last few years here I’ve caught glimpses of this “journey” before, and I love love love the final stanza (made more powerful, of course, after following the “swim[ming] with human sharks” and the “fight[ing] the demon in the house”: “Today teaches me I’m still here. / To dream in beautiful colors / To behold all of me.” Yes!
Wow, Stacey! I’m so glad you found the time to write too. We’re all better for it. So much of this poem is powerful, but these lines made me jealous I didn’t write them.
Holy cow! And that last stanza too. Yes!! Thanks so much for writing.
“There’s home and there’s this other home”
There’s the home that falls from my mouth like an acorn dicing towards its deep roots with such velocity because of its starting height. This home is a city because of what grew me laid beyond the limestone and wooden walls. This home I will occasionally refer to as “Austin” unless I’m in company with whom I want to avoid judgment from any direction—then, I’ll say “Texas.” There’s this other home that is in the adjacent state and instead of feeling deeply rooted has the fragility of the acorn that has just taken root. This is a lovely, two-leafed home and a growing network of roots; while I hope to watch this infant tree grow a robust foundation, it sometimes feels as if a bored homeowner might just pluck us from the soil, tossing us into this week’s “Yard Waste” bin.
Hey Laura! I felt so much of this. I currently live in Temple, and on our walk today, my 2.5 year old pointed out acorns on the ground at every turn. Yard Waste bin indeed. I often think about writing prose poems but they feel hard to me for some reason. Yours is beautiful and has inspired me to try one next time. Thanks so much for writing.
Chea–what a delight! I love the contradictions of place–all that places tell, hide from us, hold us, define us… I knew right away this morning that I needed to write a photo essay poem. Here’s my attempt.
Architectural Tour
In this place
cars hide underground
burrowed together
out of sight, out of the way
Emerge into a space
of angles, lines, sharp edges, rigid edges
structures to hold learners and learning
restrained, confined
Creativity splashes orange
filling eyes, nose
inhale
break free
find your own face looking back
New shoulders old
towering, shadowing
the elderly relics
of another generation
How will the piles of folders
paper towers
infuse, confuse, contribute
build, flourish
bloom
Reflections
outside in
inside out
native beauties, architectural wonders
structures
unstructured
See anew
abandoned lenses
embrace
perspectives
Historical paths
lead to new discoveries
symphonic differences
roughing up the angles, straight lines
Beyond the structures
eyes on
brains on
hearts on
let learning
dance!
For the photo essay, please check out my blog: https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2023/04/27/architectural-tour-npm23-day-27/
Kim, I love your spin on this prompt and am now plotting a plan for students to create a photo poem. It was exciting to read your words first here and then see them juxtaposed with the images. “Creativity splashes orange” really stuck out to me with its interesting synesthesia and the orange also popped off the wall of the mural! Very cool effect—thanks for sharing!
Kim! Wow wow wow! I love this, and I’m stealing it for future inspiration. The photos are gorgeous and I love the way they work in concert with your words. That last stanza is ::chef’s kiss:: perfection. LET LEARNING DANCE! Yes!!!!! Thanks so much for writing.
A home
holds a family that grows in all directions
three children build forts in the bedroom
climb up the magnolia, hide in the branches
watched movies in the glass walled porch
holds a family that grows in all directions
a mother and two daughters fill pasta shells with ricotta cheese
shape dough into pizza adding basil and pineapple
prepare meals for Thanksgiving and Passover
through laughs from the kitchen
holds a family that grows in all directions
three dogs and a cat to warm laps
join us on walks long and routine
no voices talk back
holds a family that grows in all directions
poised for a new configuration
uncertainty knocks on the door
a stable structure offers the same
to its inhabitants
I love the refrain “holds a family that grows in all directions”–and then the last stanza! That stable structure…
There’s a sweet full-circle that this poem takes. Maybe get the blankets ready for fort-building?
Hey Jamie! I love the way that your poem recalls us to your title with every stanza and the way that it captures places within the home and how the activities there vary but still anchored to the home. The branches may grow out, but the root system still provides that stable structure. Beautiful. Thanks so much for writing.
Chea, thanks for this poem idea. I loved your poem, but especially the imagery of the first stanza. It gave me the idea to lean on my northern midwest accent (which I didn’t realize I had until I moved out west). I’m not sure how well this will land, but this poem does really rhyme in my head!
Home Poem
Let me welcome you to my home,
and meet my accent through this poem.
Pretty soon, I think you’ll be able to catch
the midwest rhyming (but it might be far-fetched).
Maybe you’ll get a big kick
that “creek” is pronounced “crick”.
Here, we’ll give you a dozen eggs,
but you must provide the appropriate bags.
Out in the fields, you might see wind turbines,
but only if you leave areas that are suburban.
During the spring, we make time to plant,
but always remember to call your aunt!
In the chimney, you’ll be able to find soot,
and over the radical sign, you’ll find the square root.
Don’t forget to really emphasize those long oh’s,
and leave every conversation with “Well, I s’pose.”
Rachelle, your poem made this midwesterner smile. I wonder how many people realize there are lots of variation in the midwestern accents. I love the reminder to call your aunt!
Rachelle,
Your accent is pretty subtle, don’t worry. I love the word play of different accents for words that, ahem, don’t rhyme for everyone. I might borrow that “I s’pose,” it sounds so much more relaxed than my time in New York. 😉
Rachelle, your poem was a delight to read! Knowing the rhymes will work with your accent sets the reader up for a game of sorts—I had fun!
Rachelle! I LOVE this. 🙂 I like to call myself an Appalachian-infused Hoosier to capture both sides of my family, and I totally heard the rhyming. It made me feel at home and made me smile. I use “I s’pose” all. the. time. And my husband loves to point out how I say [ay]ggs instead of [eh]ggs. This was a joy to read. Thank you so much for writing.
I’ve lived in a number of places
and visited even more.
Sometimes,
the lingo and lilt of the language
of an area slides into my brain and
takes hold only to slip out
when I least expect it.
Most of the time, though,
I’ve come to be adept at feigning accents
of the most affecting pronunciation
shifts I’ve been exposed to.
My West Coast accent was a novelty
when I lived in upstate New York
where our and are are said the same.
Dutifully, I said them differently
as the students oohed and ahed.
Back on the left coast again,
some phrases,
when I’m not paying attention,
remind me of my six years in New York,
the hint of high-gliding vowels
betraying my history.
Having former in-laws who were
decidedly British and
decidedly Southern US
made me fight to keep my own
pretty-dang-close
to “General American” accent
from falling by the wayside.
I’m still me,
with a few “adjustments.”
Cara, I spent so much time brainstorming my own accent and I forgot “our” and “are”. I’m trying to train myself out of it! I like the narrative and how accents, without us knowing, seep into our own pronunciations!
Cara, this is a great look at how we speak and sound. This topic is fascinating to me. I love how you’ve captured reactions o your accent.
Hey Cara! I love the idea of “adjustments”. Your mention of your British in-laws made me think about how watching a TON of British TV – e.g., Top Gear, The IT Crowd – affected my speech and vocabulary. We are such an amalgam and your poem captures the multitudes we hold beautifully. Thanks so much for writing.
Follow the Cracks
follow the cracks
to the overgrown lot,
round to Joe’s candy store—
Italian Ices in a paper cup,
and don’t burn-your-tongue Red Hots.
follow the cracks
to an armchair stoop
and leafy sycamore tree,
with prickly seed pods
holding soft-winged seeds
blown away by the wind
like me.
follow the cracks
that wind through the years
and still you’ll find me here,
where love was a circle of summer leaves
and sparrows sang in the sycamore tree.
Ann, I was completely captured by the prickly seed pod imagery as I remembered opening pods like this when I was growing up. Love how you connected this image with your self. Beautiful rhythm and rhyme throughout! Truly lovely!
Ann, that single line! Lived the impact of it. Beautiful imagery and sound in this poem — great nostalgia!
Ann, the repetition of “follow the cracks” and the various “places” it takes us is a treat. Thank you!
I love your refrain “follow the cracks” and I try to imagine them. It’s clear where they lead you. I love your images – don’t burn-your-tongue Red Hots, armchair stoop, soft-winged seeds. Thank you for allowing us to follow the cracks.
Yes! The “like me”
is so perfect. I love the “soft winged seeds blown away by the wind”
Ann, those last two lines are fantastic: “where love was a circle of summer leaves / and sparrows sang in the sycamore tree.” So good!
Wow, Ann! Everything about this is gorgeous! I love that the cracks are our path. Soft-winged seeds and the circle of summer leaves are such beautiful images. Also, I’m a HUGE fan of Red Hots. We used to mix them with Spanish peanuts and eat them at my Mamaw and Papaw’s house. I loved your poem so much I found myself reading it over and over and over, and each time relishing every line. Thank you so much for writing.
Chea,
This is a such a thought provoking prompt. Our environments shape us profoundly. In thinking about my own childhood, I am struck by how vastly different my experience was compared to some of the student at my school. I started writing with my happy childhood in mind and it ended up taking a dark turn.
Suburbs
Shaded lawns, no sidewalks
Deep backyards, thick with ivy, vegetable gardens,
brick patios and fences
Four person family, mom, dad, brother
Some would say,
“A bubble”.
A small liberal arts college
Literature classes in the parlor
of a historic 19th century inn, known as Bonney Castle.
Professors invite us into their homes,
cook us breakfast, come to our weddings
Some would say,
“A bubble”.
Thirty years later
an almost rural school
no sidewalks
backyards that stretch and stretch.
Students raised by
single parents, grandparents
broken families.
Dad’s in prison, again.
Mother has been shot by her enraged boyfriend.
Another mother pried opened a bottle of pills and swallowed them all.
Today, 6th grader came to school with vodka in her water bottle.
I no longer live in a bubble
Tammi, yes, your poem takes a dark turn, but it effectively highlights the pain and suffering so many of our students endure. I think the focus at the end is especially striking because it highlights how early children turn to drugs and alcohol. Extremely powerful poem!
Tammi,
What a shift. The details about your students is so real and just heartbreaking.
Tammi, the juxtaposition between the first two stanzas and the last part of the poem is striking and hows the variation in upbringings. When I started teaching, I was shocked by student stories because I, too, grew up in “a bubble”. Thanks for reminding us of this dichotomy.
Hey Tammi! Your poem made me wonder how much of what young people experience now was experienced by people in my youth and I just didn’t know it. It also reminded me of Kathleen Glasgow’s You’d Be Home Now and how the things you described happen to folks there. You know, there’s that question of whether or not you can ever truly know a person, and your poem has inspired me to ask the same question of place and it’s bringing up all kinds of thoughts. Thank you so much for writing.
I just
wanted
to take a
moment to
marvel at
how cool
it is that
I can be
writing this
poem,
thinking
about you,
smiling all
the while,
and you,
while reading
this poem,
could also,
technically,
be smiling,
thinking
about me
as you allow
me to gently
take your
hand and
lead you
down the
length of
this poem.
Place and
time
separate us,
but at this
moment,
at this,
now,
we are
together,
totally
simpatico,
and that
gets me
smiling
again.
____________________________________________
Chea, thank you for hosting today! I enjoyed your mentor poem and could totally appreciate your lines, “I follow the rules / Until I don’t.” And that brings me to your prompt, lol, which I kinda followed…I guess? I started thinking about place and was struck by the fact that regardless of where the writer is when composing the poem or where the reader is when reading it, at the time of “the reading” they are connected, and essentially, in the same place.
Scott, yes, I followed your lead and smiled all the way. While I often tell my students how connected writers and readers are, seeing how you “take [my] / hand and / lead [me] / down the / length of / this poem.” Thank you for sharing your poem today!
Scott,
Thank you for leading me through your poem and for always writing something that makes me smile
I am smiling, Scott! It really is “totally simpatico” !
Scott, Truth. Loved the the meta-ness of this poem, and even though I don’t know you, it was kind of trippy to think about the shared experience and imagine us both smiling over it. Loved this.
Love the simpatico.
I love your thin poem. A line to connect you to the one it addresses? The power of words. The last few evenings I’ve enjoyed the plunge into poetry – not just in the act of writing, but the act of reading the words of others who share here. Thanks for being one of those someones tonight.
I totally love every word of this, Scott. Amazing!
Hey Scott! I always love reading your work here, and I think you totally followed the prompt and loved your approach. Digital space is place too, and I love that you focused on the way it unites rather than divides us. You got me to smile too as I was reading. The narrow nature of your poem had me thinking about cables and there was also almost a binary nature to the lines. Genius. Thanks so much for writing.
I decided to try a luc bat!
Yearning
the mountains are my home
they call to me, “shalome, stand still.
Listen as the gentle
sounds I breathe instill in you
what you already knew:
the power’s inside you. Reach deep.
Exquisite, Rachel! I adore the mountains calling, “ “shalome, stand still.” I am so at peace in the mountains – your poem captures the power and beauty of this place.
Rachel,
I’ve never tried writing a luc bat but this form really lends itself well to your topic. I love the peacefulness your poem invokes.
Rachel,
Oh, this was a beautiful luc bat! What great imagery. I felt still as a I read it — set such a mood.
Wow, Rachel! How beautiful. How powerful. What a lovely reminder of the ways place can help us to see and know ourselves in intimate ways. Reach deep indeed. Thank you so much for writing!
Hello, Chea! Oh, how I love this prompt and wish I had a free day to write. Work, work, work and an awards event this evening so my post will be late. I loved your opening stanza, pulled me right in. As a native of Los Angeles, I have never experienced cornfields but I’m sure wishing to be there right now.
Thank you for being our gracious host today! Looking forward to thinking through my poem on the road and composing this evening.
Chea,
Thank you for the incredible prompt and for sharing your poem with us. There are so many directions a writer could take with this. I started one way and then headed off to here . . .
$h*t, D@mn, F$%k
i had the mouth of a sailor
when i graduated college.
in a middle school
classroom in a
conservative town
in the 1980s,
that just didn’t work.
and i knew it.
i was blessed with enough
sense to censor myself
in that setting.
censoring what came out
and how it was worded
became second nature.
if an occasional
damn
hell
shit
slipped out or
was used for
effect,
the kids would look
at me as if satan himself
was standing before them,
they’d tell mommy and/or
daddy and the phone call
to the principal would be made.
“miss hutchison, we don’t use
that kind of language here. tidy
up your speech.”
warning received.
fast forward 35 years . . .
maturity tempered
my sailor’s mouth.
now, the shoe’s
on the other foot.
my wrinkled face
and disappearing lips
express shock
at the profanity
that is boldly
spouted in the halls,
in the classrooms,
to my face.
it’s certainly not
damn, hell, shit.
it’s the big ones.
and profane words
and phrases.
and completely
insensitive slurs.
and references to
just deplorable things.
there is no filtering.
no gauging the audience
no thinking before speaking.
i’m sure there has always been
slang but it felt mainstream.
they have an entire lexicon
that is completely unfamiliar
to me.
i don’t know if the words
they share, shout, whisper
are a slam or a compliment,
inappropriate or fine.
language should connect
and convey meaning.
all it seems to do these days
is drive division
and create rifts.
~Susan Ahlbrand
27 April 2023
Our fearless leaders have paved the way for this hurtful language explosion – but I do think teens are driven to speak this way for the same ‘developmental’ reasons that we were. It must be hard and exhausting to try to model a more respectful way of speaking in the midst of such hormonal changes. I, too, was someone who was
Susan,
I totally agree language should be used to connect not divide. Seems like today, now, more than ever, we need to revisit The Golden Rule “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”
Susan,
Brilliant poem. I love the movement from seemingly innocuous to the overt abuse highlighted in the last lines:
“language should connect
and convey meaning.
all it seems to do these days
is drive division
and create rifts.”
Id be writing those words I don’t know down and finding out what they mean. I’ve rarely had problems w/ students’ language, and for most taboo words I gave a utilitarian mindset, but there’s no tolerance for racial slurs and bigotry.
Hi Susan! My sailor’s mouth has never tempered. I think I’ve always seen those words as a way to show emphasis. Maybe it will temper and maybe not – I suppose with time anything is possible. 🙂 Speaking of – I appreciate how your poem shows how time is an important part of place. And that human development is part of that. Thanks for writing.
I’d hoped to offset the margins of my poem to illustrate each state I’ve spent big chunks of my life in, but the formatting didn’t work. 😔 Anyway, the states are Missouri, Arizona, Iowa, Idaho. I lived in Arizona twice, spending three years there each time, but no matter where I live, I’ll always be a hillbilly from the Ozarks.
show-me girl
looks into the rearview mirror &
gazes over her shoulder
one life
left behind an
unlined face
seeing show-me possibilities—
rocky red clay
soil growing viney bean
stalks climbing
heavenward &
Ozarkian
byways
twisting through
tree-lined forestscapes.
show-me girl
holds a hand-glass above
saguaro cacti arms
cradle a newborn
babe she cannot satiate &
Arizona sandstorms
sting her face & faith in
ditat deus
echos mocking
irony even though
this irrigated central valley
farmland
delivers a
cornucopia of abundance from
migrant toil.
show-me girl
gazes into a
speculum
sky-high corn stalks summer son
detasseling mazes
fall breezes
give way to seasons of icy sleet
& prairie tornados twist
their threats across
midwest plains
this plain girl
learns the in-law life.
show-me girl
follows like naomi abides by boaz
her people
geographically misplaced
her life unmoored the
anchor hoisted to leave again
a wanderer like odysseus
washes ashore in the
gem state potato
headland crossroads to
tetons & yellowstone a
destination in
time a home
rooted in rocky
peaks & valleys.
—Glenda Funk
April 27, 2023
Glenda, I love the flowing details of every line and now want to visit the Ozark.
I attempted the Justin Bates series, but was freaked out. I also loved,
I need to travel out of the northeast. I’m inspired.
I am mesmerized by the many images you share here, weaving your tale as “show-me girl” [My goodness, this is a great title for you – our world traveler!] I would have loved to see your “offset margins” but this is awesome as is. These lines ring out,
I see a connection between those cacti and that challenge of one’s first newborn, how prickly everything is. I love the hints of religious threads – the naomi abides by boaz…such a poignant touch. Just beautiful, Glenda!
Glenda — I love the way your poem unfolds as a reflection of your life journey with you looking “into the rearview mirror” and the landscape as backdrop.
So many beautiful details throughout. These are my favorites:
“rocky red clay
soil growing viney bean
stalks climbing
heavenward”
and “show-me girl
holds a hand-glass above
saguaro cacti arms
cradle a newborn
babe she cannot satiate”
Glenda, you have so many wonders in these words. I love you as the “show-me girl” from Missouri. Wow, we travel place to place with you, and we share two of the same states where we’ve lived–Arizona and Iowa.
The part I find most poignant is your stay in Arizona when your son was born. So many powerful images there. I really felt this:
Glenda, wow, your specific focus on place shows clearly where you’ve been, but I love how it all embraces how you are in each place. Your word choice is especially exquisite! Love the verbs and adjectives that evoke actions and emotions. Your closing lines “rooted in rocky/peaks & valleys.”
elicits a feeling of steadfastness and power. Magnificent poem!
Glenda, that girl sure saw some places. Your descriptions of places and the girl’s experiences are so vivid. I could see you looking over the shoulder leaving the Ozarks, a cradling the baby in Arizona, watching the cornfields in Iowa, and finding herself “in the gem state potato headland crossroads.” I haven’t been much in those states, except driving through Arizona, but your poem makes me want to see the places you “showed.”
On another note, when you copy your poem from the Word document, paste it into this space by pressing Ctrl + Shift + V ( on PC) or Cmd + Shift + V ( on Mac). It will save your formatting.
Thank you! I write on my phone and transfer to a google doc sometimes, like when I want formatting only available in a document. I then paste into the comments here. I shouldn’t be so lazy, meaning I should have used my laptop.
I wouldn’t call it lazy. You write where you are comfortable and what’s handy at the moment. I often write in a notebook, then type in Notes on iPad, but I still can space out the way I want.
Glenda! My dad’s family are Appalachian and we’ve always identified as hillbilly, so I’m happy to know that I’m not alone here. Everything about this is so gorgeous and the lines I love are so numerous to copy/paste them here would just be to repeat your whole poem. The way nature is entwined with the happenings of life in each of the places you describe is brilliant. Thank you so much for writing to(yester)day.
Chea, thank you for your lovely poem and prompt today. Place certainly does shape who we are or who we have become at a particular time or place.
Uncharted Territory
I am
gravel road dust
dewy grass lust
scorching fields of gold
hilltops standing bold
white-capped ocean waves
mystical dark caves
sunlight slivers
lazy rivers
fat red robin springs
dark uncertain things
drifting on a warm scented breeze
in search of the elusive me
I am
Barb Edler
27 April 2023
Barb,
Ive read many “I am” poems over the years, but few are lyrical in language use and ethereal in tone. Your poem is both. I love the cadence and the rhyme. I love the “I am” ending that makes room for future possibilities of being and becoming. Beautiful poem.
Barb, these words are delicious and I keep repeating them over and over and over again,
beautiful. beautiful. beautiful.
Barb – Awesome poem, lovely mystical tone! I enjoyed your rhyming couplets, especially this one: “ fat red robin springs / dark uncertain things.”
Barb, your rhyming here, your precious wording – absolutely fantastic! “dewy grass lust” – wow! just exquisite, seriously. Absolutely adore the strong punch of an ending – I am
This is all you, Barb! Beautiful words, revealing your complex nature and promising even more with the final “ in search of elusive me / I am.” Amazing poem with the rhymes and rhyme that make it musical and dynamic.
Barb — love the rhythm and rhyme and the sense of adventure!
Barb, I love seeing these places that have shaped you. My favorite couplet:
Oops…lost that thought:
Beautiful!
I love your title. It gives meaning to the images you draw line by line. Ambitious with the rhyme. It feels so natural, not forced, contrived. Your list takes us through familiar spots. Love your listed linked with sound.
Wow, Barb! Love this I am poem and how it captures the multitudes we contain. I’m with Bryan – I keep repeating “gravel road dust/dewy grass lust” over and over as well as “fat Red Robin springs/dark uncertain things”. Absolutely gorgeous. Thanks so much for writing!
No, I am not playing in the teacher versus students volleyball game.
It has nothing to do with the fact that I am old enough to know better
And not willing to go into cardiac arrest in front of a crowd of teenagers.
“Did you hear, Ms. M. just keeled over dead?”
“No, thank you!”
Not today.
I am happy to admit there are some places that tell me.
“You are not one of us.”
“You do not belong here.”
The school gym was not always unkind.
Some kid taught me how to tie my shoes in the school gym.
I loved leaping on the trampoline at Lee School.
I did learn to swim in seventh grade PE.
But for the most part,
Actually, for the all part,
I am happy to spectate.
I am happy to watch today!
Katrina! I LOVE this. The voice is wonderful. These lines were my favorite:
I think this is a hard thing for most of us to admit because we want to belong everywhere. But, you’re so right that there are places that we cannot claim and that we should still enjoy the people who can and do claim them. Perfect. Thank you so much for writing today.
Your poem made me smile. “But for the most part / Actually, for all the part, / I am happy to spectate.” Our local rec center posted “You Belong Here” signs all over. I’ve been about to turn around & walk out so many times, but then I see one of those signs and decide to stay. I agree that spectating is the best!
This is fabulous – “I am happy to spectate.” “Not today,” in bold! I admire your clarity and conviction.
Katrina — Your poem made me smile! I am right there with you “happy to spectate…happy to watch”!
The floor tells me
our bodies only fit
in this bedroom
without furniture.
The roof tells me
buckets can collect
drips until the next
credit cycle.
The sidewalk tells me
there is a path to
earn tips for school
fees & tampons.
The church tells me
Mom has asked for
Christmas presents
again.
The school tells me
I am a number
counted not seen
or heard.
The road tells me
to find another home
and that the floor will
forever ground me.
The church tells me
to drive by to find
my soul in verse,
my spirit in service.
The sidewalk tells me
concrete paths are not
needed to discover
strength to take a stand.
The roof tells me
to grab a hammer,
tear off old shingles,
& repair history’s holes.
The floor tells me
this bed fits two
welcoming love
comfort, rest for
what’s next.
Sarah! I love this so much. I really appreciated the zooming in and zooming in you did on home and its proximity. Place can be a small but might force in our lives, and I think your poem demonstrates that beautifully. I also love the way that time moves through each stanza and the juxtaposition of what the roof, floor, sidewalk and church tell you. The movement here is so lovely. Thanks so much for writing today!
Sarah, your poem reminds me that there are solutions to problems like leaky roofs. There are paths we can take beyond the concrete. There IS room for two in the bedroom.
Open-ended though is the school telling me I am “counted not seen or heard.” It seems to be up to us to find a solution to that one.
Sarah, I see the cracks on the sidewalk as you write step by step through honesty (and I am no reflecting on the stories my roof, floor, school told me…there was no church, as I was raised to add o to God and see the Good in nature (The Great Whatever, which I cherish). I love your poem today, more for the ways teachers should be sharing such verse with their students. Gorgeous. But it’s the honesty for me. That’s what draws me in.
These inanimate parts of structures offer such insight into your world – what a beautiful poetic approach, Sarah. I am so moved by the strength and independence that you voice throughout, especially –
Oh, Sarah, with that road in the middle, you get to choose home and grounding. I love the reprise of the floor, roof, sidewalk and church with the new things they tell you on your terms. So beautiful!
Sarah, I watched your recording first today, and the poem sounded amazing. As a side note, you seem to be so camera-comfortable. I listened to you for a couple of times and then wanted to see the words. I like how your poem takes us from your bedroom floor to the sidewalk, church, and road, and then brings us back reevaluating the significance of each place. My favorite stanza is:
The sidewalk tells me
concrete paths are not
needed to discover
strength to take a stand.”
Thank you for the prompt today, Chea! It was fun to think of what the places I’ve been would tell me.
The snow-capped mountains tell me
To remember the place of my birth,
Autumn-hues marking my arrival.
The ocean calls to me
With memories of sun-soaked skin,
Salted from afternoon waves.
The railroads scream to me
Directions from Boston to NYC,
Reminders for a louder voice.
Lake Michigan reminds me to
Relish quiet, small moments:
A Colectivo coffee, a stately cream puff.
A southwest railroad town saloon
Shouts at me to recite “Y’all,”
“Yes, Ma’am, and “No, Sir.”
Abandoned rails whisper to me
That these cotton and peanut
Fields are not where our adventures end.
Jordan! I love the way you capture regional language differences alongside other memories and place-connected sensations. I can feel the briskness of Autumn and the sun and dried salt on my skin. The railroads running throughout made for an excellent through line, and the open-ended nature of your last line reminds us we have more place-building, more-identity building left yet. Thanks so much for writing today.
Ooh, I loved this descriptive poem!! So cool how each place communicates in a different voice – calling, screaming, reminding, shouting, whispering. I also love the “stately cream puff.” I can feel the sense of adventure – with more to come!!
Jordan, I love the variety of voices all these places use — from whispers to screams. The last stanza is a winner. I love “not where our adventures end.” It reminds me of Bilbo Baggins at the end of The Return of the King when he says, “I think I’m quite ready for another adventure.” Wonderful!
Hi Chea, thanks for a look into you with this prompt. As some others I love these lines:
“It all becomes part of me
And I believe it all
Until I won’t
I follow the rules
Until I don’t”
The change from “following” to realizing and doing your own thing is so powerful. Today, I have channeled some of what I see with my students here in Kuwait. They’re from all over the Middle East or Egypt, not just Kuwait.
In class, she can’t speak Arabic because her teachers don’t know it
But she is expected to answer even if she is not completely confident in the way English flows from her brain and out her mouth.
At home, she can’t speak English because her parents don’t know it
And she is expected to entertain her elders when they visit but now she speaks better English than Arabic. Her mother tongue is no longer a comfort.
With friends, it’s Aralish or Engbic because her friends speak a mixture, just like her
Even though these days there are less conversations, less inside jokes, less laughs, less.
When she is by herself, she doesn’t need to say anything, and lately this is the only time she feels sane.
So she starts
staying home from school,
telling her family she needs to do work in her room,
ignoring her friends’ calls.
She trades all this
for more time in her own
space of solace.
Angie! Your poem captures really powerfully the effort it takes to maintain two language systems and the identities that go with them. The long lines in the beginning reflect the difficulty and complexity of navigating those spaces and sit in contrast to the ease of the shorter lines where she can just be in her space. Beautiful. Thanks so much for writing today.
Angie, I didn’t know you taught in Kuwait, but what you describe is a familiar situation for many in the Middle East, as you note. I had some similar experiences too. It is terrible that kids choose missing school because of language requirements. I understand your speaker, and probably would do the same. I had to pause and think how to help her reading this line: “When she is by herself, she doesn’t need to say anything, and lately this is the only time she feels sane.” Thank you for your words today!
Angie, throughout my career working with immigrant and refugee youth in the U.S., I’ve always been drawn on the language brokering expected of kids…their power to speak multiple languages, and the absolute disregard our nation has for the linguistic talents they possess. I loved the spacing and narrative-ways you rolled out the poem, ending with the independence (frustration) of finding solace on her own.
I have to say, teaching overseas has given me incredible insight into the lives of students of other cultures. When I taught in Louisiana, before I moved overseas, I didn’t know much about Islam or Bangladeshi, Arabic, Filipino culture (these are just the main ones I’ve been exposed to) and I taught a few students of these cultures in Louisiana. I feel like I did them a disservice because I didn’t learn about their cultures at all really. If I ever teach in the states again, I’m glad I will be able to better understand and support their cultures in a place where they may not be from. I am completely in awe of anyone who is bilingual or more. I believe all of my students (100% multilingual) are already better, smarter, more than me or anyone who happens to judge their accent or imperfect English, and I try to instill that in them.
Oh, Angie, so much truth here. I can relate. I am so much more empathetic than I ever was with English learners, so much respect! Our school in Manama was bilingual, so our students often acted as translators between English and Arabic speaking teachers. I was constantly amazed that they started in kindergarten–left to right in one class, then right to left in the next class–and that is just one of the myriad of differences in the languages. It is not every student who absolutely mastered both languages, but they were all better than the adults around them!
Heartbreaking this:
Chea, thank you for hosting today. I took inspiration from your Mill Street stanza to. write today.
heritage circle
only child
cyclical growth
wilde road
intra-generational
paternal connection
stonybrook drive
maternal memories
sensory playtime
pageant drive
maturing professional
privileged sun
fallsview road
budding family
education complete
highbury court
four seasons
long-term
Stefani! I’m tickled you were able to find some useful inspiration from my poem. It’s amazing the volume a two-word phrase can speak. I really loved the mix of road/place names and aspects of life/living connected to those places. Thanks so much for writing today.
Stefani, what a fun poem with all (is it all?) the streets you’ve called home. Lovely poem and I like that there are no capital letters. I’m curious about “privileged sun”
Stefani,
The pace in your poem is really remarkable. I love the pairing of touchstone moments with street names. This is like a brisk walk through a lifetime!
Fascinating prompt, Chet!
y’all come back now
when you grow up
in a military family
“make us proud” is
the first order you receive
conformity comprises
one part of the drinking water
chameleon is your spirit animal
when you are the new student
many times over
you learn to observe closely
veryveryclosely
speak quickly and assuredly
in Boston and drop those r’s
you ditch the makeup
and skirts of Virginia
to throw on jeans in Maine
when in Charleston, sweeten
every sentence with
‘yes, Sir,’ ‘yes, Ma’am’
the number one goal is
to not
s
t
i
c
k
out
That is Chea, not Chet – not sure where that typo came from! I love your poem, and really relate to how place – “It all becomes part of me”
No worries! Sometimes my phone and computer conspire against me and even though I *know* I typed something right, they autocorrect and go and change them behind my back. I usually don’t notice until I read it back. lol
Hey Maureen! I’m a sucker for form reflecting content and loved the way you played with spacing and direction in the way you typed veryveryclosely and stick out. Brilliant. I also found myself thinking about Stef’s prompt when considering your title and the way it works to capture travel across places shapes who we are and how we perform our identities in those spaces. Thanks so much for writing today!
Maureen, I love how you spell out “stick.” The concept of making us proud is so powerful and such an internal driver! Thank you for sharing today.
I love your title and especially the physical form of “veryveryclosely” – perfect!
Maureen, I love how you share this expectation of observing “veryveryclosely” and the importance of not sticking out to others. Your “spirit animal” imagery is powerful as well as the format and word choice you choose to show the ideas of behavior instilled because of the lifestyle you lived. Hugs!
Maureen,
This is brilliant. The line “chameleon is your spirit animal” resonates with so many, and I love the way the ending illustrates hiding and making oneself small:
”the number one goal is
to not
s
t
i
c
k
out”
You nailed the cultural norms for each place. Love it.
Maureen,
From someone who is deeply rooted in southern Indiana and never lived anywhere else, I appreciate deeply those who have been able to (or forced to) adapt and even reinvent to fit in. You nail that with this poem. You get the details right and your formatting choices really help up the power factor.
Maureen, I have appreciated going through this time travel with you as a military child. “Make us proud,” “conformity,” chameleon”– and then so many specific examples of how you navigated through the different places “to not stick out” Wow.
Chea,
I love the prompt. I really love your poem! The “(place) tells me” constructions are such great entry points into your stanzas and the complicated identities that we construct to be who and what those places need (want? expect?) us to be. Thank you for your poem!
Where you from?
It’s one of THOSE questions…
One of those “New Yawk” questions
like, “you good?”
…could be care,
…could be confrontation,
could be a statement–
You good (period)
That’s affirmation.
Where you from?
Head tilt?
Slight nod?
Skeptical eyes–
the language of the look…
Where you from?
I’ve kinda tumbleweeded
my way to where I stay
so no matter what I say
I trip on the words,
like Gatsby on Oxford.
Oggsford…
Stat NyeLand
I offer, and you
can tell by hearing;
no matter what I said,
The Crooked Letter I
to the N Y. My first place.
Winding roads carry me
to Connecticut and soon
to Pennsylvania (weird),
but, yeah, Staten Island,
born and bred.
You good?
Hey Dave! I always love your poetry and the way it is absolutely and richly saturated with your voice. What I particularly appreciated about your poem is the way you not only captured linguistic features of place-connected language, but the paralinguistic features too – the head tilt, slight nod, skeptical eyes, the period/stop after you good to indicate a pronouncement. I also loved that you described the ways those features go with you to other places – that sometimes our places don’t stay put is an important idea that sings beautifully in your words. Thanks so much for writing today.
Dave, the way you spell out a few of these words brings life and voice to this poem. I also love the metaphor of tumbleweed as well. Thank you for sharing today.
Dave, I love when people ask me where I’m from. I tell them to guess. Nice look into where you’re from! I love the addition of “you good?” And “you good (period)” – such a different meaning and you describe it so well – I hear it in “Nawlins” also 🙂
Oh, Dave, I so enjoyed hearing your voice in these lines, and I think I am remembering you in the flipgrid from Stefani’s prompt last month.
This story of place and sound in words offers such a grounding in the beginnings of self and the beginnings of our words. The last stanza in particular names some places, but that last line of You good? is perhaps more telling somehow. Yes, I’m good. You are too!
Sarah
I hear you, Dave! Well, read you, and your voice is all over this poem!
If only we had a voice recording option to share our words with audio! You good? It’s all good.
Chea, your prompt really took me back! Your poem reminded me of two incidents that showed me clearly how we speak can cause different reactions depending on the place. I’m feeling like this April is “True Confessions” month. Thanks for the platform, Sarah.
Speaking White Ain’t Right
Until at 8 years old, I moved from the country
To the city of Detroit.
I thought speaking like others was right.
All of my teachers and classmates had been white.
I spoke like them. Wasn’t that right?
But once in Motown, on the black side of town
Kids laughed at me like I was some clown.
“You’re a Negro! Don’t you know?
Talkin’ like you is white ain’t right.”
In later years, as a teacher in New York,
At a crossroads, I reached a fork.
I walked in the room, talking like the hood.
Students burst out, “She ain’t no good”
She ain’t talkin’ right. She don’t talk like she white.
You gotta talk white if you want respect
From us, that ain’t what she gonna get.”
You want a news scoop!
Learn the other language, if we must, to succeed
But remember who we are is what we really need
To retain pride of our heritage and family,
And those in our group.
Yes, sometimes we must imitate to get through the gate.
Accents and jargon, syntax and slang
May be okay, what is needed that day.
Our knowledge of the language may help us rate.
Just let’s remember who we are along the way.
It’ll help us get far,
As long as we’re honest knowing who we truly are
And knowing in our hearts just why
Sometimes speaking white just ain’t right.
Hey Anna! I’m with you and love the idea of April as “True Confessions” month. 🙂 Your poem demonstrates so beautifully the way place shapes language and the expectations that go along with it. Not to mention how it reveals and highlights the interconnectedness of race, place, language and power.
I loved those last two stanzas – especially these lines:
It’ll help us get far,
As long as we’re honest knowing who we truly are
And knowing in our hearts just why
Sometimes speaking white just ain’t right.
Thanks so much for writing today.
Oh Anna, I love this so much and also think about how many students still deal with this. Thank you for sharing this experience this way, it a beautiful rhyme, with quotes, and with emotion.
Anna, your dialogue in this poem is so good – it’s like I’m watching a show and can hear the characters saying everything. Yep, “Sometimes speaking white just ain’t right” is the truth. Thank you!
Anna,
Thank you for this poem and the storying of systemic racism in the particulars of your experience. Moving from “I” to “we” is powerful — toward this line, “Yes, sometimes we must imitate to get through the gate” and then echoing back your title is very powerful. I am sitting with your words for a while today.
Sarah
Anna,
I have a student (in our predominantly white town) who has confided how she doesn’t feel right at school among the white kids and now at home among the black relatives. We watched The Hate U Give last year and she said she understood completely how Starr felt. I am in awe how you capture this conflict as an adult. So many people have to code switch for different reasons, and your poem is so eye-opening. I love the impact of these lines:
I decided to view my school as the place I’m from. My students helped my to translate some of their slang, which you’ll see below in italics.
Sup Bro (Crowdsourced from 1st Period)
By Mo Daley 4/27/23
No cap, this is where I’m from
What’s the word?
I’m cool, I’m hep
Yea, cap
Maybe I’m a bop, IDK
On foe nem,
the kids think I’m goofy
Oh, word!
Cuz, you pushin it,
Yessur
But for realz,
I’m a baddie
Don’t you Hey Unc me!
I’m no oldhead
After all
I’m pretty sure
I’m the bees knees!
Merch!
Mo! I love the way you capture how the evolution of language is tied to place and time, and that you involved your students as cowriters!! That’s so wonderful. I never thought I would be behind the curve of that evolution, but I see here that I am. I need to get back into a classroom with young people so I can learn more and start a dictionary! Thanks so much for writing today.
Haha “bees knees”? Throwback that is cool again? Thanks for teaching me some slang I didn’t know! Although urban dictionary really is the devil. I looked up bop because it attracted me being a poetry form also, oh lord! I love your crowdsource poems!!
I’m dying! I just shared this poem with one of my students and he said, “Yo! That’s bussin shorty!”
Mo Daley, so glad you’re encouraging your students to “retain” their talk while learning that of others! Honoring the home languages is another way of honoring the students. Of course, some of the “home language” has come from the streets, but that, too, is where many of us “live” for real.
Chea, I’m so glad to have this morning prompt and love how you work as brilliantly as you do, representing not only place, but space, and the power of regional storytelling. Kicking off your poem with,
sold me right away…Love the prompt, but cherish your poem even more. Of course,I then lost this morning playing with words (and fighting with a contractor…adulthood and homeownership bites). Ah, but childhood…that’s my Thursday salvation. And poetry.
Licensed by 315 (Route 81/31)
~b.r.crandall
If it wasn’t for Prithe Thopper,
mom wouldn’t have taught me to drive,
even if I did saddle mowers
for grandma on Lebanon Reservoir,
way before dad learned to
pimp his ride to Chubby’s
with a cautionary triangle
…those men & women
too worried about driving drunk
(why they drink so close to home).
I understood the lake effect snow
of Northstars, Clam Bars,
and afternoon beers
around garbage cans
used as table tops —
Lucky Strikes, Newports,
and True Blues
humping the air like
a 100 ghostly camels.
I learned to drive those streets
paved for big wheels,
tricycles, and walking dogs,
where yellow glow worms
picked up/dropped off
brats like me
in the rhythm of
Cherry Heights
(once were we
even held ransom).
We rode ten-speeds
halfway between
Pennsylvania & Canada
for a slice of Pavone’s pizza,
often mauling one another
for Dragon’s Lair,
Donkey Kong, &
3-for-1 burgers
at A&W on Tuesdays
(never successful
at having a close encounter
with the strippers
who danced across the
street beyond that eye).
Our childhood soil was rich
(too much clay)
before our learning
permitted us to parallel park
alongside swamps of central New York,
where we drove under Oneida’s
thumb and gave the universe a finger —
All those years of yellow and green
falcons pumping gas at Hess,
(always in hope for a Big Dip
twist or milkshake).
The roads lead to a dome
built for saltine warriors & orange men –
where Iroquois-speaking tribes
found peace from turning stones
into slot machines
for pilgrims to shoot craps…
they’ve always played roulette
with an imperial poker face)
But the Chicken Riggies
& Wegman subs
came much later
with the Twin Trees
and American Legion,
the fish-fries on Fridays,
all because Grandpa Spence
was in the Navy
during World War II.
Hey Bryan! I hope you got everything worked out with the contractor and that it’s nothing too serious. What I love so much about your poem is how it is a map of both place and time. I find that when I go home I plot points of memory and place by landmarks, stores (even if they’ve been torn down), and fields (even if they’ve been built up). Time is integral to how we understand and build place, and I think sometimes we forget it. Thanks for helping us remember and for writing today despite all the obstacles.
Bryan,
Thank you for the incredible details that name and then collectively voice the what place is telling about you, what you are saying about how you understand it to live in you:
I understood the lake effect snow
of Northstars, Clam Bars,
and afternoon beers
around garbage cans
used as table tops —
Lucky Strikes, Newports,
and True Blues
humping the air like
a 100 ghostly camels.
This scene is compelling on so many levels for me, and I deeply appreciate you allowing me/us to witness this of your place.
Sarah
Bryan,
This is the stanza that really got me too. It so reminds me of my dad after commuting home from the firehouse and the early evening beers in the driveway with his carpool buddies.
You paint vivid, captivating scenes in this poem, my friend.
Bryan,
You continue to awe me. I know so little of what you are talking about yet your poem has so much power. I think it shows that, really, we write for ourselves . . . to preserve our memories, process our thoughts and feelings, and pay homage to important people in our lives. Many of the details may fall flat with people who didn’t share our place, our time, our experience, but the gist and the power are there regardless.
Bryan, I adore the rich imagery of your poem. I could hear your honest assessment of yourself as you were growing up and all the enticements life offered like milkshakes and gaming.I really enjoyed the shift in your last stanza and what you were able to enjoy later because of your grandfather’s service.
I love your prompt and poem, the cornfields that tell you to be small, the greenery that envelops you, and their lessons of resilience. I love that you are always listening and learning, creating (in my mind) the heart of a poet. Lovely prompt!
Thank you, Ann!
Hi, Chea! That is so you–the prompt, the inspiration, and your poem. I love that you are proud of being yourself. Your final lines say it all:
“I decide to be the
Me
I want to be
But place has still shown what
Me
Is
Possible.”
Thank you fro hosting. My poem needs a bit more refining, and I will come back to it later, but I want to post it now, so I am not the last one in the game as usual ))
Perks of Being a Polyglot
“You are born Crimean Tatar,
Make your ancestors proud
Speaking their language,”
“Sag’ ol, Baba,” I would thank
my Dad for his great lessons.
“Russian is a language
of intercultural communication,”
proclaimed school:
“You all have to speak and live it.”
“Vsegda Gotova!” – “Always Ready”
Was the brainwashed response to any initiative.
“Crimea is a part of Ukraine,
so Ukrainian will be your second language.”
I thought I already had two, but whatever,
I can read and write: “Vitayu, druzi!”—
“Salutations, Friends!”
Code switching became the second nature.
And then there were moves
from a small town to a huge city
with a three million population,
and to the village
with just about two thousand people,
finally to the Crimean capital.
Everywhere people noticing the way
I say consonants and vowels,
Noting word choices and phrasing habits.
One day I found myself talking
to stranger at the airport in Moscow.
She was quick and observant.
“I can say you are from the South,
the way you say words with “g,”
“You, southerners, just have
to use that “vous” pronoun.
She is your grandmother,
what more respect does she need?”
But never did I plan
To make English more than just work.
I was an English as a foreign language teacher,
and could speak it a little better
than my village students :
“Will you be so kind to open the book?”
Here I was, in the States,
The way some Louisianans spoke
Made me wonder whether they
or I didn’t know the language.
I tried to remember: “When in Rome,
do as the Romans do.” So I listened.
It’s been quite a ride since then.
I’ve learned some Cajun, Creole,
and Yat of New Orleans,
so “Y’all geaux pass a good time,
while I make groceries,”
sounds dear to my heart.
I want the language I use
help me connect
with people I love,
meet, work, neighbor,
or run into in the street,
and if it means I have
to learn another one,
I’ll go for it.
Leilya! I love the way that your poem takes on a journey through places via language. I’ve always said that if I could have any superpower in the world, it would be to speak every language in it. So, I admire your language abilities. Acadian, Cajun, Creole, Yat, they’re all such musical varieties of English. Connection through language is so powerful – to place and to one another. Thanks so much for writing today.
The first time I heard “makin’ groceries” I thought it was a joke. Phrases in different places are so interesting. Gotta love this too: “The way some Louisianans spoke / Made me wonder whether they / or I didn’t know the language” yep, when you get down good and south, it’s definitely it’s own language!! 🙂
What a fascinating insight to all you have experienced with language, Leiyla. Your end is absolutely endearing. Your positivity to embrace the language surrounding you is fabulous!
Leilya, the multi-stranded language and roots of culture are all you, so strongly touching and embracing the world here. I see the earth, hands held around it, and you leading the charge. I love that you are willing to learn even more languages. It shows how you connect to others and embrace diversity in a real and caring way.
Leilya,
I love local color in English, and honestly, it ain’t all that east to understand some Louisianans! Still, I don’t want their cajun accents to change. That you know several languages fluently is amazing, but these lines at the end speak to my heart:
“I want the language I use
help me connect
with people I love,
meet, work, neighbor,
or run into in the street,”
And I love all the code switching in your poem.
I admire your ability–and desire–to navigate other cultures and build understanding regardless of language barrier. I tend to get nervous when engaging with someone who I can’t communicate with well . . . language barrier, hearing challenges, dementia. I desperately want to take on your heart and your mindset:
Oh, my goodness, Leilya! A true polyglot–there are so many languages to learn and use in Louisiana. I love this:
So I listened. Beautiful!
I’m guessing you find it easier to learn another language since you have such an ear for several already. I have friends who were so good in Arabic, but they were usually the ones who already knew five south Indian languages, for example.
Thank you, Denise! You are so generous and kind in your responses. Yes, languages seem to be easy to learn. I forgot to mention French; it was my second foreign language. I am not very fluent, but can get around when needed. I think it is an inherited ability. My Mom spoke all these, except for the English, but she knew German. She also could speak several Turk languages that are close to Crimean Tatar, Uzbek and Azerbaijan, and she could easily imitate various dialects of Crimean Tatar. I also attribute my abilities to professional training. I am a linguist, so I understand the language as a system and know how it functions. The most difficult part is knowing cultural peculiarities, jokes, idioms, jargons, etc. This comes with full immersion.
Chea, what a great prompt. Wow, the difference between the ideas at home vs. the correct grammar at school was sad and maddening. But I’m so happy you had a home where “Ideas / are paramount” Thanks for hosting today.
I couldn’t think of any places except the last three schools I taught in–all since Columbine.
—————————————
Not Once
In Arizona, not once did we
practice for the inevitable.
Just two lockdowns–
(They didn’t need practice)
Once for killer bees in the yard
Once a VP in a neighboring school
became an urban legend
by talking down an eighth grader with a gun.
In Iowa, no lockdowns.
For Austin’s hunting “how-to” speech,
He was asked to keep
his rifle in the principal’s office
instead of his hall locker.
In Manama, ancient-beside-modern
capital city of Bahrain,
my students once worried
that America was going to bomb Iran,
but they never worried about
or practiced for
gun violence.
But now in this place, it has become inevitable–
Some American young people will die in their schools
All American young people worry and wonder.
(If they die young, it will likely be death by gunshot.)
They lie quietly, pretending an active shooter
Is in the hallway trying to kill their teacher
trying to kill their classmates
trying to kill them
with a gun.
#Here4theKids and I
are going to Denver.
Please join us.
Oh, Denise, the gun violence, and especially school shootings are devastating. I am impressed with how intentional you are in words and actions to get some resolution to the global problem. It is so sad that “now in this place, it has become inevitable” to be trained for a possible active shooter. Thank you for bringing up the places to this conversation!
Denise! This poem really packs a wallop. I tend to think of place in the ways that it holds the positive things, but it’s important to remember that it shapes the negative things too. Your poem did that for me today, so thank you. Violence knows no zip code, but the form and frequency of that violence is often shaped by other cultural factors, and your poem demonstrates that powerfully. Thank you so much for writing today.
Denise, we are considered one of the “most advanced” countries in the world but something must be wrong when schools in the states do these drills but not in the Middle East or in lesser developed countries. It’s really a joke that I don’t understand. Wish I could be in Denver too!
Denise, your poem is chilling. I love all the specific scenarios to show the varying attitudes of guns and gun violence, but your second to last stanza is striking. I feel the fear with those students lying still, imagining the active shooter. Very powerful poem, and I appreciate the link!
Denise,
Those days prior to active shooter drills feel quaint. I remember boys teaching how to clean a rifle in class w/ their guns and being required to have a razor blade in typing class. I wish we’d get back to those days. All schools should be like Bahrain.
Denise, killer bees, now that’s a scary thing to prepare for. Guns are far scarier but far more common and yet all the horror once held seems to have drenched out to make the bee seem scarier than the gun because of commonplace-ness, and it’s a sad day because of where we are. And where we are NOT. I’m marching up to the mile high city with you!
Thank you for your advocacy, Denise! This was particularly chilling, I think –
Denise, so sorry that so many teachers have to “deal” with the likelihood of gun danger in their workplaces! And, without armor other than God! We pray that He helps decision-makers make better ones in the near future. Till then, stay safe … as you can … Hugs!
Denise, this is a gut punch of a poem. That last stanza is heart-wrenching. And the first stanza just highlights how intractable the issue is.
Mom was from Lausanne, a Swiss
Dad a Russian Jew
They came from such diverse places
Had a different world view
Mom had a beautiful accent
French, her mother tongue
Dad sounded like he was from New York City
Oh, how they were so young
They fell in love in Zurich
My Dad in medical school
German, their common language
He referred to her as his jewel
They traveled to Milan, Italy
My Mom converted there
From Calvinism to Judaism
In the ‘50’s that was rare
Different religions, countries, languages
One would think they’d grow apart
But love bridges all boundaries
With a common heart
Jennifer, thank you for a beautiful story of life and love. I will hold onto your final stanza:
Different religions, countries, languages,
One would think they’d grow apart
But love bridges all boyndaries
With a common heart.
*boundaries
Sorry for the typo.
Jennifer! I love everything about your poem, but especially the rhyme scheme which gives it a fairy-tale like quality that suits this love story perfectly. And those last two lines are incredible. I’ll definitely be taking those with me. Thank you so much for writing today.
Jennifer,
These lines are lovely in sound and meaning:
But love bridges all boundaries
With a common heart
Thank you for sharing your place with us!
Sarah
Such an incredibly sweet poem!
Chea, I love regional dialect in poetry and writing. I choose books by Rick Bragg, Bailey White, and Clyde Edgerton just to read parts and pieces that bring my Southern roots alive and put a smile on my face and hope in my heart. I love your reminder that sometimes our talk changes to fit the situation, and your poem line that it’s all part of you shows that language is really us, and we are language. Thank you for hosting us today.
Hopin’ Folks Out
my phone rings early
Dad
I have a story I need to tell
while it’s fresh on my mind
before I forget
I grab my pen
It was back in the old days in rural Georgia
when I was preaching at Ohoopee
This was down around Highway 19
where you’d go through Wrightsville
meander over to Tennille
and then head on out to Sandersville
a sea of cotton fields
roads all red clay
Ohoopee was a church of miracles
a cured drunk who loved the Lord led the singin’
“On Jordan’s Stormy Banks,”
only he pronounced it Jurdan’s.
and he weren’t wrong.
a fellow named Noah in the church
needed help finding
where to dig his well
even with a name like Noah
back in those days
people were people
folks’ existence was all about
helpin’ their neighbors out
now
old Elvis heard about it
“I’m coming over to hope you out”
I went over there too
to see Elvis hope his neighbor out
Elvis said he had a divinin’ rod –
a hickory branch – to find water
Elvis walked
it tremored
I saw it with my own eyes
they dug that well right there
they called this place Possum Scuffle
back over in Harrison by Raines Store
over yonder by Deep Step and Goat Town
by Margaret Holmes’s cannery ~
black eyed peas and collards.
in Acts 27
Luke is in a ship in a storm
using stabilizing ropes
~ also hawsers or helps
a help is a hope rope
on land or at sea
it’s Biblical, Kim
now
you remember that
write it down
And you wrote it down in a poem! I love this preservation of your father’s voice. It is so precious to have. Hold onto it.
Stunning voice, Kim, dead-on dialect; I am hearing my own family speak. The alternate use of hopin’/helpin’ and hope rope is SO GOOD. I was living every second of this story-poem as it unfolded, from the phone call to you grabbing the pen and capturing your dad’s story. Yes, remember, write it down – give us more!
Kim, I am reading and rereading your poem to savor each word. This is precious. I also imagine how it sounds. It makes me smile. Thank you so much for sharing!
Kim! I love this so much! You capture so brilliantly and accurately the meandering way of (rural) Southern storytelling. I was transported to campfires and porch-sittings of the past, listening to family stories that sound so much like this one. Thank you so much for writing today!
Kim, what a fascinating story/poem. I love the clear voice of your father, the emotions, and the amazement this narrative creates. Your ending line is delivered perfectly!
Kim,
Good girl for writin’ down this poemstory. My favorite line is
And I love the notion of being “hoped out” because isn’t helping out our neighbors an act of hope?
Kim, bless you for writing this down! I am moved to tears that your dear father knows you as a writer, and calls to share this story with you. You have captured the southern voice, the intersection of lives, the love. It is just beautiful! My husband was raised in Georgia – this story could well be one from him or a loved one in his family. I love and know – “and he weren’t wrong.”
What a gem this preservation is.
Wow, your language skills are spot on. Beautiful and what a memory for your dad and your family. I love his story you remembered and wrote down. This had me chuckling:
Chea, This prompt gave me space I needed to write a verse for my verse novel in progress. This is a first draft. My character is living through the first days of Covid and virtual school.
At the Meeting tree,
silence was allowed–
secret solace of branches
shielding me from shame.
In the classroom,
anxiety paddled me–
daily doses of not good enough,
confidence hiding under a textbook.
At home,
I am me
swinging on the old oak tree
singing my favorite R&B
bolting out the high notes.
In virtual school,
there’s middle ground.
I turn off the camera,
settle and relax to the tune
of Ms. Smith’s droning on.
The Chat is my Meeting Tree now
banter of Hi there!
Who’s here?
What’s up?
I can be a ghost tree
nobody here
and relax into
a world of emojis.
Margaret, this was lovely and soulful. I love that you’re writing a verse novel! I hope you share the final product with us when it lands in a space where we can read it.
Margaret – so excited that you are writing a novel in verse!! This flows beautifully. I can visualize this child, savoring the peace of virtual school, in contrast to:
In the classroom,
anxiety paddled me–
daily doses of not good enough,
confidence hiding under a textbook.
Not everyone suffered in virtual learning. Your language/word choices are lovely – cannot wait to read the rest!
Margaret! I love this— you’ve set the perfect scene and character ~ that opening verse pulled me right and I can’t wait to read more!
Hey Margaret! So exciting that you’re working on a novel in verse. I’m working on a memoir in verse and have really appreciated the space others have provided for me to work on that project. I’d be happy to trade manuscripts if you’d be interested. 😁
I love the way those first lines whisper with the chorus of “s” sounds. And I appreciate that you brought up digital spaces as “place”. Thank you so much for writing today.
Margaret, your love of nature exudes through these lines and words, the images of a love of all things outdoors shining clearly through. I love the tree – the arms enveloping young learners, sparking curiosity and offering shelter in the arms of the oaks.
Margaret, thank you for sharing a context for this poem. A novel in verse sounds so exciting. I will be looking forward to see it published. I love your image surrounding the actual Meeting tree and then moving to virtual reality, in which the Chat takes the place of the tree, and also has an ability to become one’s “solace.”
P.S. for those of you who missed this last night, it was fantastic: Poetry and the Creative Mind, sponsored by the Academy of American Poets. The link was still active this morning, so hoping it works for you all: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNFwoxLRagU
Thank you for sharing!
Chea, your poem reminds me of “spirit of place,” how it truly does shape, influence, and inspire us. A communication beyond words. This is a powerful prompt and I love your intro as well as your poem, telling the story of your roots with regional flair, and with pride. Love these lines:
And I believe it all
Until I won’t
I follow the rules
Until I don’t
-as well as the idea of the “me” that is possible. Thank you for this today!
Woodsong
the woods
towering, thick
in their way,
impenetrable
pull me with
their dark secrets
my great-grandfather
is one of them
found hanging here
from a rope
knotted ‘round a branch
in 1932
the trees, timbered
over and over
do not cease
to grow
and regrow
they echo
with cicada crescendos
and decrescendos
they vibrate
with birdchatter
and song
all the day long
as a child I stood
in the road
covered with gravel
from the mining company
bits of coral skeleton
whalebone
shark teeth
ancient living things
in fragments of fossil
beneath my feet
considering the woods
surrounding
my ancestraI home
dark and deep
secrets to keep
yet vibrantly alive
with a message
throbbing in
the wild, wild song
it pulls me
even now
after so long:
love love love
with everything you’ve got
before
you are gone
it is the you
that shall live
on and on and on
Fran! I’m kind os speechless after reading this.
That shift in the middle with the detail revealed about your great-grandfather: what a powerful emotional shift.
This image:
“as a child I stood
in the road
covered with gravel
from the mining company
bits of coral skeleton
whalebone
shark teeth
ancient living things
in fragments of fossil
beneath my feet”
Incredible!
And that final sentiment:
“love love love
with everything you’ve got
before
you are gone
it is the you
that shall live
on and on and on”
This was the kind of poem that gives a reader pause, makes them take stock. This was gold!
Wow, Fran! This took the breath right outta me. I love the tensions here between the ways humans interact with the natural world – the detail of the gravel and the mining company point to the ways that power can and often does exploit our places. Your grandfather’s death comes as a shock but the way the woods welcomes him back speaks to reclamation of nature and us as part of the ecology that we so often readily exploit. There is so much here. Thanks so much for writing today.
Sorry, Wendy. I just noticed that I replied to Fran on your comment…
There’s a shock with the great grandfather’s death (is that true? Yikes!) and then movement into a peace-making with the forest. I’m especially drawn to the layers of time in fossils, (whalebone, shark teeth make me wonder if the land was once ocean).
It is true, Margaret. He was my grandmother’s father – she and I are both his namesake. I neglected to mention it happened on his 60th birthday.
Wow Fran…this is a powerful poem. I believe as you do that trees have stories to tell….I just love this poem— the whalebone and shark teeth and other ancient things..the secrets, the wild, wild song, and from that impenetrable darkness, from that violent death, the message you hear is love, love, love, with everything you’ve got…really Fran, this poem is stunning..
Oh, wow, Fran. I never knew about your great grandfather. That is so tragic, but it sheds so much perspective on why you hear the sounds on the wind, the song of the birds, and feel at one with nature. You are close to the spirits of your ancestors there, and they still guide you. What power you hold in the universe with forces like that at your side!
Fran,
Wowza! You dropped a surprising detail about your great-grandfather that complicates your attraction to the woods. Was this suicide or a lynching? I have questions. And now the birdsong takes on a mournful tone.
Chea, what a great prompt! I just loved your poem. My favorite lines:
“The Mill Street tells me to be
friendly
To visit the farmer table and say hello
I know pretty much everybody in there
So it also tells me to be
guarded.”
As someone who lives where I teach — I felt this to the bone!
I was tempted to write about my relationship to place, but one of my flock is very much on my mind today.
This place
warns her away
from herself; brick and
mortar: unyielding. The lines
straight on the bus, on the buildings,
in the hallways. Tow the line, they whisper.
Boys on the bus don’t whisper: “They better
not use my bathroom.” “They can’t use use the
girls’ bathroom.” “Where do they belong?” “They
belong hit by a truck.” This place becomes a prison.
And, each day, she strides in, with fire at her heels and
in her belly – with innocence born of still-childhood
With the sureness that a new day is here. She
pirouettes, showing me her new outfit:
“We’re twinning!’ I exclaim and joy
ignites her here, in this place,
for ten minutes every
morning: a safe
space.
It feels imperative that you are a safe place for this student. The emotion is strong.
Powerful stuff here, Wendy. I’m drawn to the idea of “warning her away from herself” and all that the whispers and non-whispers do to define someone, to make them something that fits. Love the “strides in, with fire at her heels.” I’m glad you are her safe space – every child (every being really) needs those safe minutes. Twin away!
This IS relationship to place, Wendy – the safe place carved in the brick in mortar, forged and warmed by fire in the heels and belly, both of you waiting for the moment, the golden few, that make ALL the difference. I once encouraged a student who was in trouble for constantly cutting up paper. For the rest of that year, I was given little paper dragons and paper trees. We need these magic moments, so much – thank you for this one!
Wendy! People are inextricable to our places and sometimes they are our places. I’m so glad you are a safe place for someone so fierce. May we all have fire at our heels and in our belly. Thank you so much for writing today.
Wendy, this is beautiful. Beyond the lovely lines and physical form, I’m so glad this student has you! I love the “twinning” addition 🙂
Chea, there is so much to love in your prompt and poem today, from the personification (I was inspired by your first lines in each stanza) to defiance in becoming whom you want to be. The reminder to listen to ideas over how they’re said is powerful. Thank you for your glimpse of home.
Returning Home
I found a poem on my way home
Growing between cracks in the sidewalk
But when I bent for a closer look
The words were no longer there
I saw a poem on my way home
Floating near the river bank
But when I jumped in to catch up
The words had sailed away
I breathed a poem on my way home
Dancing upon grains of farmfield air
But when I held it in my lungs
The words no longer fit
I caught a poem on my way home
Pulling it from the air
But when I opened up my hands
The words had flown away
I wrote a poem on my way home
Gathering stanzas like winter wood
But when I went to read my thoughts
The words had grown and fled
Jennifer, this was terrific! How many times have I felt/experienced this, and you capture the experience just perfectly, with those verbs in each stanza beautifully leading into the descriptions. Great poem.
The repetition of the line makes me want to steal another line from you. “I found a poem on the way home” reminds me of NSN’s “poems can hide…”
Jennifer, your poem speaks to a favorite topic of mine – new ideas (and poem embryos) are fragile things. Oh, that feeling of trying to get it down, feeling it dissipate even in the act. Beautiful, beckoning images… both, paradoxically, ethereal and real. This is a poem to be read aloud, oh yes.
Jennifer! Wow wow wow! I absolutely am blown away by this. My favorite lines:
Dancing upon grains of farmfield air
But when I held it in my lungs
The words no longer fit
That experience of no longer fitting strikes such a powerful chord with me. All of the images are powerful and you capture the chase of a poem perfectly. Thank you so much for writing today!
The structure of this poem creates its power. So good!
What a beautiful prompt. Just beautiful. I am from a rural place but didn’t stay. I feel like I know exactly what you mean. Thank you
Hey Linda! The word I use for that (which is my identity/experience too) is out-migrant. So glad you connected to the prompt. If you’re interested in more work about rural and rural out-migrant stories/teaching, you could check out my website: https://literacyinplace.com.
Hey Linda! I’m so glad you connected with the prompt. I didn’t stay in my rural place either. I’ve learned to call myself a rural out-migrant and it’s helped me tease out some of the tensions that exist in that identity for me. My guest contributors and I think more about that on my blog if you’re interested in checking it out. https://literacyinplace.com/nonrural-voices-blog/
I appreciate place-based poem prompts like this – we do similar activities in the annual Write Out project: https://writeout.nwp.org/
Kevin
These woods,
I am deep
in
this river,
I still lean
in
these rocks,
where I
remember
this land,
embodies
me
I enjoyed how you intertwined nature, spirit, and yourself into thoughtful verse. A state park “ The Bluff” in Ga. has signs do not stack rocks, but I stack rocks like Tibetans. Your verse about rocks reminded me of them. Thank you 🙏
Offering us the place (woods, river, rocks, land) before sharing the action and giving the meaning works perfectly for this prompt. I’ll check out the Write Out as well. Thanks for sharing.
Kevin, the lovely simplicity of this in structure echoed the meaning — just beautiful. And thank you for write out! I subscribed right away — I’m always searching for something akin to ethical ela for my fall semester of Creative Writing.
Woods and rivers run deep in our DNA, I believe. I am thinking how so many places were named for rivers especially. There’s a sacredness here, remembering.
Kevin! I love Write Out! Rivers and woods are life-giving. I love that your poem reminds us that we are part of the ecology. The land embodies us and we embody the land, and your poem demonstrates that so beautifully. Thank you for writing today.