Jennifer Guyor-Jowett is our host for the March 5-day writing challenge. Jennifer has taught English and Literature for over 30 years to 7th and 8th graders, contributes to the BlinkYA blog, and writes Educator Guides for MG and YA titles. She has written with fellow teachers at Aquinas College as a Summer Writing facilitator and occasionally co-hosts #MGBookChat. Follow her on Twitter @jenjowett .
Inspiration
Dates. Kisses. Babies. Jobs. Days of school. Concerts. Houses. Root canals. Movies. Firsts. We all have them. Remember them. Recognize the significance of them. They occur daily, and while that number dwindles the longer our existence, these first experiences are not only memorable, they define us. Let’s choose a first experience or a series of experiences and delve into those memories. I often use prompts from books students are reading to encourage reflection on themes and ideas. This idea came to me from the book Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson, and in particular the poem on paper (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/ poems/58421/on-paper ) where Jacqueline describes how it felt to first write.
Process
Make a list of firsts. Add sensory words next to each experience, details that help to share the time and place. Describe what makes this experience unlike subsequent experiences. Narrow your focus to one of these firsts or consider how they work together to create a series. As you near the end of the piece, think about circling back to a word or phrase used earlier in the poem. We invite you to share a first or to share whatever works for you today.
Jennifer’s Poem: “between two selves”
Write
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may 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.
Miscarriage
My face is hot from the flush
that courses through my veins,
warming every cell in my body.
I am in shock, total disbelief.
I’m pregnant
Thrill pulses through my being
Happiness beyond anything I’ve ever experienced
My body is a little world
Rotating in its own orbit
It’s my secret as I gently place my hands over my womb.
I put one foot in front of the other
How can I drive with the sun so bright,
the sky so very blue,
and the ground unsteady beneath my feet.
I can’t stop grinning.
I am in wonder! My baby is growing inside of my body.
How shall I tell my husband?
I swear I can feel the baby move,
and I am fiercely protective already
The waves of nausea make me laugh,
proof that I am carrying on that wondrous thing,
being a portal to a living soul into this world
I am feeling so tired all the time.
So sleepy.
Then a wicked bad dream.
There is so much blood,
and they won’t let me go into the other room
to check on my baby.
Screaming myself awake,
I am sweaty and terrified
I begin to feel cramping, painful, tearing
Then the blood starts
I see the doctor looking at me so sadly
I had lost my baby
Crying and sobbing unashamedly
Loud, noisy, heart is breaking
The doctor is weeping with me
My darling baby, it was not your time
And I was not meant to be your Mom
Shattered
Judi, my heart is with you throughout this poem. Thank you for sharing an experience so many others have as well all while making this uniquely your own. The shift in feelings is very powerful. These lines especially affected me: My body is a little world/rotating in its own orbit. Hugs to you.
Second “First” Kiss
Her hands were soft as satin
And her voice was warm and tender
My stomach was in knots all night
Afraid I might surrender
I didn’t know how it would feel
To meet a woman’s lips with mine
Would God send lightning bolts of wrath
Or would it feel like love divine
The moment swept upon me
Sooner than I had expected
Her lips were gentle holding mine
So close we were connected
And just as soon as it began
The action had been carried out
No lightning bolts or wrath of God
No room for any fear or doubt
It wasn’t quite the paradise
I’d pictured in my fantasies
But it was magic, nonetheless
That night I set my soul at ease.
Ann, This is such a lovely poem, more so, I think because of its restraint expressed in the final stanza: not paradise, but soul at ease. Beautiful. The gentle rhythm and excellent rhyme pull me along. Thank you for this.
My First Book
It may seem like an inconsequential task,
first reading Have You Seen My Puppy .
Not to me.
I remember my grandmother’s flashcards,
helping me repeat blends and diphthongs
and ignore letters that have no sounds.
I remember the heat and pressure of frustration
building.
Not because the little boy had lost his dog,
but because reading for some little boys is hard.
Exhausted and defeated
until something freed me,
Like a granite stone being lifted from my chest,
I remember giggling and crying
At how the impossible became possible.
It may seem like an inconsequential task,
first reading Have You Seen My Puppy.
Not to me.
Shaun, I’m so glad I circled back and found your poem (Monday morning here). You’ve given voice to “heat and pressure of frustration building” in the boy. The granite stone being lifted from your chest was visceral for me: I felt it. This poem took me anguish to celebration. Nifty feat.
The first anxiety attack I had in college
was the night before classes began.
I could feel my heart racing and It felt like I couldn’t breathe.
It was as if someone had a hold on my lungs
and wouldn’t let go,
The first friend I made in college
was Haley Jo.
She was full of brown hair, green eyes, and knowledge of this new world.
She laughed at my jokes and I laughed at hers.
It was as if we were supposed to meet and be friends forever.
The first time I drove to Stillwater alone
was a week after classes,
I had went home to get my driver’s license and
I cried the whole way back.
It was like that for a couple months.
It was as if my tears wanted to drown me.
The first time I had an anxiety attack
in front of someone at college
It was Haley Jo,
and she helped me not feel alone.
It was as if things had somehow gotten better.
Naydeen — A friendship born out of those we meet in critical moments seems so unique, and you capture that here. Haley Jo… not like you, but with you, and “helped me not feel alone.” So important. Anxiety comes on in brutal and unexpected ways sometimes, and your “as if someone had ahold of my lungs” captures that. I really felt for you facing this villain. The phrase “drown me” is that gasping feeling. I hope those days are easing now, and that maybe poetry can help redirect focus if those moments creep up on you. Haley Jo is likely sister to other Haley Jo’s out there for you. Thank you for unveiling this vulnerability. Susie
Naydeen, finding that first friend in a new place is a blessing. And it becomes even more so when you are in a vulnerable place when the friendship begins. I’m so glad Haley Jo has a hold of your hand, especially when it feels as if “someone had a hold” on your lungs. I love that “be friends forever” (your own personal acronym of BFF) is what you now have. Thank you for sharing this experience that so many others have had experience with as well.
Naydeen, this was beautiful and powerful! I love the emotional imagery you included. You have a talent for making people feel what you feel through your writing. I love how you brought everything back together at the end. It’s hard to put a positive spin on something like anxiety, but you managed to do so in a wonderful way.
Singing Solo on a Big Stage
As I stand singing solo on a big stage for the very first time
I reflected on how I got to that point on this journey of mine.
Going back to college was terrifying and exciting.
The idea of studying new things was, ultimately, too inviting.
But being among so many youngsters in their prime
Intimidated me and just reminded me of the passage of so much time.
Yet, this time I was going to study what I wanted to;
Something creative, inspiring and, oh, so, very new.
At this time in my life I chose a different path;
Not Science, or English or even Math
I tested the waters with classes in music, painting and dance.
Each option invigorated me and gave me a new chance
To express myself in ways I had not known before;
Ways that opened up a brand new door.
A door that led me to choose music and my voice
As my instrument of choice.
So, after weeks of study and practicing how to sing;
Of learning how to stand and on what words to lean;
To open myself up to judgement without fear
I stand before an audience here.
It matters not about my age
As, for the first time, I’m singing solo on a big stage.
Donna! How brave to sing on stage! I love that your return to college came with the choice to study what you wanted to and that you “tested the waters.” What a lovely word “invigorated” is. Bookending this with singing solo for the first time helps to encapsulate all the feelings you have in that moment and the journey to get you there. Thank you for sharing!
Wow, Donna, that is really fantastic. You are courageous, girl! I like that your poem taps that creativity and has poetics… the rhymes that sneak in so smoothly. My favorite line is “…learning how to stand and on what words to lean” — so well put. The narrative of this is fascinating…to go back to school and take up “what I wanted to” is priceless. So strong! Good for you. It took me to one of my own journeys. At 59 I took up guitar, song writing, performing… I had no shame… I wasn’t good but I just kept at it and kept getting better. The acts of creativity in our lives are as dear as gifts of blood and clean air — it keeps our pulse and our minds clear of that which would drag us into a ditch if half the chance. I’m really proud of you! Thank you for being so strong and for sharing this. Susie
Jennifer, I loved your poem. Have you read Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s “Gifts from the Sea”? In it she refers to “the magical closed circle” of mother and baby, “two people existing only for each other.” Your poem reminded me of that line. You captured beautifully the essence of the first hours with a new child. Thank you. <3
Allison, I will have to investigate this book. You have me on a memory hunt though. There’s a picture book by Reeve Morrow Lindbergh that I haven’t had out since the kids were little. And this brought it back to me. Thank you for that!
Nighttime at Camp Lakota
We were eighth-grade
Girl Scout Cadettes
rollicking behind the
khaki tent flaps
after Taps.
Darci danced a striptease
in our flashlights’ quavering beams;
Cheryl said it felt
like her tongue was in
a washing machine
when she French kissed
Will.
And then Cary brought out
a crumpled pack
of her brother’s
Marlborrows
and slipped one
between her fingers.
Kristin flicked the lighter
and Cary’s pursed lips
pulled at the flame
until the tip glowed
brighter than the devil’s eye.
We passed the sacrament
from hand to hand,
a rite of passage
as our childhoods
drifted on curls of smoke
past the tent flaps
into blackness
of Camp Lakota sky.
Allison, I cannot decide which of these is the strongest image – they all bring to mind an immediate picture that can be felt (rollicking, washing machine tongues, crumpled, and slipped). But from devil’s eye to the end, your language is beautifully chosen – pursed lips pulling, the rite of passage, childhood drifting on curls of smoke.
Oh wow, Allison, this is beautifully lyrical and vivid. Each stanza turned a page in a coming of age picture book. I could see the flashlight shenanigans against the tent canvas. The washing machine French kiss—-fantastic image that was dead-on descriptive. The cigarette scene is so specific in word choices that I felt like I was in the tent. Words that rocked the images: crumpled pack; slipped; flicked; pursed; pulled; devil’s eye; sacrament; curls; and that Lakota Sky. Gee whiz…this is publisher ready!!! You are one helluva poet! Wow! Thank you! Susie
Cadettes, you were very naughty! 🙂 Weren’t we all? You brought back such memories of my Girl Scout days with vivid descriptions of pass time activities after all the counselors had gone to sleep. The striptease must have been a staple for tent play! We never smoked in my tent, but knew girls who did! You took me back to some fun and happy days at Camp Minnehaha!
Allison, this painted such a clear picture in my head and I absolutely love it. I love the character this poem has. It’s so open and honest. And the language you use adds this dramatic, beautiful feel to things, like when you say “we passed the sacrament from hand to hand.” That makes it feel like more of a religious ritual than simply a coming of age story, which adds power to the line. Beautiful poem.
Wow! This is amazing! While I was reading, I had a flashback to a summer camp memory that I had completely forgotten. Thanks for this! What a powerful poem!
My First Steps
Do you remember?
Because I do
Most of my memories from that time are fuzzy
I know I was released from the ICU
After twelve days
I know you were scared
I’ve never seen you like that
Not your words
But your eyes
I could see the fear
And it frightened me beyond belief
Here’s what I do remember
Somehow I got upstairs
And I wanted to go downstairs
I remember looking at my toothpick legs
I remember thinking my brain can’t control them
I remember thinking I couldn’t do it
Fifteen steps seemed too many
I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid in my life
Deep breath in
Deep breath in
Hold the railing
Hold the railing
Hold the railing
I did it
Now I can rest
Mo, your placement of the 3 words, deep breath in (repeated twice), hold the railing (repeated thrice), feels as if you are walking down the stairs. We are taking those steps with you. The movement form two to three repeats helps us to see hesitance at first as well. Seeing the fear in his eyes, not his words, carries such weight in this too. Thank you.
Mo, this recreates a truly eerie sensation. To come from ICU and see fear in “your” eyes. This paints a very serious moment. You so effectively create a sense of uncertainty, a memory that is haunting. The repeated lines at the staircase bring us to your personal fears. Wow! And “toothpick legs” that seemed apart from your brain’s control sends the fragility of your body and your memory. I’m sure glad you’re on the other side of this memory. Hugs, Susie
You made me feel each step as you ascended the stairs with labored breath. I was holding my own! Your experience my be a fuzzy memory, but your poem expresses so well how you felt in the moments before and after. Thanks for sharing.
Wow! This is such a visceral poem. I could feel the moment when “I could see the fear / And it frightened me beyond belief” – this piece builds and builds and then ends so triumphantly. Great job!
You
One more push,
and you’ll be done,
the doctor says.
They lay you on my chest, and
I hold you in
my arms.
Afraid of
hurting you,
I do not dare to
move.
I gaze at your
turquoise blue eyes
and black hair
-you had a lot of hair-
you are perfect
your little face, long body,
tiny hands
The very first time
I saw you,
I knew I was born
to be
your
mother.
Monica, what a sweet poem! That first look is amazing! Beautiful!
Beautiful! I love the ending: “The very first time / I saw you, / I knew I was born / to be / your / mother.” Sweet how you are reflecting on why YOU were born at the time your baby was born. I also love how the short one word lines slow the poem down and give an extra punch to those words (your / mother).
Monica, I hope these poems are shared for the little ones who are their topic. This is a beautiful memory. I love the placement of I knew I was born on its own line – it shows your birth to motherhood, your birth to this new role and then we slow down and allow the weight of the rest of those words to hit us one step/line at a time.
Every mother’s poem! Thank you for sharing so, beautifully, the experience, not of childbirth, but of becoming a mother!
First Days
First days of preschool
exploring, busy fingers
in sifting sand uncovering hidden treasures
plastic dinosaurs, TRex, Stegosaurus,
you could name them all …
First bleak days of December
the director’s office
sitting in a red plastic seat, head down
hiccupy sobs,
you say you are embarrassed
you couldn’t control your hands
your hands that shoved the other little boy
who destroyed your block tower
First months of 5th grade
A Gifted Identification and you unravel the thread, the why of your frustrations,
Why every clamor and every silence, garners your attention
Why the classroom is stop animation needing speed
Why you are compelled to puzzle over every problem
Why curiosity fuels your body
Why connection is elusive
First years of high school
discovering your asynchronous people
marching across a field in perfect synchronization
analyzing the federalist papers
utilizing rhetorical devices
contemplating your existence
Finding your first connections
Tammi, the growth in each of these firsts, from busy preschool fingers to hiccuping sobs to puzzling out problems to discovering yourself is what I am drawn to in this piece. You thread them through the firsts of… allowing us to see the many firsts that we have in our growth. What a beautiful way to view this.
Tammi, those hiccups sobs, though! I saw them on a FaceTime with my grandson today. I love how you honor your child’s curiosity!
50% of Forever
By Stacey L. Joy, ©April 25, 2020
Your first marriage
Has a 50% chance of lasting forever
The same way you could bet heads
And get tails
Want today to be sunny and clear
And it’s overcast and gray
So get your hearts out of the clouds
And keep your heads on level ground
Your first marriage
Could be all roses, poses, and travel
New home and monogrammed towels
Double dates with other enchanting couples
Or you might feel neglected
They might think your work consumes you
Or you may doubt your decisions
And they may decide without you
Your first marriage
Stands a chance of being the royal pain in your ass
The same way two people conceive a baby
And one decides to bail
Or the way you apply for a job perfect for you
And they give it to the other person
Or you promised to cherish and honor each other
But they cheat, repeatedly
Your first marriage
Will assuredly teach you life lessons
You will learn that people treat you
The way you show them
You will learn to listen and how to speak
Especially when you’d rather be silent
You will grow together or apart
The same way your first marriage
Will last a lifetime or end right on time.
Wow, Stacey! You lines “The same way your first marriage/Will last a lifetime or end right on time” really blew me away. There is so much truth and power to your words.
Stacey, “Your first marriage has a 50% chance of lasting forever the same way you could bet heads and get tails.” Wow! I wanted to keep going but my eyes and thoughts continued to be pulled back to these lines. The irony in getting tails, and your choice to write it that way, speaks powerfully and hints at the direction this will go.
your last stanza says it all, Stacey! Actually, your entire poem rings with truth. You begin with a warning and end with good advice. Life Really is a gamble. I love the line “people will treat you the way you show them. “ it takes a while to learn that, doesn’t it?
Dang! You did it again! What a voice and brilliant turn of phrase! Wowza! The whole 50% idea is a hammer on the reality of the institution. “The same way you could bet heads and get tails”!!!! Brilliant! That first marriage la-la-land made me laugh at that illusion of splendor (monogrammed towels). The wicked parts really burned: doubting decisions about your own strengths, bailing on a baby…damn, cheat repeatedly …grrrrr…buuurrrrrns me. The power in your voice comes in how you have the flip side of that 50% in being now this wise, strong, realized woman with a voice to call out bs when you must. This is such a strong poem. I really love it. I hate that it’s true, and love that you wrote it. Hugs! Susie
Stacey,
I like how you talk about the harshness of marriage, and also what could be lovely. You make sure that one way does not outweigh the other. You talk about a marriage filled with roses, double dates, and travel and you also talk about a marriage filled with neglect and cheating. I also loved your last lines! Thank you for sharing.
December of 2001- The first time I held my little brother. My first sibling. Unaware of the many laughs, fights, and inside jokes we would share, but over the moon for this new little baby my parents placed in my arms.
August of 2003- The first time I held my middle sister. My second sibling. My first sister. So excited to dress my sister up and teach her how to walk and talk. Not knowing that we would be polar opposites growing up, but best friends as well. I felt so lucky that God had given me a baby with a pink hat this time, though I was so thankful for my brother.
May of 2009- The first time I held my youngest sister. My third sibling. The person I would still endearingly call my, “baby sister” even though she turns 11 in a few days. So excited to watch this little person grow up and to help her along the way. Not knowing how much joy she would bring me, how much she would teach me despite being a decade younger, and how much fun we would have together. So happy that I had been given just one more siblings.
These three people who bring so much annoyance and chaos but also love and laughter into my life. My life long friends. The joy I felt meeting them for the first time years ago and the joy I feel sitting next to them today.
Kaitlin — I feel the love you have for your siblings in your words “so excited to dress my sister up”, and still calling her your ‘” ‘baby sister’ even though she turns 11″. Thank you for sharing these beautiful memories.
Kaitlin, there is such strength and love in your words for your siblings. That idea of being “over the moon” happens every time – there’s so much love in your words, “I felt so lucky God had given me a baby with a pink hat” and in “how much joy she would bring me.” I love that you connect the joy from the first time to the joy you find now. It’s a bond only siblings can have.
Kaitlin,
the bond between siblings is so profound, especially when you get to see them grow up. It a feeling like no other. I love how you describe it here. Thank you for sharing!
National Poetry Month with #verselove
April 1, 2020…the first day of the first time I decided to write poetry exclusively for 30 days.
Getting inspiration from real writers and real poets.
Trying to follow the rules and adhere to the process.
Worrying if I have the vocabulary necessary to write meaningful verse.
Hoping I have the stamina to compose a poem every day.
Reading poetry by writers from all walks of life and from everywhere.
Being impressed and entertained and brought to tears.
Having to deal with my own buried emotions, as well as personal perceptions of my creative ability.
Deciding on this day, April 25 2020, that
Taking this journey down poetry lane has produced something in me that I can’t put into words;
Giving me a sense of purpose beyond myself.
Writing poetry exclusively for the first time in honor of National Poetry Month.
Donnetta — And let this be just the beginning of your poetic life….where ideas bloom, where new ways of seeing old things changes you and those around you. You are a poet! Now, you say that out loud… and again out loud… and again out loud! “I am a poet!” And I am glad to be among your poet friends. Thank you, Susie
Susie, thank you for your kind words. It was awkward, but I said it, “I am a poet!” Thank you my poet friend!
Donnetta,
What a sweet tribute to this poetry month. “Being impressed and entertained and brought to tears” is such a true statement! I, too, enjoy reading everyone’s poems each day. I love the way you talk about emotions as well. Thank you for sharing your thoughts!
Donnetta, how beautiful! I am so glad you have joined us here this month, sharing your words, your thoughts, and your tears. There’s a feeling of vulnerability that occurs when we share ourselves in new ways. I think you put it perfectly into words, “Giving me a sense of purpose beyond myself.” I love it! There’s truth and power and even vulnerability there. Thank you!
Well said! I agree with you finding this poetry writing community has been an inspiration and a journey. One of the reasons I feel so connected in this space is because it is obvious to me that we are teachers who don’t just teach writing, we are writers. Thank you for sharing our poem.
Tammi, you said: “We are teachers who don’t just teach writing, we are writers.” So true. Teacher-writers understand the writing process because we do it. This then informs our instruction and interactions with student-writers. Writing with this group each month reminds me of how much I think and grow from supportive comments.
Donnetta, This is a gem! I am so glad you took the plunge, made the commitment, trusted the process, came to the page. “Do the verb to be the noun.” Poet.
Donnetta, what a perfect topic for this prompt. This was truly a first for me too, and I could relate to every word in your poem. I never thought I would do something like this, and now here we are 5/6 of the way finished! Some of the things I could relate to were “having to deal with buried emotions” and “personal perceptions of my creative ability” and “sense of purpose”. Very nice poem today, my dear.
Sans training wheels
for weeks I pedaled along the walkway
my dad’s hand on my lower back
he ran along beside me
as soon as his hand left my back
the handlebars wobbled, shaking my arms
ultimately landing me on the walkway
while a collection of scrapes accumulated
on my legs and elbows
I could not be discouraged
I was going to ride this bike
and finally it happened
I was riding a two wheeler
my feet easily pressed against the pedals
my knees pumped up and down
wheels smooth against the asphalt
and I was proud
the wind caught my hair
swept across my face
my bike moved in sweeps across the street
and I rode around the block
over and over
past Jeffrey Lauderdale’s house
where he sat on his front porch watching
Your last detail is such a tease! why was Jeffrey important?! Loved the line “my bike moved in sweeps across the street”
Jamie! That ending! I loved following along with you and you experienced this first bike ride. It took me back to mine, along with my oldest’s and youngest’s. We can exalt with you (wind sweeping and bike sweeping). But I really must know about Jeffrey (crush or adversary?). That switch in tone at the end is like a perfect chapter end, wanting us to flip the page and keep sweeping around and around that block with you.
I love that stanza 6 starts with “and I was proud.” The separation from the previous stanza gives it weight, starting mid-sentence pulls us back to the triumph. I am also curious about this “Jeffrey Lauderdale”…
Love, love, love the details! “dad’s hand on my lower back”, “handlebars wobbled”, “collection of scrapes” — I was right there with you. Thank you for sharing.
My palms were perspiring
Dripping with anxious moisture.
I heard the maddening ticking of the clock
Making my heart match it’s rhythm.
Out of the corner of my eye
Your daunting hand drifted over towards mine.
My mind told me to get up and leave
Yet I stayed sitting like a statue.
The fingers on your right hand
Eventually found my left ones in all their sweaty glory.
When we finally touched
My palms were no longer perspiring.
Lauryl, what a sweet memory (and a sweaty one!). That maddening clock matching your heart’s rhythm puts us there with you. I love the phrase “sweaty glory” and the fact that your palms were no longer sweating at the end. How fun these firsts are. And how much I miss them. Thank you for bringing them back tonight!
I loved this poem, Lauryl :,). All of your writings also contain so much emotion and even in very short, concise pieces you manage to say so much. Thank you for sharing!
Lauryl — you’ve captured that first crush so beautifully and perfectly. “Yet I stayed sitting like a statute/The fingers on your right hand/Eventually found my left ones in all their sweaty glory” — this image was every one!
So much said without saying. I remember that feeling you have presented in such a vivid sweet way. The girl in me went back there! Thanks for sharing.
Lauryl,
this is so adorable and sweet. Firsts can come with such anxiety and nervous sweating. So happy that you felt comfortable enough to finally stop sweating and simply take the moment in.
Wow! This really brought back memories of those sweaty-hand-moments we’ve all had. I love how this poem focuses on the moment with such precision. Great job!
The First Time
Every “first” is the last of something,
a movement which leaves something else behind.
Take care when choosing firsts.
Make sure they are worthy of you.
Once they are used, they cannot be again,
just like hard words…they have tall boots.
They do not hear you calling…
Be careful how you choose your firsts.
Those firsts that are thrust upon you?
Make the best of them that you can.
They are one page of who you will become.
Deal with them, learn from them. Grow from them.
Every first leads to a new paragraph, a new chapter
We cannot know where the story will end.
If a first is too full of darkness, let the light in,
make a new one. Improve on it or
Move on. Leave it. Maybe it was not meant to be yours.
It might have been destined for another…
Find the first you were meant to have.
You can do this.
Every first is also a last.
Gayle, I want to sit with your words of wisdom for awhile. These words mean so much: “once they are used, they cannot be again” and “they are one page of who you will become” and “find the first you were meant to have.” We need to pay more attention to these kinds of firsts.
Gayle, I am really struck by the message of this poem. It is so thought-provoking and subtle and perhaps a message to young women. I wonder what a classroom of young high school students might think of this poem. I especially felt moved by “Be careful how you choose your firsts.” Followed by “Those firsts that are thrust upon you?” The action of thrust feels more ominous, and near the end with “We cannot know where the story will end…..If a first is too full of darkness, let the light in,” Although there is a sense that someone may make a mistake, it could be remedied. I just really love the ideas here, and the end carries such a punch. Beautiful!
Gayle,
I love where you went with this. How you reminded me that some firsts are of our own choosing and others are imposed on us. When you write, “If a first is full of darkness, let the light in,” it makes me wonder how much better life would’ve been if I had known that when I was younger. With your permission, I want to print it, frame it, and put it up on my bedroom wall. Thank you so much for sharing your wisdom.
I am honored! Thanks, Monica!
This is so thought provoking, thank you for sharing! I was thinking about lasts too, while I was brainstorming for my poem, but I hadn’t connected the dots like you did here! My favorite lines: “Take care when choosing firsts. / Make sure they are worthy of you. / Once they are used, thy cannot be again.” I’m thinking of first kisses, saying I love you for the first time, etc. You have to make sure they’re special!! And also: “Deal with them, learn from them. Grow from them. Every first leads to a new paragraph, a new chapter.” What a great reminder.
The first time I walk into our new apartment
the farthest door on the bottom floor
with my fiancé
looking at the bare walls and empty closets
less room than I anticipated
I imagine
how we will make it ours
what it will feel like to live here
together
space becoming stories, stories becoming memories
memories
to fill the scrapbooks
of our life together
quaint, but perfect
Rachel, I love these words – spaces becoming stories, stories becoming memories. Your writing brings me back to those first living spaces with “less room that I anticipated” as well. Thank you for returning me to the place where I remember how to make a space “ours.” That’s lovely.
This poem is so special! I love how happy it is despite a crazy time and I adore your last lien, “quaint, but perfect.” That is such a great way to describe life and relationships- thank you for sharing!
First bout of writer’s
block comes crashing down on me
For the prompt on first’s.
And here you had a haiku up your sleeve. I hear ya…some days are just like that. Sending a Saturday cyber hug. Susie
Laura, your haiku is entirely relatable. I love these words – bout, crashing, prompt (I feel responsible for this bout crashing prompt! so sorry!).
Thank you for the prompt today, Jennifer! I actually wrote more than I usually do, but just couldn’t find the poem; plus, the weather here was too nice to stay sitting at the desk waiting for something to materialize so I took the fire exit!
Laura,
Your poem is priceless.
An apt response to the prompt.
Ironic humor.
❤️
—Glenda
A haiku response to a haiku post! I see you, Glenda!
HA! I DIDN’T see that, Glenda! Loving it now!
Had I been clever enough, I could have written this poem all day long! Excellent!
I have many days like this, especially with the challenge of writing poetry every day. But, you managed to write a poem. I like writing Haikus. I hope the block doesn’t last too long.
I love this, Laura. I love the ironic haiku. It made me smile.
Rumbling Rambler
Driving around the block
Frightened and weaving
Sister cries, “Park it!”
Barely a minute behind the wheel
My driving instructor declares,
“I can tell this is going to be a hell ride!”
“Hell, yes!”
Is what I cried
When dad bought me a 64 Red Rambler
With fold down seats
A V-8 automatic transmission
Raring to go
Radio blasting
Cruising the avenue
Ready to run ‘em
Squealing wheels
Careening corners
No need for brakes
Down the open road
Meandering the back roads
With friends in tow
Oh, the heavenly delight of
Of flying freely
Behind my very own
Set of wheels
Barb Edler
April 25, 2020
We just let our youngest try driving for the first time yesterday. I’m so glad I read this today 🙂
But what fun for you – in that Red Rambler with the radio blasting down the open road. I can sense the freedom in every line of this. What a trip this poem is today.
I wrote this when my first child started driving. <3
https://schoolblazing.blogspot.com/2020/04/my-firstborn-takes-wheel-flashback-to.html
(I tried to find a way to share this with you via my blog. Hope it works!)
Hot damn, Barb, you WILD THANG! The girl on the loose is just so funny and terrific here. I love this. With a V-8 under your butt, you were WIIIIILD… “squealing… careening…no brakes…back roads…my very own/set of wheels.” Just really a great ride! Thanks for the fabulous sense of crazy-wild here. I loved this. Susie
Your first 6 lines remind of when my grandfather tried to teach me to drive and thought i was ready to take the test… Love how you describe driving your 6f4 Red Rambler.
California
Our first trip with no parents
We packed up our things
And headed west
Our parents shouted goodbyes
As we left the driveway.
18 hours on an open road
With nothing to stop us
It was late December but when we hit Arizona
It was burning, It was night time
And I could somehow still feel
The humidity and heat hug me
We made it to Los Angelas at 6 am
We could barely keep our eyes open
But there was one thing 3 teenagers
from Oklahoma wanted to do more than anything
See the ocean
We didn’t stop at our hotel.
We went straight to Venice Beach
We stood at the edge of the world at 8 am
Tired with eyes so heavy
We knew we had made it
Our first trip with no parents
Kole, what an adventure! The image of you all standing on the “edge of the world” after skipping the hotel in spite of the fatigue shares how meaningful this trip was. I can sense the adventure in your words. And the excitement as your parents shouted goodbyes with nothing to stop you. Thanks for sharing this!
Kole,
The sound and rhythm of your poem is beautiful. I can see you using a stable meter in the stanzas to add this musical quality, and then as I read it aloud, I hear the internal rhyming, the vowel sounds repeating. These lines especially made me smile so:
It was burning, It was night time
And I could somehow still feel
The humidity and heat hug me
That last line of alliteration and personification offers this comfort even though you are away from parents. Like the world is going to take care of you.
Sarah
Kole, what an amazing experience this must have been. I enjoyed how you shared the determination to get to the ocean. As a Midwesterner I have only seen the ocean once. so I can totally understand the desire to see it. Nice job of sharing specifics about the trip: Arizona heat, LA at 6 AM and Venice Beach. The joy of making it without parents in tow is clear!
on paper
That time I read my name
Emily Tsai
printed in a straight line
on a white envelope from UCLA,
I choked
on my heart in my throat
Everything had come down to this.
Alone in my room, my finger lifting the flap
unfolding
a single page
my eyes water
blurry then clear
“Congratulations”
“Emily Tsai”
Oh yeah, Emily ! INDEEDY! That acceptance…so ceremonial… I love the way in such few words you captured the “choked” and “heart in my throat” and “Everything had come down to this.” The slow opening of the envelope… I’m yelling CONGRATULATIONS right only with this moment…. You nailed this! In black and white — on paper! Halleluyah! Susie
Emily, I choked on my heart in my throat is such a strong visual. And you share this from a singular perspective (alone, my finger, single page). Sharing the title words, on paper, with Jacqueline Woodson but providing your unique experience bridges the pieces and honors the connection. Thank you!
Emily,
What a wonderful moment! I was feeling the anticipation in your poem right up until I read the congratulations! I love the repetitiveness of your name at the end which makes that moment your own special one. Thanks for sharing.
Emily,
Congratulations! What an accomplishment. I feel like, as I read, that this is so much more than getting into college though. I am probably projecting, but there is an larger acceptance here. There is a belonging that I feel for you or within the verse. Moving to clarity of purpose in the last lines.
Sarah
Emily, I love how you have developed the pace in this poem. I can literally feel your excitement! The lines “Alone in my room, my finger lifting the flap/unfolding/a single page” is striking. I felt as though I was with you in that moment. So glad your dream came true!
Emily,
I love this memory. There’s nothing like the first acceptance letter. I love the brevity of your poem and think of its parallel to that one word, “congratulations.” Lovely.
—Glenda
The fluorescent light flickered
on and off,
wavering,
then settled on solid and bright,
revealing,
a room so small, there was
only one way
to set up the three pieces of furniture,
a narrow twin bed, desk with a chair.
My sophomore year of college,
moving onto campus.
Unlike my brothers,
I had not been permitted,
to live away from home.
Mom said my desire to live by myself,
was the devil speaking,
I was inviting
sin,
sex,
selling my soul.
A miserable solitary year,
commuting by bus,
working extra shifts at the library,
saving every cent,
followed by a summer conversation with Dad.
“You will pay for college and not housing?”
Yes.
“I can count on this, you will pay for my tuition?”
Yes.
“Thank you, Dad. This is really a gift.
I appreciate it.”
You’re welcome.
“And – I have signed and paid for housing for next year.
I am going to live on campus. I am moving out.”
I remember
his look of surprise,
guffaw of admiration –
seeing my courage,
my swift maneuver.
I had beat the system.
It would be Thanksgiving,
some five months later,
before my mother spoke to me, and then
it was little more than
“Pass the salt shaker.”
I broke my mother’s heart,
I opened up my own.
The fluorescent light flickered
on and off,
wavering,
then settling on solid and bright,
revealing,
a room so small there was
only one way to set up the three pieces of furniture,
a narrow twin bed, desk with a chair.
I have never lived anywhere as sublime.
What a vivid memory and unique experience. Thank you for sharing this.
Maureen, the motion and illumination of the light that bookends your poem is lovely and powerful image that reflects the profound that can live within the mundane. I like the way that you’ve collected specific moments that reflect the weight of this move but aren’t the move itself. Very powerful.
I love so much about your poem and your experience. These lines:
“I broke my mother’s heart,
I opened up my own.”
really hit my right in the heart. I feel as though many times I have done the same with my mother. Thank you so much for sharing your poem.
Maureen, the decision to frame the piece with the same words allows us to experience the shift with you – the movement from what seems like an ordinary dorm room move to the extraordinary, the admiration and courage we see in you, as did your dad. I hope your relationship with your mother has moved in this direction as well. The lines, “I broke my mother’s heart/I opened up my own” are both heart-wrenching and admirable.
Beautiful repetition of the sparse, but sublime room. From the first stanza to the last, the meaning changes completely. It’s a room of triumph. I like your dad’s reaction. Hearts heal, and you did a brave thing opening up your own.
Oh, I love this circling of ideas and imagery, Maureen. Have you read Educated? There is a familiarity in your lines but not from my life. You are brave and savvy, as many women I have known. I so admire you, and love the appreciation you have for the three pieces of furniture (maybe you, mom, and dad) being rearranged.
Sarah
Maureen, your poem is so powerful! I so enjoyed the way you described your father’s reaction, and your mother’s fears: “sex, sin, selling my soul”. So perfectly delivered here. The end is truly a celebration of self. Thanks for sharing your personal strength in this poem.
Hi Maureen,
Love the freeing experience of making a decision when we are young, no real worries about the outcomes. I love that your dad gave you surprise but also admiration. That took courage for both of you! Sorry that your mom’s heart felt broken, it actually wasn’t, I would say she was disappointed. But look at the beauty of your decision and how you saw it as “opened up my own” heart. That’s incredibly powerful.
I would love to know how things went after it all settled in with your mom. Maybe that’ll come up in another poem another day. You’ve got me involved in the storyline!
Amazing poem!
Maureen,
Bravo! I was clapping for you throughout. Your mother’s words sting:
“Mom said my desire to live by myself,
was the devil speaking,
I was inviting
sin,
sex,
selling my soul.“
I’ll admit I now see those judgments as invitations for fun. I had an earlier curfew than my brother who was five years younger. “Girls can get in trouble. Boys can’t.” (Insert eye roll). My favorite lines: “I broke my mother’s heart, /
I opened up my own.” Sometimes this is necessary if we are to thrive. I just love your rebellious spirit. And like your dorm room, this poem is sublime. Thank you.
—Glenda
Living away from home for the first time – an act of courage, agency – I like the fluorescent light flickered – it shows sublime – I like the hint of your father’s pride – it creates a tension with your mother’s reaction
Jennifer, I like all the contrasts in your poem to describe the first time you meet your son(s). “The multitudes of the world…reduced themselves to just the sanctuary of two” and “solitary thread…held together” such beautiful language and images. Thank you for sharing and for this prompt. And I just noticed the Jacqueline Woodson poem! I love it. I wish I had read all the rules of the prompt properly and the poem before I wrote mine – would have been different. Teacher failing to read directions properly for ya!
There is never a wrong way to express what is in our hearts. Your poem is a testament to the truth of teaching. It is important. It is needed.
WATERSHED
In ’60, the six of us —
Judy married off and gone too soon —
rolled a half mile down the gravel
in Daddy’s wheezing Studebaker,
leaving our decade of farming back up on the hill,
to start new in a tiny twenty-five bucks-a-month
house with a porch.
Joey with his guitar and radio claimed one end
of the plywood boarded attic
Sandy the other,
we “two little ones” —
no matter I was ten, Deanie nine
(we are still “the two little ones”) —
assigned to the front bedroom
with the upright roller piano and cast iron double bed,
Mama and Dad in the back bedroom;
Kitty refused to come, skittering through the sumac
back to the barn,
despite Mama fetching her over and over,
till she reckoned Kitty made her choice;
Lucy and Shorty, new hay beds in the shed.
Life was changing
with nothing more startling than
the shower,
not bathing in the galvanized washtub
on the linoleum kitchen floor
on Friday nights
in blistering embarrassment —
it was the shower,
the water that bubbled up through pipes
from the basement by the coal furnace —
no more rusty kerosene tank propped on a rack outside,
fueling a hot box in the living room —
it was the spigot, the hot water in a private space
that let me stand naked
in that wobbly metal stall
with a stiff, green plastic curtain
that marked the moment
we had moved up.
by Susie Morice©
Susie, water holds so much power in our lives. It is indeed, the giver of life, as you witness here. You celebrate it (bubbling through pipes). The language you share spoke to me today (wheezing Studebaker,
skittering through the sumac) but none more powerful than the contrast between leaving behind the decade of farming up the hill to the hot water pouring from the spigot to mark the move up. This is a beauty of a journey today.
Susie, what I always appreciate about your poetry is that it carries me with you. I get to go for a ride with you and the family! I am totally drawn in.
First I loved:
“rolled a half mile down the gravel
in Daddy’s wheezing Studebaker” because I can hear the Studebaker’s wheeze! Perfect descriptor!
Then these 4 words hold soooo much meaning because doesn’t everyone eventually want a …
“house with a porch.” I still want one!
But this image of moving from the blistering embarrassment in the tub to this…
“it was the shower…
that marked the moment
we had moved up.”
What a spectacular and gratifying feeling I had for you. I had issues with bathtubs as a child, so I was right there with you in that shower, feeling all “uppity” and safe.
Marvelous journey today, thank you!
Susie, your choice of title set me up for something totally different, but once I begin to read (and reread) the lines, it struck me. As a skillful poet, using that homonym, you described “watershed” moments and literal water shedding in a shower. Clever, clever, clever.
Susie, what a story you have shared, so beautifully…the simple, essential pleasure of being able to bath on one’s own, in privacy. My husband shares a similar tale of wonder and appreciation, moving from using an outhouse to indoor plumbing. So many lines of your poem jump out at me, delight me – “rolled a half mile down the gravel” (no wonder that cat just wouldn’t come! It could get back to the barn too easily!) and “bathing in the galvanized washtub/on the linoleum kitchen floor”…I can SEE this! Thank you for this! Fabulous!
Susie, I simply love your poem. You have so many striking images and your narrative shows so much about this time in your life. The end is truly vivid; especially the “green plastic curtain”. Such an amazing celebration of something we now take so often for granted. Beautiful!
Susie,
I love the upward mobility of this poem, as well as the city/country contrasts so inherent in western literature. I think about how the rural vs. urban reflect our values, embody our stories. Water is so symbolic here. Washing in the galvanized tub forces me to reflect on that reused water, and it’s meaning makes me awaken to current water issues. Maybe because I have my own memories of sharing bath water in a galvanized tub and what it means to have a tub. I did not have regular showers until college. The words that resonate most with me m are
“it was the shower,
the water that bubbled up through pipes
from the basement by the coal furnace —
no more rusty kerosene tank propped on a rack outside,
fueling a hot box in the living room —
it was the spigot, the hot water in a private space
that let me stand naked”
There’s something about this cleansing and this being alone w/ our private selves we take for granted. Your poem reminds me not to do that. It requires me to remember and consider the many who still long for a shower of their own. I so often find myself transported to a moment in my own life when I read your poems. Thank you.
—Glenda
What a beautiful voice this piece holds. The old timey vocabulary…hot box, Studebaker, galvanized washtub. all paint such a precise and homey picture. Love the moving up feel in the last line. I never lived this experience, but I feel like I have had a good few minutes of it with this poem. Nicely done.
First Teaching Job
Fresh-out-of-college cliche,
bright-eyed excitement,
on the cusp of disillusionment,
thinking I was going to be the pilot of the plane
only to find out I was just a passenger,
along for the experience.
Thinking I was successful.
I did everything right up until this point.
First mistake: January, middle of the year.
Second mistake: Their teacher is still at the school,
decided to teach eighth grade instead.
I teach in a room that was cut in half.
Chalkboard only,
overcast feeling.
I stay until it is dark outside
reflecting, prepping for things that won’t be taught.
I arrive when it is still dark outside,
trying to walk in on a fresh note every day.
Trying without experience.
I cannot teach students like this
without experience, without relation.
I try to think about my sixth grade.
Pretending I read Agatha Christie books
and failing AR tests was the extent of my misbehaviour.
I cannot relate.
These kids are yelling, cursing, fighting.
They think not giving a shit is cool.
I’m sure they made bets on my last day.
And I had no boundaries.
Opening window,
exiting window,
standing on roof.
Two girl friends stand up
start punching one another
and blood appears.
They were laughing together
one minute ago.
These girls are taller and thicker than me.
And other fights
and a threat from my principal that these incidents
will not go on my “permanent record”
if they don’t happen again.
“fuck Ms. B” written on a paper by a student who had never done anything rude.
Ultimate confusion.
Groups of four,
walking around the room,
monitoring discussions.
A male student tells me I’m the beauty
and female student is the beast.
I slap male student on the back
because I am positioned right behind him
and because I will defend my students
and because I have had enough of these kids.
Yes, complete regret
and admin tells me never to admit a hit.
I don’t agree
and that’s when I know I will not make it here for four more months.
A kid walks into my classroom late
thirty minutes after lunch.
I ask him where he has been,
he does not respond.
When he walks past me,
I smell weed.
I do not know what to do.
I walk down the hall,
I explain the situation
Asst. principal comes to my room.
He smells the kid
and says he doesn’t smell anything
and he leaves.
Kid’s eyes are glassy,
everyone laughs.
I feel helpless
and that’s when I decide to quit.
Pieces of positivity
Davionne always listening
wrote me a birthday card
with construction paper and markers
when his classmates were thinking about what my stripper name would be:
“Delicious”
If I hadn’t had a Davionne,
who knows if I would still be teaching now.
Nights wondering what I did to deserve this
But that was always the wrong question.
They were just children.
Angie, wow! This was a roller coaster of a journey. I want to give you a hug for hanging in there, for making it to the “still be teaching now” phase so that the Davionnes who persist through all the distractions, “aways listening,” had someone too. There is so much here that causes me anxiety as I read. I’m trying to figure out why the classmates thinking about your stripper name disturbed me most. But your last three lines, they show the forgiveness and the grace and the reflection and the learning and so much more, because after all, they were just children. Wow.
Angie,
It’s such a tough job and you had some definite circumstances stacked against you.
I’m so glad you persevered.
My favorite part:
“thinking I was going to be the pilot of the plane
only to find out I was just a passenger,
along for the experience.”
Angie, reading your poem reminds of my first teaching job! I, too, started teaching middle schoolers in January, in a new state! Their behavior was similar to those you describe , but, the person whom I challenged about coming in late, hit me! My principal told me, Don’t send them to me. If you can’t control these kids, you can’t teach them. Get your act together.
But, thank the Lord, the teacher across the hall, came to my aid. He physically shielded me from their glares while I cried. But, also thank the Lord, he had faith in me, sent me back in with advice on how to cope. He gave me hope. And the rest comes in another poem. 🙂
Thanks for sharing yours.
Yes one of the things I have learned is to lean on other teachers even when I want to handle things on my own. I did not do this there and that is a major regret! I’m glad you had someone reach out for you! Thank you.
Whoa. We simply do not do enough to support our novice teachers. You were set free to perish! This tale is all too familiar…I teach preschoolers, so never ever ever had the likes of this!! I am in awe that you are still teaching. Would love to hear where your guts and determination came from! Your poem is so honest and vivid; these words offer such hope “If I hadn’t had a Davionne, who knows if I would still be teaching now.” Kudos to you!!
Angie,
Holy Cow. That’s some first teaching experience, and I don’t know how to respond. You e captured my fears and anxieties from before I started. I was in a field trip w/ a group of students years ago and had an administrator w/ me. He literally ignored kids w/ weed. I didn’t take kids in another field trip for many years. I’m glad you found Davionne and a way to see something positive from that awful first year. I wonder what experiences in the lives of those children prompted them to act out. I’m glad you see them as children, that you see your question as the wrong one. I’m glad you didn’t quit. Thank you for sharing this heartbreaking story. Hugs
—Glenda
Hi Jennifer,
So excited for today’s prompt and writing with you. Writing about “firsts” is giving me all kinds of ideas. Not sure where I’ll land but I’m ready to fly with it.
Your poem is precious beyond words. The part that grabbed me was the “sanctuary of two an entire world between us” because something incredible happens when we first hold our babies. Your poem captures exactly that in words that don’t miss one moment of that event.
Bravo! I hope your sons appreciate your poem because I most definitely do.
Jennifer, your prompt has sent me waaaaay back, so my poem is a little longer today.
TRUE CONFESSIONS
I must confess
I made a mess.
I wore high spike heels
To look and see how it feels
To be a professional teacher.
I showed up with my knowledge
Eager to fill each student’s cup.
I was the teacher with my pitcher
Ready to fill each empty cup.
It was much later I learned
It was not my job to fill them up
As a professional teacher.
When they would write
And not get it right,
I would scold and they became bold.
I left the room in tears
Reluctant return because of my fears.
They’ll never learn from me
As a professional teacher.
An older teacher mentored me,
Very gently, he explained, “You see,
“You must honor them; teach them how
Not just what to learn but how. Holy cow!
Inspire them to learn and your efforts they won’t spurn.
Get off your high horse! Get back on course
As a professional teacher.”
As I’ve moved from state to state
It has not always been so great.
Moving around as been my fate
But I have learned it’s okay to wait
As I become a professional teacher.
Now, years later, I will confess.
Multiple times I have made a mess.
But, I’m learning not to stress about dress.
I learned to teach more through the process.
We are learning how to learn together.
The stormy times I’ve learned to weather,
As I’ve become a professional teacher.
Anna, you’ve explored this idea of “professional teacher” so well in your words today. Don’t we all go through some sort of this process as we make mistakes along the way? I love the line “we are learning how to learn together.” That is where the truth is.
OOOOOH, Anna — I LOVE this. What a marvelous unfolding of your “professional teacher” fine self. This is soooo much like my first days as a teacher (and yes, I too showed up in high heels and a shirtwaist dress (oh man! my feet huuuuurt so badly). The shift in perspective is wonderful… not “the pitcher” – you bet. I really loved the mentor “he” who gently handed you “You see,
“You must honor them; teach them how
Not just what to learn but how…”
having that mentor kindness and insight was priceless. It makes me remember a wonderful gal when I was young who said “let yourself love your kids…do this hard thing because you love them….otherwise, don’t do it at all.” Boy, great guidance! Your poem really is just inspirational. I read it aloud this morning, and it just carries the rhythm that befits the message. Thank you! Susie
I like the positivity you’ve added to “the mess”. I made a mess too. And I had no idea to make it right – which is what I wrote about today. I love that you always rhyme. I need to try some more rhyming poems. Thank you for this poem.
Anna, what a beautiful story of your journey from mess to marvelous! I love how your confession is real, normal, very familiar. And then you do what all outstanding educators do, you accept help and reflect, and move forward with your craft! What I enjoyed most was “The stormy times I’ve learned to weather…” that’s the key to survival in education. What a joy it must be to have you as their teacher.
Thank you Anna!
These are the wise words of an experienced teacher, “Now, years later, I will confess./Multiple times I have made a mess.” There’s no way to teach without failing; without failing, no one learns. What a wonderful mentor teacher, to give you that advice early on…love your poetic summation of his advice, “You must honor them; teach them how/Not just what to learn but how.” So great!
Anna, this poem about your teaching journey inspires me. I am somewhere in my own rollercoaster and learning how to be “a professional teacher”. I love the final stanza and I’ll carry these lines with me:
“I learned to teach more through the process.
We are learning how to learn together.
The stormy times I’ve learned to weather,”
The first time I met you,
You were singing, bless your heart,
“Bad Romance” from the back seat,
But, unfaithful to Gaga, you swore you would
One day marry Beyonce.
Your face was framed by
Those much-mistreated glasses.
Underarmour emphasised
Your twine-like arms and legs.
A year and a half later,
Your dad and I having married,
We celebrated our first
Christmas as a family,
And you played and played
With the set of miniature NFL helmets.
Out of hearing,
You made them talk to one another.
No matter, if you don’t remember
The first time I met you.
I do.
Katrina, you have woven the image of this child into our hearts through your words today. I love the cleverness of “unfaithful to Gaga, you swore you would one day marry Beyonce.” My youngest also loved/still loves his miniature NFL helmets and takes great joy in his play with them. Many different ways of play invented with those helmets. Those last three lines are just beautiful.
Such a sweet poem about your step son. I really like “no matter, if you don’t remember/the first time I met you./I do.” So true that he probably won’t but it has such an important effect on you. Thanks for sharing.
“No matter, if you don’t remember/The first time I met you./I do” Such words of deep love! What a gift for this precious child. I love the image of him having the NFL helmets talk to one another – so very dear. Thank you for this!
Wow! I feel that love in your words. Thank you for sharing.
The first time I move out
my sister sits in the Honda
CRX passenger seat (no A/C)
singing “Life is a Highway”
to OK
singing UB40’s “Red Red Wine”
to AZ
DJ and mapbook navigator of
carhood sunset big sister chats
on the side of the road
California dreaming
I don’t know
moving out is not leaving home.
I don’t know
all the places I will
go
though
I think big sister suspects
this is just
my first big move.
This line stands out to me: “singing “Life is a Highway” to OK” because I believe it’s supposed to mean Oklahoma but I like how it can be read as “Life is a Highway” to like just being okay. And I like the uncertainty that is expressed in “i don’t know” repeated and that the uncertainty doesn’t have a negative tone. And I like how “I don’t know all the places I will go” reminds me of Dr. Suess 🙂 Thanks for sharing!
Love my big sister and yours too! Everything magnificent comes from having loving, caring sibling relationships. Saddens me when some don’t have that sort of relationship with siblings. It’s a gift for sure.
Your poem speaks to that loving relationship. She’s with you, singing, riding along, chatting, dreaming, but most of all KNOWING this is just the beginning of so much more.
I adore this poem as much as I adore our sisters!
?
Sarah, so many things to love about this today. It captures the road trip beginning with “Life is a Highway.” These song snippets remind me of a travel basketball game bus ride when the Seniors were in control of the music and loved The Doors. Dropping in California dreaming and the nod to Dr. Seuss – love it! This line resonates – I don’t know moving out is not leaving home.
Sarah — I love the tunes! They always take me to the moment …. I love the road-trip-iness of this poem. “Life is a Highway”… just has me sitting here singing that repeated lyric… yes! I love the “big sister chats by the side of the road.” The line stops at the states… love that crafting. And so good to end with the sister knowing you would do lots of big stuff one day…indeed! I like this sooo much. It is a tone of sit on the edge of the seat of growing up…so much to come, so much possibility. Thank you, Susie
Sarah,
I love the line “moving out is not leaving home” and the way your sister’s presence ties you to family. Your poem is a lovely metaphor for myriad journeys: geographical exploration, learning, and more. Love the infusion of music and the way it connects us to memory. Thank you.
—Glenda
Sarah, your poem brings such joy and happiness to my mind. It makes me think of my own big sister. “I think big sister suspects this is just my first big move” – thank you for giving us a glimpse of how special your relationship with her is!
Oh, goodness…love that music. What great memories music brings. I like the white space in this poem…there’s room to hum along.
“Father’s Funeral”
We’d waited
Eighteen months, but
You lingered,
Held on to existence
Until the last September
Saturday morning.
Nothing prepares a child for
Her father’s death.
Jean insisted I go to school Monday.
We buried you Tuesday.
I returned to school Wednesday.
I grieved between life’s schedules.
You wore maroon pants
And a pink shirt to
Your funeral
I chose your clothes,
Thinking you’d look
Fashionable. I
Kissed your cold
Hard cheek
One last goodbye in a
Series of see you laters.
Fern sang your favorite hymns:
“Amazing Grace” and
“The Old Rugged Cross.”
Steve waved to mourners
From the funeral car.
I saw Miss Jenkins
Sitting in a pew.
Our school sent a yellow mum,
But it too eventually died.
We buried you in
Ozark Memorial Park Cemetery
Two disciples keep you company.
I found a photo of
Your headstone on the internet.
Grandma Cowen insisted on
The most expensive casket.
She insisted Jean pay for it.
I drained my college savings to help.
After the internment
Voyeurs crowded into our house.
I resented their laughter,
Hated each I’m sorry,
We’ll miss your dad,
If you need anything call.
Hollow words from hollow men.
When I die there will be
No funeral
No obituary
“This is the way the world ends.
This is the way the world ends.
This is the way the world ends.
Not with a bang, but a whimper.”*
What can a sixteen year old girl
Understand of death, of funerals
When homework awaits?
—Glenda Funk
*from “The Hollow Men” by T.S. Eliot
**My father died in 1975. His funeral was the first I experienced, and as a consequence I vowed I’d not have a funeral. I’ve come to see the funeral business as predatory.
***Jean is my stepmother, Steve is my brother, Fern is an aunt, Miss Jenkins was my high school debate coach.
Glenda,
Wow. Just wow.
You are brilliant.
I could empathize so deeply due to your wonderful details.
I could not even begin to share a favorite line. The whole thing is so powerful.
I am sorry for your experience.
Glenda, thank you for sharing your experience this morning. Sorrow weighs heavily, even after so many years. We feel it through your words. The image of the yellow mum that eventually died too will sit with me for quite awhile. Including TS Eliot’s words – the repeating mantra knocking the reminder and the whimper at the end works so well. And your quick return to life on Wednesday emphasizes how it just keeps moving despite individual loss.
Glenda,
I see this poem alongside the “hitchhiking” one. The beginning of this poem felt “normal” in the sense that it was sad, the loss of a parent, a father. I understand. And then you move into the “predatory” part of funerals — not of loss or grief so much as the way the cost and spectacle of it all commodifies grief. At sixteen, I am so sorry.
Peace,
Sarah
Such a profound experience that you captured brilliantly. My first funeral was for my grandfather. I think I had many of the same feelings. Hollow words from hollow men. As an adult, I understand that there is never the right thing to say. Presence is the important thing.
I’m sorry for your loss so early. These lines stick out to me: “I grieved between life’s schedules” and “What can a sixteen year old girl/Understand of death, of funerals/When homework awaits?” especially because my teenage cousins lost their father two years ago and it always amazed me that they almost continued as if nothing had happened. They were so involved with their schools and barely missed a day of class or practice. I don’t know how I would feel and it’s not to say I think they didn’t care obviously, but almost as if sticking to the schedule was a coping method, and not sure one I could have done. Lovely poem and I love the addition of lines from “The Hollow Men”. Thank you for sharing.
Glenda — This is just such a statement poem… as a first, the loss of a parent is just unparalleled. I don’t care that it was 45 years ago, it is like today in your poem. I feel the voice of your 16-year old self so ripped raw by the experience. I am sorry for this loss, but the strength of voice here is a testament of the impact your father had on your life. The part that hit me hardest is the “voyeurs… who say all those “hollow words” and the “hated each I’m sorry.” No words feel right, nothing feels right. The strong voice of proclamation or avowal comes with “When I die there will be/No funeral/No obituary,” which I’ve vowed myself. [There’s a song by John Prine called “Please Don’t Bury Me” that you must listen to — it’s on my “When I Croak” playlist that my nieces have been instructed to play. https://youtu.be/gM9FQIvX8l0
This is the link] Glenda, you’ve written a beautiful poem… the TS Eliot to wrap it up fits perfectly. Thank you and hugging you, Susie
Susie,
I love that song. Ken and I have often talked about donating our bodies to the body farm. Thank you so much for the song. I’d love to hear all those “When I Croak” sings. Have you read “How They Croaked: The Awful Ends of the Awfully Famous”? Sending hugs back at you.
GF
Glenda,
The line that hurts so much, “I grieved between life’s schedules.” My grandfather died around the time of your father; that was my first funeral – the way that children/teens/people are ‘formulaic’ or ‘perfunctory” about grieving has long irritated and hurt me. We shouldn’t be grieving between life’s schedules. It’s as if the funeral is a ‘to do’. I can see why you would walk away feeling “When I die there will be/no funeral/no obituary.” I think we have to do mourning better. I’m not sure how. I know I was in awe when my father-in-law died in Georgia, and as the funeral procession moved down the road (headlights on cars), all the traffic moved over and paused in the far lane. This is the custom for one and all! Thank you for sharing this. That is a significant loss, at a very young age.
Glenda, oh my gosh, what an outstanding and poignant poem. Thank you for sharing this incredibly painful experience. Why do we push people to just continue on like nothing has happened when we are totally wounded and grieving? I can totally relate to the “Hollow words from hollow men” and the feeling that the funeral home is just trying to make every dime it possibly can at a time when you’re completely overwhelmed. The opening also shows how your father’s death was not easy which adds to the deep sense of loss and grief. My heart breaks for you throughout this entire poem. I get the impression your debate coach thought a lot of you to be there at this time. I can totally understand your feelings about not wanting a funeral, etc. The notes at the end were also revealing and helped to add even more depth. I loved how you included the T.S. Eliot lines from “The Hollow Men”. The end of your poem is gut-wrenching and really carries a punch. Thanks for sharing such an incredibly painful time in your life in such an amazing and beautifully way. I feel honored to have been able to read this very personal and moving poem today. Tears!
What, indeed, can a sixteen year old understand… I agree with you about the funeral business. No funeral for me, either. This expresses my feelings in so many ways and on so many levels…
Oh, my. The details of this narrative poem are so clear and detailed I want to climb into it and hug that sixteen year old girl that swore she’d never have a funeral. I love that you chose the clothing, kissed the cheek. So much was missing for this girl, the time and space to grieve. Your words really moved me. Thank you for this beautiful and tragic poem.
Alapalooza: a Thank You Note
Kids kick a ball around the driveway
Neighbor’s house casts shade from the early Sun
Juggling with their knees
Counting, then bragging, then beginning again
Now piling into the long blue Taurus
Excitement seeping out the windows
I am an observer, relegated to the backseat
Then to be relegated to the sidelines
The town rushes by, then the countryside
Then the boring highway: one more hour to go
A groan from the front seat…
I hear, “Oh no!” and a cassette slipping into the tape deck
“Not ‘Weird Al’!” someone says
And I wonder, “Who’s ‘Weird Al’?”
Laughter is a crescendo, a resurrection
You don’t expect a laugh to change your life
But…
The voice sings about Jurassic Park, and it kills me
Something has changed on the way to the Soccer game
It sounds silly, and it is, but I will never be the same
Alex, you take us from distant observer (seeing kids kick a ball with shade from houses) to entering into the experience more fully (piling into the car) to sitting beside you as you react to hearing Weird Al for the first time so well. We move from sidelines to carseat to participant in a backwards version of your second stanza and it works so well!
Laughter is a resurrection. That is so beautiful it brings tears to my eyes. I like the way you create a narrative here and pin it in time with the reference to a cassette. Also, I don’t know if it was intentional, but I see personification in “The neighbor’s house casts shade…”
I love your line, “Laughter is a crescendo, a resurrection.” So necessary for life.
Jennifer, thank you for this prompt and the stunning memory of holding your children. You brought us right into those heartbeat moments. Wow.
Driving Memory
The first time
I drove home
after passing the driver’s test.
Mom asked me to
turn right
onto a country road.
I turned not quite enough…
forty five degrees instead
of the required ninety
dissecting that corner
Into a hayfield
where a farmer
on a tall red tractor
laughed
and laughed
and laughed.
Linda, the imagery is rich here with the tall red tractor and the country road – and the farmer in the hayfield. I love the laughter at the end, but I’m sure you weren’t laughing with him at the time. It calls to mind so much life perspective: I am thinking of the things I once took so seriously and look back now and realize that in the grand scheme of life, they weren’t nearly as serious as I thought they were.
Linda, boy! Does this take me back to learning to drive (a stick). I love all the visuals your writing offers. The impact of the tractor’s color (red) works well to reflect any embarrassment you felt, as does the repetition of laughed. Dissecting that corner into a hayfield – I can see it all.
Wow, you take me back in time with you. I had a similar experience with a beloved aunt who insisted I learn to drive using her VAN, of all things. It was ugly.
I like the way you structured this in short lines. It reflects in brevity the speech pattern of a teenager, whom you are describing.
Linda,
How’d you manage to pass the test? ? I’m laughing with the farmer. Love the use of “dissecting.” Love the way details build to laughter. I needed this chuckle after writing my poem. Yours is way more fun. Thank you.
—Glenda
I wasn’t expecting that hilarious ending. Oh, those first driving experiences…from my own to teaching my daughters. Good prompt for more writing.
Linda — First drive…. oh gosh… you’ve mapped a road… or off-road… that we’ve all taken. I love the universality of this poem. That doggone farmer laughing … but I’m here chuckling too. Thank you! Susie
LInda, great memory. I think we all have some kind of driving story like this. The 45 degrees instead of 90 degrees was a perfect picture to put into our heads exactly what happened. I’m thinking the laughing farmer was not funny to you at all.
Jennifer . . . thank you for the wonderful prompt. This is right up my alley as I love digging into the recesses of my memory. Your poem is lovely. You managed to say so much in so few words. It’s the biggest moment of all moments and you were able to capture it. “between two selves” is just perfect.
I know you all will be shocked by the length of mine . . .
The First Kiss
Fourteen
the playmate next door
becomes boyfriend
ID bracelets
folded notes
hours on the phone
At ballgames in a group
awkwardly urged to sit together
legs not touching to barely touching
to feeling natural against one another.
Seeking each other out
in the hallways
between classes
Lunchtime chats on the sidewalk
as if no one else existed.
It was 1978
the year THE Blizzard hit the Midwest
a month out of school
leaving us to phone calls galore
with an occasional meet up
at the neighborhood lake
ice skating
warming by the fire
a friend/relation-ship
special beyond measure.
A few months later.
Spring has sprung
and the science teacher
has assigned a leaf collection project.
We walk to a remote wooded area
on the fringes of our neighborhood.
Lots of trees.
But knowing fully well
that we were in pursuit of more than leaves.
We come to a concrete train bridge.
We place nickels on the train
to be squooshed into
medallions
for homemade necklaces.
We sit and toss rocks into the creek
that it perches over.
He says something funny.
I giggle.
I turn and look at him.
His head starts toward mine
His face tilts.
Our lips meet.
They part.
Our tongues cautiously
cross the boundaries.
We stay like that for what
seemed like hours.
A train even came through
and we didn’t even break
but not due to passion.
We were scared to end the moment.
The first.
Knowing everything would be different.
No turning back.
Not knowing what to say
or how to act
when we went back
to our own space.
I sit here today and sigh chuckle
with a wistful knowing . . .
we thought THAT moment
was a loss of innocence
having no clue
what awaited each of us
and both of us
down the road.
It will be and
he will be
forever cemented
in my heart.
Those firsts usually are.
We both got an A
on the leaf collection.
Susan, congratulations on the leaf collection – I’m sure it was spectacular, but the memory collection earned an A- plus-plus! I love this line so much:
But knowing fully well
that we were in pursuit of more than leaves.
But the last line is my favorite! Like a young love Hallmark movie!
How beautiful and sweet and funny…a lovely memory. The ending is perfect!
Susan, this is such a slow burn up to the big moment! Perfect for 14 year olds. Perfect for a walk through this first memory. I love the depth and knowing/unknowing you add to this – scared to let it end, loss of innocence. The leaf collection adds to that sigh chuckle; I chuckled at this reminder detail at the end. Thank you!
Susan,
Getting an A in the leaf collection and making such sensual use of a homework assignment is everything. I love the myriad details you gather into this lovely first. They make me think of collecting leaves. Lovely. Thank you.
—Glenda
I love this reminiscence of that first kiss. It was a magical experience for you. The realization that you didn’t want it to end because you knew it was only the beginning. The first time will never come again. Your last line makes me life. This would make a sweet middle grade story of first love.
Susan — The sweet innocence of this is just lovely. The anticipation you built through the pacing of the lines is so effective. I particularly was smitten by the acknowledgment that it was not about the passion, but it had everything to do with ending a moment and realizing that a first is inherently just that, a first, and you can’t retrieve that except in a poem born out of a precious memory. And the leaf collection iced it with a giggle — fun! Thanks, Susie
Susan, what a fun romantic poem. So sweet. So many fun details. “remote wooded area, fringes of the neighborhood, lots of trees” We were given clues about what was coming. And what a cute ending too–both getting A’s on the leaf collection.
Susan, I’m still giggling, romantic that I am, thinking this is both the first kiss and that the relationship blossomed into marriage! Then, “We got an A on the leaf collection.!” If this were a book, I’d have thrown in into the corner for disappointing me after making me care about the main characters!
Powerful writing to suck me in which such vivid details and careful pacing!
Jennifer, thank you for this inspiring prompt! I have long loved Jacqueline Woodson’s writing, and I’m excited to think about my firsts today, to see what transpires as a poem. What a beautiful poem you shared! The word “sanctuary” jumps out at me, fills me with such joy – this is exactly how I felt with the births of my babies, just lost in them. Love that, “reduced themselves to/just/the sanctuary/ of /two.” I admire the spacing you have used for each line and word, purposefully setting single words apart…it lends breathlessness and awe, adds to the magic of your words. Thank you so much!
Once again one of these prompts takes me back to the Flood of’79. Thanks, Jennifer. Your metaphor of thread holding together a family is compelling.
The first time we returned
to Beechcrest Drive,
we borrowed a fishing boat
paddled along
Melrose Drive to Sedgewick
crossed the buried bridge over Purple Creek
creek becomes lake
becomes sea
of rooftops, a village of roofs
stench of dead fish,
creaking of crickets calling,
Which roof is our house?
Margaret, this is the shift I found so overwhelming
creek becomes lake
becomes sea
of rooftops,
as I thought so literally about creek to expanded lake to sea….the sea blended with “rooftops” and the reality of the situation was gut-punching. That last line was the one, though, that was numbing: which roof is our house? What a harrowing experience you endured – and I am glad that you have picked up the pieces and that you were physically safe through it all.
Oh, my. I cannot imagine this. What a terrible experience summed up in beautifully written lines. The borrowed boat, the buried bridge, the dead fish smell…the still not knowing. What trauma
This is eerie! On my first reading, I didn’t see that it was about a flood. It sounded like a fun trip to a vacation house on an island…on my second reading, I started envisioning images from Katrina….the last line adds a great punch!
Margaret, the sea of rooftops followed by the creaking (I imagine a sound of houses creaking here too) of crickets calling, Which roof is our house? is devastatingly impactful. The emphasis on “borrowed” with the action of paddling along your roads adds to that impact. I’m reminded of one of my student’s poems reflecting on these times (basements flooded/streets dry) and how surreal things become.
I did not read your preface before I read the poem. I thought you were being metaphorical. The “stench of dead fish” smacked me in the face. Then you end so poignantly with “Which roof is our house?”
Since this is a first. I assume there have been subsequent floods. I am so sorry.
Holy cow, Margaret — Your poem is a wallop of OMG! It starts so calmly and innocently, and then, just like water lazing where it shouldn’t be, we float into the mess of “rooftops” and “stench of dead fish” and “crickets calling” — oh man, what a terrible first this is. Whew! Thank you for walking back into this memory — that had to be hard. Thank you, Susie
Margaret, what a life-changing experience. I can see why you have come back to it in your healing writing. It begins so matter-of-factly until you start paddling the boat through your neighborhood streets. And then the powerful “creek becomes lake / becomes sea / of rooftops. Oh, my. What a sad painting you have created with your words. We even feel for the fish and homeless crickets. And especially for you.
Margaret,
That final question, “which roof is our house?” offers a reminder that nature will have its way, that we’re at the mercy of nature, that water has power to save and destroy. That this flood is a first echoes future floods, which I know are a constant in the collective consciousness. The street names are such a contrast to the flood. Thank you.
—Glenda
Jennifer, you capture that new-mother feeling when the rest of the world disappears so accurately here. What tender and loving moments you shared with us – every molecule disappearing between those two selves. That’s a beautiful glimpse of your life! This is a winning prompt today. I have enjoyed the walks down memory lane, my first bike “ride” crashing in a briar patch because I refused training wheels, hiding in a chest when my baby brother intruded my only-child world, and so many others. It was hard to decide which “first” to pick.
turning the page
June 1985
blue Canon Snappy 35 mm with a wrist strap,
locked and loaded
red double-decker diesel buses
black smoke trailing
old-fashioned white paper tickets to Starlight Express
rich black voice raising hairs on my arms, singing
“there’s a light at the end of the tunnel!”
British landscapes of John Constable
at the National Gallery
shared yellow Shandy in a rental car – a preachers’ family
driving (underage drinking, too) because we didn’t know
it wasn’t Coke
thick brown slabs of bacon
with charred red breakfast tomatoes
rich Earl Grey, swirling steam
in fancy china teacups and saucers
clinking daintily
brown and white sugar clumps I mistook
for crumpets – white and wheat
identifying myself as American at first bite
ornate gray facades of majestic cathedrals
blue denim jacket, colorful nickel-sized buttons
collected like a passport-stamped footprint
pitch-dark subway stop, Dad wondering aloud
in the silence: “Is this Oxford?”
“crazy American” chuckles all around
……but the best first of London:
the smell of age-old books, timeless classics
in creaky-wooden-floored bookshops,
worn covers waiting to be loved by
me
I want to gooooooooo! I love the line about not knowing it wasn’t Coke. tee hee. What an amazing memory!
Kim, I love the streaming quality to your poem, one image flowing effortlessly into the next as we meander through the experiences of England with you. “Colorful nickel-sized buttons collected like a passport-stamped footprint” is a beauty of a line! I love the sounds (clinking teacups) and the lightness (sugar clump “crumpets”), and the tastes (bacon slabs and charred tomatoes). Turning the page and worn covers work so perfectly as the front/back cover of your poem.
I love your first impressions of London – double decker buses, fancy teacups and saucers, “crazy American” chuckles, smell of age-old books. My family spent a month in England and Scotland when I was in high school and your poem brought back so many of those memories. The British Museum amazed me – the Rosetta Stone and a floor of blue pottery from China. I studied art history in college no doubt from those experiences.
Kim,
I love all the details of your trip, and the way you present them takes me in a journey of discovery with you as we arrive at our destination, London. Oh how I long to travel. When I watch shows featuring places I’ve been I pause, look at the frozen image, and think about those moments. Your poem does that for me: I’ve read it several times and pause to watch and relive time in London. Thank you.
—Glenda
Kim,
I’ve yet to travel to London, but you have helped me go there. I think your family must have been a fun group to be crazy Americans with. What beauty and wonder in such a place and look what the best was–“the smell of age-old books, timeless classics, in creaky-wooden floored bookshops, worn covers waiting to be loved by me” That was fabulous.
I have to ask about the sugar clumps that you mistook for crumpets. I wonder what they looked like. I haven’t seen anything like that, and I laughed to picture you taking a bite of one.
Oh wow, how extraordinary an experience! This had to blow your socks off. Your innocence (thought it was Coke…LOL!) …the whole poem reads like wide-eyed amazement. You rendered so many perfect details that I was there with you. Like this: diesel buses … black smoke trailing …. white paper tickets… the singing (as a great backdrop) “swirling steam” of EGrey… that you mistook the sugar for crumpets (what a sweetheart) … your “blue denim jacket… buttons” and your dad asking the “crazy American” question. (LOL! Funny.). The part I love the most is the smell of the books…the tomes of your tomorrow. Yes! Terrific. I have to climb back on the bus… 🙂 Thank you for taking me along. Susie
Jennifer, thank you so much for the prompt. I am forever amazed at the memories that come up when I read a prompt. I read Jacqueline’s “on paper” and thought of this experience I had of a first memory. It happened about a year after my dad had died, and it’s the first time I remember thinking existentially–how am I supposed to answer this question?
Your poem about your sons is amazing. What a way to describe the bond between mother and child. A first in so many ways, but the depth of your connection was so beautifully put…reduced themselves to just / two / an entire world / between us…every solitary thread…held together…
Whose Job is More Important?
the first time I was confronted
with the idea that
I was half an orphan
the assignment was an essay
in third grade
“Whose job is more important–Mother’s or Father’s?”
Well, I penned my composition,
Of course, it was my mother’s job
that was most consequential,
most conspicuous at least
At that time, I had no idea who
had picked up the pieces
of my missing father’s job.
Yes, it was Mother’s job
I compelled and convinced myself
What else could a girl without a father conclude?
Denise—This deserved multiple reads. How thoughtless we can be as teachers—I think that, today, we take varied family makeups for granted, but that is a recent consideration. Your last line is heartbreaking—“What else could a girl without a father conclude?”
Denise, I am reminded of how the questions we ask students affect them in different ways and can cause emotions and memories to surface that are difficult as I read your piece. The words “half an orphan” hit hard and convey the loss so clearly, causing readers to think of the impact of a parent’s death in a new way. I can feel the child in your piece, what she was processing. Leaving us with a question at the end allows us to carry your poem with us today as we think upon the words, “what else could a girl without a father conclude?”
This poem is so telling. The things we can do inadvertently as teachers. One of my students lost her mother in 4th grade. For Mother’s Day I asked her to make something for her sister who had stepped into the role. A sad replacement that didn’t fill the hole in her heart. God bless the single moms and single dads of this world.
Denise, your poem is brave and bold, and it puts a spotlight on the lack of consideration by teachers in assigning writing topics. Assumptions that we all walk the same paths and live the same lives do not respect the diverse experiences that we have all had – nor the gamut of emotions that swirl around every sensitive topic. Your courage in sharing this with us today is one of the things I love best about our group – our sense of trust, our ability to reach out with fragile pieces of our lives and know that they strengthen the bond we have with each other.
Denise,
You approach such an emotional, heavy topic through a rather simple situation that made you realize for the first time that there were layers and layers to your dad’s loss.
The strength of your language, especially the many words beginning with C, helps to power the emotion.
Well done!
Wow…what a statement in your poem. My daughter is doing coursework in women and gender studies. She would love this poem. Can I share it with her? It really shows how at such a young age…children know who does what.
Yes, by all means, share it. I trust in this century no one would assign such a topic to children. I hope she will like it, Linda.
Denise,
Your poem reminds me of the way teachers often operate from positions of privilege, making assumptions about the sameness of each child’s life. I love the way you incorporate bullets to emphasize the importance of your mother’s work, work that often goes acknowledged. You’ve written a social justice poem, and I love it. Thank you.
—Glenda
Denise — I read this first thing this morning when I woke up. I was truly moved by your poem… thinking of being “half an orphan” is so provocative a way of phrasing the incredible position of “a girl without a father.” The weighing of which job is more important, really hammers the reality of what you and your mother have faced. To think of you at 3rd grade trying to negotiate this complex reality, something so adult and so poignant and intimate. Kids face so much more than most of us stop to consider. Wow, great poem. Thank you! Susie