Note: Friends, the comment section looks different because of a WordPress issue that is not allowing my fancy commenting platform that allows font features. Further, the comment box is at the bottom of the page, so scroll, scroll to the end or hit CTRL+END. Thank you for your patience. This conclude the announcement.
Our Host
Katie received her BA in English from UVM, her MA in Education and Creativity from NYU, and her credential in English from USD. She has worked as a teaching artist and high school teacher, and in 2018 joined Poetic Justice. Katie develops curricula and teaches classes at LCDRF and the California Institution for Women. In 2022 she is hitting the road with San Diego’s first and only mobile children’s book bus, Joyride Bookshop!
Inspiration
One of my writing partners, incarcerated at the California Institution for Women, recently asked me for advice on how to speak to her children again, how to reach out with words across the gap in time and love that began its ebb long ago in the midst of her addiction and has grown only wider and more silent as waves of powerful emotion erode whatever shore she ever had to stand on. Who am I (who cannot speak to her own siblings and who has yet to drum up the courage it takes for the self-examination of why) to answer her question? But it got me thinking about how to say it (whatever “it” means to you) and to use poetry as a form of empathy.
In her forward to Beloved, Toni Morrison says that when she has a question, she writes until she finds the answer. She also promises “Your life is already artful- waiting, just waiting, for you to make it art. “
In Upstream, Mary Oliver says she didn’t know who she was until she stepped away from herself and into the natural spaces around her: “I had to go out into the world and see it and hear it and react to it, before I knew at all who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be.”
In “One Art,” Elizabeth Bishop’s exploration of the “art” of loss winds up with that moment when she breaks the 4th wall of poetry and encourages herself to just say what she has been trying to say all along: “It’s evident / the art of losing’s not too hard to master / though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.”
When I throw these pieces of powerful wisdom into the air like confetti and I watch them flutter back to earth to arrange themselves in my mind, I begin to learn how to say it.
How to start small and speak the truth.
How to get out of my own headspace and my own way.
How to trust that poems (like sculptures) might already exist, and we just need to locate them.
And finally, how to ask a question and wait patiently for the answer.
Check out the brilliant way in which Janice Lobo Sapigao reaches for language in a eulogy for her grandmother: “There Will Be No Funeral”
How to Say It
In this workshop we’ll explore how to see, how to listen, and how to write about it. We’ll start out easy, but once you get the hang of the process, you can apply it to all the big things you might still be working on how to say. If you’re short on time, you can skip to the end and use the shortcut technique! Likewise, if you’re long on time, consider the extension option at the end as well.
Step 1: Still-Life
- Look around or walk around your space until you choose an object that holds significance for you. Place it where you can watch it.
- After some observational time with it, respond:
- What can you see? Literally. Bring in texture, color, shape, size, etc.
- Look closer. What can you see? Literally. Bring in details, imperfections, peculiarities, etc.
- What parts of it can you not see? Describe it with your imagination. Literally or figuratively.
- What is light doing to it?
- How is it interacting with the surface(s) it touches?
- What sounds are coming to mind? Other sensory details?
- If you were asked to turn your notes into a “still-life poem,” what words would you lift? How would you set them back down again so that we can see what you are seeing?
- Think about the choices a painter makes in a still-life:
- Mood
- Point of view
- Focal point
- Point (message / purpose)
- What would you call this still-life?
My Process
I chose this old picture, drawn by one of my kids about 5 years ago. My still-life objective is to describe everything I see: the subject, the cardboard, the pin, etc. and then turn that observation into a still-life poem.
Step 2: It’s Alive!
- Now that you have stilled this object in order to distill it in a piece of art, it’s time to bring it to life. Listen to it, and once you are ready, consider: If it were a character…
- What would its voice sound like?
- How does it carry itself?
- What are its hobbies, interests, etc.?
- How does it act in social situations?
- What is it proud of?
- What is it ashamed of?
- Who/what does it care about?
- What’s its idea of happiness?
- What is it good at?
- What is it afraid of?
- What does it yearn for?
- What questions does it have?
- Who/what does it need to speak to?
- In the space of one paragraph, let it speak in its own voice with its own quirks and eccentricities. Try not to edit what it says or judge it in any way. (Tip: If you can conjure whom or what it speaks to, it might be easier to really explore its voice and purpose).
My Process
I now need to bring this object to life. I could choose to let the subject speak (I’m thinking he’s the ghost of a dance school maybe), or I could let the entire cardboard object speak (A ripped and tattered former box, now pinned for eternity to a wall with an odd tattoo).
Step 3: How to say it
- Why does this object hold significance for you?
- What concrete memories have arisen during this process?
- Have any questions, concerns, or unexamined emotions come up?
- Because of the work you have done thus far, you can perfectly see your still-life and hear what it has to say.
- Say something back.
My Process
After Steps 1 and 2 I needed to figure out what was really going on. Why had I chosen this object? What is small and normal and obvious about it, and what’s big and emotional and tear-jerkingly hard to talk about? What kept coming up was the difference between my 7 year old son who drew it and my now 12 year old son who’s awkward about almost everything and usually utterly embarrassed by me. It’s like the eyes of this strange character, set so small on this big piece of recycling, bolster me through my kid’s adolescent phase, and what I want to say about all of that can finally come out in the following poem.
“My Son Once Drew A Picture on Another Piece of Cardboard from Another Amazon Delivery”
I have so many questions and so wide a smile for
The cardboard man (smug?) (satisfied?) whose can-can
Hovers as he does above my desk.
We lock eyes daily and it’s like I know he knows.
There’s a religious vibe. A Rockette-cum-Monk thing,
And Jonah’s 7-year-old certitude rockets around off my mind
As I remember the sandy perfection of his Magic Marker hands
Pressing cardboard monk can-can man into my hand.
You were a Saturday morning wonder I could say to my son.
A blessed quirk curled in my lap. A high-kick heartbeat.
I should tell him Your innocence made you funny and unnerving.
And what’s left is this old beat-up piece of cardboard.
~ By Katie Turner
This workshop opens one doorway into the just and powerful act of empathy- an opportunity to take the advice offered by Morrison, Oliver, and Bishop by watching and listening long enough that you discover how to say one small thing that needs to be said.
Shortcut!
- Choose an object that has significance in your life and describe it with as much detail as possible.
- Then imagine it can speak and it has something important to say to someone/something. Write a monologue in its own voice.
- Finally, with scissors, cut out the most important words and phrases from steps 1 and 2, and rearrange them on your paper until you have said exactly what needs to be said about the significance of this object.
Extension!
- Follow the steps in the workshop, but each time you do, choose a memory, an emotion, or a place instead of an object.
Scroll all the way to the bottom to post your poem!
I’ve been under the weather the last couple of days. This was all I could muster. I will come back to this fabulous prompt another day!
without Mother Earth
we are nothing- treasure this
dazzling diamond
Black Ballerini
I was born in Italy
late 1940s
birthed with 5000 siblings
by quasi-artisans.
Shipped to America,
I landed between the hands
of a lazy child who
tried (not very)
to draw music from my
heaving (if small)
bellows.
Then:
the years on a shelf
were at first
relief–
then punishment
as must crept into mildew.
My joints grew tight
my wax grew soft
then hard and bitter.
Who knew I had life left
to give?
It was an EBay listing
coupled with New Year’s Eve optimism
landing me
between the pressing palms
of
(???)
an English teacher?
She adored me
yes.
But adoration does not
play an accordion.
I accepted fate:
I might not play music, but
I was at least uncloseted.
And then
–years later–
again at New Year’s Eve
she resolved
to play a song
with both hands.
We did it,
she and I.
I am now the classroom accordion.
Here in Room #408
I demand center stage.
Each week
I celebrate
Happy Birthday
–both hands–
for
blushing
smiling
students
while celebrating
my own
rebirth.
Oh Allison, you knew right away which item would speak, didn’t you? This is delightful. I’m so happy for the accordion, and its joy and yours in singing birthday greetings to the blushing students! Your poetry is magical.
Allison, Your poem is absolutely gorgeous! I love the way you begin with the accordion’s birth story and how it traveled into your hands and how it now sits center stage in room 408. The end is so precious from the students’ blushing faces to your own rebirth. Magical!
Our Giving Tree
By: Emily Yamasaki
Tsai family guava trees
Are a legend
If only in my eyes
Five trees stand tall in a single row
Dark green leaves so thick
Too many to count
Once a year the fruit comes in
It’s amazing
the weight
these trees can hold
Thank you for the water
The soil
The company
We’ve enjoyed watching
The kids, the mom, the dog
Enjoy our fruits
Even when the kids left
They always came back
When the guavas were ready
I know you worry
About the new owners
It’s ok
Really
I hear one little girl
Planted our seeds
In little trays
Baby guava tree sprouts
8 leaves strong.
Hi Emily! Your first three lines are great. They made me chuckle. I love how you’ve turned the focus around to the new owners and the little girl. Precious!
Happy day 28, everyone! Thank you for the support, and thank you, Katie, for this cool prompt. I especially liked randomizing what I had originally written. The shoes I wrote about seemed to take on a new personality with each option.
Tongue Tied
Stop lacing up our tongues and let us speak!
Old and weary soles are we–
no longer young, fresh, and cushioned.
Your time with us has run out
but we are grateful for you, no doubt.
We have supported your every move
from a brisk walk around the block to
rainy and muddy weekend jogs.
Yet,
we are tired
and our bodies stink.
No, we cannot be healed.
We are worn,
our mesh is tearing,
our bottoms are flat and frictionless.
It’s time to step into the unknown.
Rachelle,
Well done. I love the playful title Tongue Tied, totally could have gone a different way. I love this poem about shoes.
Rachelle,
Oh, those well worn shoes–so much witnessed, so much to tell. I like the shift in form half way through–from confident voice to fading, like the life of the shoes. Nice!
Katie, Thank you for this wonderful multi-layered prompt. Oliver’s “One Art” is one of my favorites, and “There Will Be No Funeral” burned in my heart. Your poem about Jonah’s Amazon delivery drawing blends humor with wisdom: “Your innocence made you funny and unnerving.”
I’ve had a teacher’s Wednesday from hell, which then morphed into a too-long Zoom meeting tonight. So I’ll take the (much appreciated!) shortcut. But do know I’ll return to your rich prompt! Thank you!
Dear Kate – what a fascinating (daunting!) challenge, and such a poignant poem. I am thinking how nothing seems ephemeral when touched by our children….”You were a Saturday morning wonder”… a moment locked in your mind and heart always by this bit of cardboard. A treasure.
This took me a while… finally just had to stop…
In the Corners
high-backed
mahogany cracked
infinitesimal spider veins
ever musty
oh so dusty
relic of bygone days
when the harmonies rang
and people sang
songs by shape note
now more of a reliquary
with your touch-memory
of her hands
on your beloved keys
they don’t forget
somewhere in that
high-backed
mahogany cracked
prized-possession frame
amid your hammers and strings
and octavian dreams
surely you must
hold her dust
alongside mine
skin cells of
the child I was
relics of bygone days
side by side
just as we used to be
on your bench, of a summer night
in pale lamplight
singing
of the sweet by and by
when we meet on that beautiful shore
in the meantime
despite your need for tuning
and your wonky key
her great-grandson
stirs the slumbering chords again
the dust
the strings
the house
the very blood in our veins
pounding out the glory
of the old, old story
blood does not forget
she’d be overjoyed
with my boy
as you must surely be
as you whisper to me
in high-backed
mahogany cracked
corners
where silence
aches
Fran, I can see why you say you just had to stop. I feel like I could listen to your piano’s stories for a long time. I live the Octavian dreams.
I know I’m cranky, tired, and possibly cantankerous but who told WordPress to change things up on us? ?I want my block quotes back and I don’t want to scroll to the bottom to post. I am set in my Ethical ELA ways doggone it. Okay, I needed to vent.
Katie!!!! Your poem is so adorable. If I could block quote my favorite line, it would stand out but here it is:
“I should tell him Your innocence made you funny and unnerving.”
Love that! Our babies have a sweet way of undoing nerves while also being unbelievably funny.
I decided to write a few Blackjack poems because I needed a form today. My mother also LOVED Blackjack so it’s perfect. My sister had the first grandbaby in my family in October. Very special to watch her doing all the things our mom did.
Here’s a link to the picture: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1_0K8NlzwdlScQaK7lcHY0wqLMGqrpnPC/view?usp=sharing
Special Gifts
I never expected this
Love that’s bigger than the sea
Taking my heart forever
Our sweet little Kennedy
Bringing joy and gratitude
She’s our special gift from God
My sister is Nani now
Giving her all without pause
Just like Mommie did for us
I see that special twinkle
In both of their dark brown eyes
A golden light from heaven
©Stacey L. Joy, April 28, 2021
Stacey,
Sarah will fix Word Press. Yoga and wine await you. ? And can I just say Kennedy is adorable. I want to kiss those beautiful cheeks and fill my head w/ baby smells. Baby pics from friends and former students have been a healing balm this past month, and I thank you for sharing Kennedy w/ us. ❤️?
So, so beautiful, Stacey – overflowing with joy! I looked at the picture and Kennedy is GORGEOUS – oh, I want to hold her! Gift from above, indeed. <3
Awww, Stacey — I love that joy-filled picture and your poem is surely a “special gift” of family. I’m still smiling at the smiling. Hugs, Susie
PS…I’m having the same reaction to the WordPress shifts … had me scratching my head yesterday.
I struggled a bit with this one, so I defaulted to a comfortable form–tankas. I am using Harryette Mullen’s form of the tanka, still 31 syllables, but in three lines instead of five. Here is an example of hers: https://poets.org/poem/tanka-diary
Two hanging raindrops made of glass, wire, and
a hook–we are her favorite earrings,
acquired thirty years ago on a road trip.
Driving through the Columbia Gorge with
three people, two who are no longer in
her life–by death and by dissolution of love.
We are the last vestige of memories
forgotten by willful purpose and design.
Set free from images long ago lost.
Cara, I struggled quite a bit with this myself an totally gave up on form! Your tanka inspiration works so well here. Those last lines are especially stirring – “forgotten by willful purpose and design” – wow! Haunting, but then “set free” brings a sense of peace. Well-done!
Cara,
I’ll thank you for sharing a new form of Tanka with me, three lines and 31 syllables total.
Beautifully done.
Cara, you had me at the first stanza! I often buy earrings as souvenirs from trips. Sometimes I wonder if they will ever mean anything to anyone else. Now you’ve given me hope!
Wow, Cara! I really do love this poem, and I like that you challenged yourself with a stricter form. The imagery of the earrings and the Columbia Gorge are beautiful. One line that stuck out to me was “We are the last vestige of memories
forgotten by willful purpose and design.” WILLFUL PURPOSE AND DESIGN. Nice work and thank you for sharing!
Katie,
What a phenomenal prompt, complete with idea-generating steps to help us draw out details. Unfortunately, I took quite a shortcut tonight, but I will definitely be revisiting this using your ideas.
Holding Memories
Antique oak
corner cupboard
hand-hewn
by her great-grandfather
to save space
making its way through
three generations to her.
no one else had the room.
My shelves hold trinkets
and mementos and books
and ashes and bricks
and frames and keepsakes.
Apollo landing glasses
plaster handprints
Little House book set
Charlie’s Burger Barn french fry carton
Bobby Kennedy
and his more recognized older brother
Fun With Our Family
The Hardy Boys
The Five Little Peppers
musical angels
October Santa Claus
birdhouse from the birdhouse man
vintage photos of beloved dead.
Back in the day,
I held pottery, fine china,
and silver
with seldom-used pieces
hidden behind the bottom doors.
In those days, people had little
and I proudly held what they had.
Today,
she’s a bit of a hoarder
but only the most treasured
items make it to my shelves.
She can gaze upon my contents
and feel connected
to places and times and people
she longs for.
As future generations
care less and less about
meaning and sentimental value,
I hope I get kept in the family,
not landing at a Goodwill or
on the auction block.
Too damn much meaning mingled
with the dust and dirt
for it to be with strangers.
Her heart would be broken
and so would mine.
~Susan Ahlbrand
28 April 2021
Thought I’d share a picture . . . https://drive.google.com/file/d/1zYAkXySrsDjFlDNCRN4G0dZzWIClX1Ha/view?usp=sharing
Susan…first, I loved all these images, picturing each as I read (Little House books -!!) and then I saw the photo – it all rends my heart, too, how our loved one’s prized possessions aren’t cared for and are sometimes just gotten rid of. This weighed heavily on me when I had to clean out my mother-in-law’s house. I am pulling for this antique cabinet to stay in the family, too!
Katie, thank you for this prompt and all the fabulous details of your process, shortcuts, extensions…I think I may have shortened even the shortcuts, but I look forward to revisiting “how to say it” more deeply in the days to come. Here’s my abridged version!
every grandchild received
a small token of you
dainty depression dish for me
gold edge
curled sides
holding it in the light
reveals
center sunburst
tiny repeating
lines, dashes, slants, leaf cuts
miniature spoon
made of pewter
with intricate floral pattern
you were given this as a gift?
a special extra,
just perfect,
you bought for yourself?
just for holidays?
when?
how I would love to hear the story
even
not knowing
it is enough
relish
Maureen,
My favorite part of your poem is that last word: “relish.” Relish this treasured gift. A relish dish. Relish the stories. I love ambiguity in poetry and the possibilities it offers. I thought about writing about a bowl I received as a gift from my grandmother. It was hers before it was mine. ?
Maureen — I love these last lines: even/not knowing/it is enough/relish and I love the way you have captured the preciousness of the gifts to each grandchild. Years ago, before my grandmother died, she gave all her porcelain dolls to my daughters and my daughters still cherish the dolls as piece of their great grandmother.
Maureen, I so often long to know the story of possession that have survived lots of history; I can just picture this “dainty depression dish” and its fragile, elegant beauty in all those lovely details.
Maureen, I love the relishing of this relish dish. It reminds me of Thanksgivings when I was a child and we would pull out the special dishes. I love the ending–that you would love to hear how she obtained the dish during the Depression, but especially the lines:
“even
not knowing
it is enough
relish”
I always sit up and take note of your economy of words. I need to keep learning from you.
Rock Tumblers and Mother’s Day Gifts
I am layered, crystallized
born from magma.
hewn from earth,
edges rough and jagged.
For days I agitate,
grind in coarse gray powder.
I tumble
and rinse
I tumble
and rinse
Until my amber imbued hues
emerge smooth, gleaming
Until my journey to gemstone,
is at hand
Repurposed,
coiled in silver,
I dangle from glinting chain
Nestled upon your heart,
I am Mother’s Day gift to you
So many gorgeous lines here, a gorgeous poem! I love
I tumble
and rinse
I tumble
and rinse
I love this description! It reminds me of a piece of the island Bornholm that was treated the same way and given to me by relatives that live there. Forever attached, “coiled in silver, I dangle from glinting chain, nestled upon your heart.” Lovely.
Kakum Canopy
By Mo Daley 4-28-21
Over the fireplace hangs an iPhone picture
My friend Randy took
It’s massive—20 by 30 inches
It’s so vivid most people think it’s a painting
A suspension bridge leads seemingly endlessly
Into the canopy of Kakum National Park
The photo welcomed observers and patrons at a gallery in Virginia
I walked on after admiring it,
Not knowing
That I was photographed walking across the bridge
Too busy falling in love
With a whole country
A whole people
As I ventured into the forest
Mo — I can see this image:
“That I was photographed walking across the bridge
Too busy falling in love
With a whole country
A whole people
As I ventured into the forest”
Especially love the last line and the feeling of peacefulness and you created as you immerse in nature.
What a cool picture, clever poem, Mo! –
I walked on after admiring it,
Not knowing
That I was photographed walking across the bridge
Too busy falling in love
Love, love, love this! I have never been; sounds absolutely extraordinary.
Mo,
So beautiful. This line seems to be one of the hearts of it all:
“A suspension bridge leads seemingly endlessly”
I love how the photos a suspension bridge and of one as well. And the falling in love is part of this suspension and safety. Such imagery.
Peace,
Sarah
Mo,
I love this! The beauty of being unsuspectingly captured in a photo is such a wonderful choice. It sounds like a fabulous and wonderful place!
Katie, an amazing prompt, which I must come back to because, as I’ll say, “it’s the hour of dusk and dinner’s waiting.” I hope I at least captured some of the spirit of your suggestions, although I know something from your workshop prompted me.
Salut, david
Plane flies west low overhead
toward the small municipal airport four miles away
its distant roar interrupting the neighborhood conversation
cardinals to barred owls to mourning doves to blue jays to crows to dogs
woodpecker hammering on dead trees by the creek
the hour of dusk
dinner waiting
the sweet cold tang of a German wine
apple gold in the glass
in its reflection I can see
the plane flying west low overhead
David, Your frame works so well to tie all of these visuals together into a clear picture. I can hear the menagerie of noise outside. The glass of wine reflecting the plane is striking! “the hour of dusk/dinner waiting” has such a wonderful feel. Reading your poem is like viewing a still life painting. Gorgeous!
David — Love all the vivid sensory images especially these last lines:
“the sweet cold tang of a German wine
apple gold in the glass
in its reflection I can see
the plane flying west low overhead” — I can taste that wine and see the reflection of the plane.
Oh how I love the nature images here,
cardinals to barred owls to mourning doves to blue jays to crows to dogs
woodpecker hammering on dead trees by the creek
Beautiful!
David,
How amazing is this scene that you slow down in the time the plane passes — all the images are lovely. I would like to share a glass of that wine, and then you circle back… “the plane flying west low overhead” with those birds!
Sarah
Title? Still, Life
I have come back to this prompt. I struggled with what to write and then my student (Chloe) came in from recess and had a look. She suggested that I write about her. Then the poem flowed. I had trouble with commenting. Hope this time it works.
Fifth Grade
She comes in the room
with an attitude
that testy mood
of preteen silliness
and suggests I write a poem
about her.
As if I know her well enough
to write her down in words.
What I know is she grins loudly in braces.
She writes notes on paper
and crumples them like the crunch
of a chip bag in the trash–
Schwoop! Perfect shot!
But this poem will not be a perfect shot.
There are no shots left on her page
of excuses–the “not my fault”
dissolves into “I just can’t.”
I wonder aloud “When will you believe in yourself?”
When did I believe in myself?
Have I ever?
This poem can’t end like this.
I must write something encouraging
To make all this white space worth it.
This I know…she’s worth it!
Margaret — I like the transactional nature of this poem…you with Chloe in words, you with Chloe in images, you with the page, you with yourself. I love the ending…”worth it.” So true! Seeing yourself through Chloe is a lovely idea. And, indeed, so worth it. Susie
I read this twice! I absolutely love it. Also, I love that the student suggested HERSELF as the topic for your poem LOL. You’ve described her so well that I can imagine a couple of my own just like her. I’m glad you came back and pushed through to post this gem!
Margaret,
I love this poem. As someone who has just retired from teaching, it takes me back to my very best moments. The way you capture the empathy and honesty of the teacher, the guarded vulnerability of the student – perfectly done.
//david
Oh, Margaret, what an incredible poem. I love how you bring Chloe’s actions and personality to life. Your end though is just so darn good! Getting students to believe in themselves is incredibly difficult, but I bet she knows you believe in her. Sensational poem! So glad you were able to overcome the struggle to create this incredible poem today.
Margaret — Sounds like Chloe has got some spunk. I love that you took her up on her suggestion and wrote about her. I enjoyed everything about this poem: the characterization of Chloe, the authentic voice, the sincerity of your words … Just loved it.
Oh, Margaret, there are so many Chloes, I feel – all to them needing a teacher like you –
I wonder aloud “When will you believe in yourself?”
Fabulous!
Don’t we just need someone to make decisions for us sometimes, and even better if we can celebrate another. I like this invitation to decenter a bit and shift our focus and purpose. Love the community developing with Chloe.
Sarah
I learn so much from reading other people’s comments. Sarah, I love how you use the word “decenter.” Margaret took Chloe’s invitation to write about her, and it in turn decentered. I need to do that more often. Margaret, your students are so fortunate to have you. This poem is evidence of that.
It’s getting more and more difficult to sleep comfortably, and I found myself asleep on the couch last night. I woke up in the middle of the night to my husband sleeping on the other (much smaller) couch so that I wasn’t alone in the living room. My mind was wrapped up in this kindness when I wrote today. 🙂
propped between pillows
hugging my shifting hips,
I crack open one eye and
see you in the darkness
all six feet, one inch of you
cramped on the too small couch
blanket covering leg and a half
neck dangling, head resting on armrest
I voice my gratitude:
“thank you for choosing discomfort”
You voice your truth:
“I’m your husband, it’s why I’m here”
And what I don’t know how to say is –
you pissed me off yesterday
your lack of acknowledgement infuriates me
your headache complaints make this wrecked body scoff
But, God, what I do know is –
your tiny actions accumulate
into the most grand waterfall
of tender, tender love
This is perfect, Britt.
The truth is in the extremes. The love is in moving between, through, and across what you say and what you want to say. I love the dash! Perfect. “—/you pissed me off yesterday” and “—/your tiny actions accumulate/into the most grand waterfall/of tender, tender love.”
Sarah
Sarah
Britt,
I love the small tender gestures of love. Wonderful poem.
“tiny actions accumulate into the most grand waterfall.” It’s this kind of love that lasts. What a sweet gesture!
Britt,
I love the turn your poem takes. The first three stanzas seemed to be pulling us in one certain direction. The fourth stanza spins us around before depositing us further along the path of the poem, but in its original direction. Both reactions to a loved one are real, honest, true. We somehow learn to meld them, some kind of alchemyimpossible to explain.
//david
Britt, I love the honesty of your poem. You reveal your emotions so well. The love flowing like a grand waterfall is an awesome image. The third trimester is so uncomfortable, hang in there!
Britt — Wow! That last stanza packs a punch. You really have captured the ups and downs of relationships here. The movement of this poem from couch to gratitude to anger to love the “waterfall of love” is just perfect.
Oh, Britt – I love this. I am sent back in time, to those final discomforting days of pregnancy. I adore the raw truth of marriage:
And what I don’t know how to say is –
you pissed me off yesterday
So great, so great, especially when combined with
the most grand waterfall
of tender, tender love
This description brought a slight tear to my eye reminding me of the spats I have had with my husband. How fortunate you have been to have one love you so much as to add the discomfort to his wanting to be near you.
Britt,
This poem is the sweetest!! And do very honest. What a loving and REAL relationship you have with your husband. This is such perfect glimpse of thoughts pregnant women have about their husbands, but I imagine very very few men would go to the couch so their wives aren’t alone. “Tiny actions accumulate” for sure.
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1rnbXHq9GtBv8Aqj6Jb-X8Sk5xg_bwm8P/view?usp=sharing
Yes, what a rich prompt. It took me awhile but I loved the experience. Thanks.
Here is my poem and the link is above to view the object called Monkey Pod.
The Love Gift
I am chocolate, smooth wood carved from a monkey pod tree
short and squat and shaped like a tropical leaf.
My belly is hollow and holds a small bottle of scent
plumeria, jasmine and ginger.
My cap makes me an inch taller
and shaped like a bud hiding the container inside.
I was a gift from a homesick soldier
to his new bride waiting for him in California.
I’m proud to be once cherished by that woman
who sprayed the scent on her body
to remind her of him.
In my old age, I sit on the dresser
and miss the smells of Hawaii.
I’m afraid that my meaning will be forgotten
and I will be tossed.
Yet, I remain admired
by the soldier’s daughter.
I know she would thank me
if I told her of my journey across the sea
and my island being bombed
while I waited in a box with a note of passion.
Now on the shelf, the floor jiggles me
whenever she walks into the room.
She glances at me she sees
I have tipped my cap to her.
Susan,
These lines are everything:
Yet, I remain admired
by the soldier’s daughter.
The voice of the sculpture allows us to bear witness to the past in such a vivid way imagining what it has seen then and what it has witness in the daughter’s life, too.
Sarah
A gift of love speaks of the years of dedication. “I wait in a box with a note of passion.” Do you still have the note? Are you the daughter?
Yes and Yes. My dad wrote my mother every day for two years. I have a stack of love notes.
Susan — I love that this object has such a rich history.
Love these vivid images:
My belly is hollow and holds a small bottle of scent
plumeria, jasmine and ginger.
My cap makes me an inch taller
and shaped like a bud hiding the container inside.
Breathing…
Hiding side a pocket of my backpack she calls to me
DeAnna, breathing isn’t optional
Feeling jittery after only last a short while
You’re not weak for when you reach out to me
Seriously, breathing isn’t optional
Place your lips on me
Let me breathe life into you
Opening up your lungs
She calls out louder still
Breathing isn’t optional
Please let me help you
Breathing isn’t optional
Giving in, pulling her out of her hiding place
Placing her to my lips
Letting her give me the breath of life
Relief comes…
Breathing isn’t optional
DeAnna,
A powerful poem. I love the way you make the body a poem, finding a way to turn the rhythms of the body into the rhythms of the poem. It reminds me of some of Sharon Olds’s best work.
Salut, david
DeAnna — The intensity of this poem is just –Wow! You have captured the debilitating nature of anxiety so well. I just wanted you to breath.
Deanna, this is a poem for me as well. It reminds me of my asthma and trying to breathe especially when hiking up a hill. Love the reminder that you’re not weak when you reach out to me. That thing in your side pocket is a life saver. Super description because breathing is not optional.
DeAnna,
I witnessed your struggles with asthma and breathing the last two days and this is the perfect expression of your experience. This is one of your best!!
Well done, DeAnna! This is definitely the object that needed to be given a voice over the past few days for you. I like the line, “You’re not weak for when you reach out to me”. Often times it feels like there is a stigma against getting assistance from anyone or even an inhaler, but there shouldn’t be. You captured the thoughts of these stressful moments for you so eloquently. Breathing. Isn’t. Optional.
I love all the wisdom that sparked from this super interesting pantyhose sculpture “bent . . . into one giant ear of understanding”. Isn’t there some quote about how life can only be lived forwards but can only be understood backwards? That’s what your description of your daughter’s experience made me think of!
Oh, looks like this ended up in the wrong spot! Haha and I can’t figure out how to delete it. Should be a comment on Denise’s poem 🙂
Thanks, Rachel! I found it!
Katie, Thanks for today’s prompt. I appreciate the process. My poem is actually a metaphor, but I’m pretending I’m describing this object. My apologies.
Garbage Disposal
a hollow space
depressed
toxic fumes wraft
unpleasant
infected rank wounds
ooze
unhealthy refuse festers;
grinds
churns; gasps for
air
impossible to dismiss;
ignore
Barb Edler
28 April 2021
Barb,
Oh, you have found some words today to show the depths of this that is “impossible to dismiss; ignore”
Yikes!
“infected rank wounds
ooze
unhealthy refuse festers;”
Thanks, Denise. I realize I misspelled a word…I wanted to write waft…ugh…having a day!
Ha! I did have to look that one up, and then I realized that’s probably what you meant! 🙂
Barb — You have painted a clear image of a raw and real feeling…”garbage disposal” or not. The sense that we are in a dark and wounded place is real. Words that carry the tone… “hollow/toxic/rank wounds/ooze/festers”… these are steeped in what feels painful…impossible. I’m grateful that words can chip away at feelings and unveil them so we can step outside them and look at them, name them, and leave them on the page. Tonight, you exposed “a hollow space,” and I honor that and send back an understanding shoulder, acknowledgement, hoping that our poems can give us a voice about what aches as well as what can then lift us away. Hugs to you, my friend. Susie
Thank you, Susie! I’m glad you understood where I’m coming from. Poetry is definitely healing as well as supportive readers like you!
Big ol’ hugs.
I hope visualizing a garbage disposal churned these tough emotions out! I don’t know what/who you were thinking of, but your poem made me think of a depressed loved one in my life – and how they take the air from the room,
unpleasant
infected rank wounds
ooze
Poetry is such a release!
Barb — These images — “infected rank wounds/ooze” — I feel the pain of the world here. The world needs to pay attention!
I wrote this poem off three objects in my house. I have a sign that says “this is us” with two picture frames next to it, but the picture frames next to it are empty because I do not know what pictures capture my partner and I.
I loved how Susie Morice began their poem with an italicized “this” and borrow “this” format for my poem.
This
is the location
designed to define
“us”
But “us”
is too complex
for two lonely frames
sitting side by side.
This.
What is it?
Serious and goofy?
Loving and aloof?
This
reflects us perfectly.
Incomplete.
Imperfect.
Beautiful.
Together.
Together.
So good! “Incomplete. / Imperfect. / Beautiful. / Together.” I love how you play with the word “this,” and I wonder if you will always keep these frames empty after writing this poem. It’s interesting how we try so hard to define things that are undefinable.
Brooke,
Yes, I like how you philosophized about that theme of “This is Us”
“What is it?
Serious and goofy?
Loving and aloof?”
How can you define Us? So, like Rachel said, maybe the frames will stay empty, as:
“This
reflects us perfectly”
Brooke, I really appreciate the repetition of the word “Together’ at the end of your poem. It is like a lovely echo. I love the words you use to describe your partnership, and I’m guessing when the right photo comes along, you will be glad you waited. Lovely, heart-felt poem!
A Souvenir
I want to say thank you
to the rough-hewn nativity
I keep displayed year round,
to the shapes Mie set free
from a block of wood
as he carved at his shop
on the Waterkant
next to his rasta friends:
to sharp edged Joseph
calm and protective
thank you for bicycle repairs
for tips on the best water
and the best reggae music
to disproportionate Mary
grinning and laughing with me
thank you for giant, sweaty hugs
for piles of bami
and to-go boxes
to bright eyed, open mouthed,
Jesus, reaching up
thank you for jump rope,
vliegers, monopoly, and monkeys
for teaching me to love
to the crudely cut star
thank you for guiding me
to Suriname
and guiding me home
____________________________
Here’s a link to a picture of the nativity (if it works!)
https://photos.google.com/search/_tra_/photo/AF1QipO7jbffsnrU8jdCav3XUYtr0pq2844mCEFGRXI3
Rachel,
You describe the nativity with perfection in your words!
“to disproportionate Mary
grinning and laughing with me”
and then with all the sweet added details that show your relationship with Mie. This poem is beautiful.
(I would like to also see the photo, but the link didn’t seem to work for me. I tried two browsers, and I was logged in to Google photos on one. I’m getting a 404 error message.)
Rachel, you might need to share your photo and then copy the link after you hit the share button. I know I struggled to share a photo and that’s how I resolved the issue. It’s worth trying to post again. Your poem’s details are so rich. The love and thanks you share here make this so heart-warming. The value of the nativity is strikingly clear through the words that you use to craft this poem. Loved the giant sweaty hugs. Hugs for me are worth more than anything else in the world. Thanks for sharing such a thoughtful, loving poem! Gorgeous!
Okay here’s a second shot at the photo link!
https://photos.app.goo.gl/S2PmNwxTned9ouEg7
Katie,
Thank you for your sweet poem about your son’s artwork, for the photo and for sharing your process with us. These lines are so honest:
“I should tell him Your innocence made you funny and unnerving.
And what’s left is this old beat-up piece of cardboard.”
I don’t remember ever having a prompt that inspired me to write six pages in my journal, plus draw two pictures of my daughter’s sculpture. I had so much fun thinking of the answers to all those questions about what the object was ashamed of, cared about, good at, etc., etc. Oh, my. I didn’t even get all the way through the prompt, but the sculpture spoke to my daughter (who is also Katie, by the way). It’s bedtime here, so I’m posting what I’ve got so far. Thank you again for helping it speak with your beautiful prompt.
[caption id="attachment_7373" align="alignnone" width="632"] My Daughter’s Sculpture[/caption]
To Katie
Thank you for creating me back when seventh grade was a terror and you were ready to fly back to Arizona where your parents had pulled you away from the only home you remembered. When you created me, sunflowers were shining in your center even if not in your circumstances yet.
You bent that hanger that used to hold your hoodie into one giant ear of understanding for the outcasts, the voiceless, and the refugees–all of us who longed to be counted, even if among the dusty.
Then you covered me with your mom’s pantyhose, of all things, and took away my shame by quickly brushing each square inch with a chromatic makeover right out of southern France. A dancing starry sky with cypresses mourning the pitfalls of your unsure future. But paired with those uncertainties was a sun of hope right in the curve of my listening ear. It said everything about what you held dear, what you longed for and believed in–a future.
You, who were to stay and keep learning and growing here in this provincial town.
You, who would become a painter, a writer, and a speaker of French.
You, who would work on an organic farm in Normandy, sleeping in a barn bedroom, bravely sharing your walls with scritch-scratching farm mice.
You, who moved from Iowa to Illinois to Missouri to Minnesota, while your parents were 7,000 miles away.
You, who have crossed fluctuant oceans and come back again and again to love.
You, who this very weekend with Thomas will go back to the town where you painted me.
Back to the birth place of your dearest friend since seventh grade who you will have a baby shower for.
Back to this dear friend who introduced you to her college friend, Thomas.
Here is a photo of the sculpture my daughter did. I tried to add it to the post: https://mrsdkrebs.edublogs.org/2021/04/01/a-month-of-poetry-2021/img_20210428_223355/
Denise, thank you for sharing the photo of the sculpture. It is magnificent! I love the specific details here to show your daughter’s journeys and accomplishments. The parallel structure and repetition adds another layer of emotion that pulls at the heartstrings. I can feel that love pulling your daughter back home. Your poem is powerful and full of love. Beautiful!
Denise,
I love seeing the sculpture and thinking about its rhetorical function of being a voice for the voiceless. I love the movement in your poem and thinking about how you’ve modeled this journey-filled life for Katie. She’s a lucky woman to have you as her mom. The point of view here is also wonderful.
I love thinking of this poem as coming from the sculpture itself (LOVE THE SCULPTURE! Thank you for including!) How art heals! How amazing an outlet it was for your daughter – bending the hangar, bending her future for the better. Beautiful. Truly, a lovely ode to your daughter, too – I hope you share it with her!
Instead of scissors, I used random.org to chop up and put my poem into a completely arbitrary order. Thanks for the prompt! Enjoy!
Bedside Journal
it’s familiar and repetitive, but it means nothing out of context
scribbled words about days passed
It’s important to notice the gaps
There are months that don’t even exist
when time felt like infinite oceans
It’s time to play catch up
Your memory is the constant reverberations of the fadeout of a song
Love the last line “constant reverberations of the fadeout of a song…” Sometimes I feel like I remember nothing, those gaps of time between journal entries are lost, completely forgotten. Memory is complicated.
Alex, I love that you used a randomizer to mix the lines up. I especially like the line “It’s important to notice the gaps” with the randomization.
Eric, I really enjoy how you describe your journal. I was especially drawn to the line “It’s important to notice the gaps”. Your final line is striking. Love the emotion it evokes and the connection to music. Fantastic!
Alex,
Wonderful poem. Time often feels like an infinite ocean, ebbing and flowing. There are moments in time that stick with you and then there are moments that just fade away… Thank you for sharing.
Alex,
Knowing you randomized your poem has me thinking about it as a puzzle and wondering about the original order. I like the idea of a journal being random, a space where we can pull ideas from it in an arbitrary way. I’m thinking about those gaps.
Yes! In the “looking more closely” so much comes up! I don’t know if it’s this pandemic or what, but I have felt more distracted this year – flitting between checking the news to helping the kids with homework and from writing to cautiously approaching the pile of dishes. My mind buzzing like a fly.
But this object lesson has been a welcome retreat into stillness and contemplation. I’ll look for your poem on Twitter – thanks!
I must apologize for my
hasty text last night.
It turns out I may have,
inadvertently, given
you some false hope.
Let me explain.
The device I found
crammed at the
bottom of my school
bag amidst the broken
mechanical pencils,
paper clips, and loose
change can not,
I repeat, can not
“Rewind” the last
fifteen months of
existence.
This is my bad.
I was fueled by
reruns of The Twilight
Zone and (almost)
unhealthy amounts
of caffeine when I
sent that text in
the wee hours
this morning.
You’ll probably want
to block me for that.
I totally understand.
After reading the
directions a little
more closely, it seems
The Power Pointer
by Zetz is not,
in fact, an otherworldly
device — although
it did come in a foam
indented box (like
you see in the movies)
and has its own
suede carrying bag.
It turns out that
it’s not from Skynet,
is not the AllSpark
or some gift from Neo
(It’s not the red pill
or the blue pill)
and when I
pointed it
and shouted
“Gort, Baringa!”
nothing happened
(even after I put
in the AAA
battery).
So, my mistake.
It looks like it
can just advance
your slides during
a PowerPoint
presentation.
Oh, and it has a
“laser button”
which is pretty
cool.
(And, no, before
you ask, I checked:
the laser can’t
actually cut
anything. It’s
apparently not
that kind of
laser.)
_____________________
Thank you Katie for your mentor poem and your prompt! Although I didn’t (really) follow it to the “letter” (or, at all, it seems, Lol), I couldn’t have written this (whatever it is) without it!
Scott,
Wouldn’t it be nice if we could take that clicker and point a laser at the last fifteen months and make all the “broken pencils” vanish? I kept two of those clickers on hand for times the battery died in one. My speech students and I came to rely on the little miracle device, which is both a throwback to the old wheel projector clockers and a relatively new tech wizard. And I totally love your side note. I’m always amazed at the direction a prompt guides me to take when I’m open to listening.
Apparently Ruth Stone, out working on her farm, would hear a poem rumbling across the land like thunder and she’d begin running toward the house, reaching for the pen, before the poem could move like wind right through her and back out into the world, looking for another, more available poet. Your experience reminds me of this tale because it seems to have needed a poet with a pen, regardless of the situation at hand!! Thanks soooo much for sharing!
Katie
Katie, I think Elizabeth Gilbert shared Ruth Stone’s story in Big Magic.It’s such an inspiration.
Scott,
I’ve really enjoyed reading your poems. This one didn’t let me down!!
Why does the combination of The Twilight Zone reruns and caffeine speak to my soul? I too enjoy almost unhealthy amounts of caffeine and mini marathons of TTZ reruns.
Track shoe
These are the most exceptional shoes on the track
They feel as if they are as light as a feather and we use these no matter the weather
This shoe bends like no other
Allowing space for my toes which is more than another
The protruding spikes that are at the front of the shoe allow me to run on my toes
so I will be able to defeat my foes
This rubber shoe has so much value that I can never devalue its worth
it’s extremely flexible which allows me to run fast and so forth…
You stick your feet in me and you begin to flee
You move as fast as lightning and I think you would agree
I am very honored to live upon thee
Moving very swiftly as I grip on your feet
I know you will not be defeated although you feel depleted
You stomp hard on this ground as you make a frown
finish strong so you can be on top of the throne
because I know this is something you can condone
I make you run fast like the flash
and make you feel like you won cash
I am the shoe of your past and the shoe of your future
I am the spikes that you may dislike
that you put on despite the might to fight
to run right with all your might
Tarshana, I love this tribute to your fast shoes! The rhythm and rhyme pace you right on time to cross the finish line winning!!!
Tarshana,
I need to know more about these fast shoes: make and model, please. I love the way the shoe speaks to the runner, which surprised me with the “you.” Up until that point I thought the runner and not the shoe was speaking. Now I’m thinking about the integral role our shoes play in our life journey. This line captures that essence best for me: “I am the shoe of your past and the shoe of your future…”
Tarshana I ADORE all of the internal rhyme – fast like a runner, sprinting this way and that, unstoppable!
What a wonderful tribute to your shoes and life’s victories!
Katie
Katie,
As I read this prompt I knew intuitively which object I’d write about. I just had this thing in my hand a couple days ago and held it for a long time, looking at its fragile form, recalling the moment I acquired it. I appreciate the way you unfolded this prompt. It’s masterful.
Pretenders
I took the mask you made off the shelf and dusted laughter and tears from our cheeks.
You were quite the thespian.
You played the tragic part to my fool.
When you kissed my cheek, smiled, said I love you which mask did you wear?
Did you kiss with false face cloaking your visage behind a Greek tragicomedy mask?
You layered torn paper strips cast to veil two faces, affixed separate identities to the world.
I hold the damaged mask, turn it upside down
to see a smile replace the frown.
An inverted mask won’t fit a face forged to suit a human, so I too mask, pretend, grin.
Time chips Papier-mâché, erodes memory: your hand extending the mask to me.
—Glenda Funk
Glenda, what a poem. I always feel like this process trusts poetry to reach across a gulf in language and practice a listening of sorts. I am grateful for your contribution and your exceptional turns of phrase!
With much respect, Katie
Glenda, I feel like this process trusts poetry to reach out over chasms where language lies too deep. Your poem this morning really touched my heart. I am grateful to you for your skill, your turn of phrase, and your ability to really listen for the poem.
Thanks so much for getting us started!
Glenda — This exploration of masks, masking…so rich and so fraught with the complexities of what we hide. The very first line grabs me…”dusted laughter and tears from our cheeks”…immediately, this is loaded. The sense of “false” and betrayal lingers in the masking. The poem moves into a sort of slo-mo as your turn the mask and examine it carefully “upside down”…”the frown.” Terrific crafting. The layers of “Papier-mâche”…dang, I love that! Rich…layered with meaning….mmmm-mmmm. Dandy! And I am so disturbed by the mask delivering a wrenching sense of “prete[nse]” and falsehood that divides the “you” from the “I.” The complexity is so full-bodied. Susie
Glenda I love that you are the holder, the turner, the angler of the mask. This part makes me see that you make the frown a smile even after being wronged by someone
You layered torn paper strips cast to veil two faces, affixed separate identities to the world.
I hold the damaged mask, turn it upside down
to see a smile replace the frown.
I’m still working to make smiles out of some of the frowns in my life – and you are a great model of how to take hold of the situation and out the right spin on it to see it with different eyes!
Oh, that title Pretenders…
I love this phrase: “dusted laughter and tears from our cheeks”
And “time chips papier-mache, erodes memory”
I wish I could hear more of the story of the tragic masks of the pretenders.
Glenda, your poem has so many layers to explore just like the layers of papier-mache needed to create the mask. Your title is perfect for this poem, and I appreciate the connection between the eroding mask and memory. Your poem feels poignant and ripe with emotions both timeless and haunting. I am particularly drawn to the question “When you kissed my cheek, smiled, said I love you which mask did you wear?” Incredible poem. Thank you!
I am fascinated that this memento is in your home! (“You played the tragic part to my fool.”) These lines are chilling and powerful,
I hold the damaged mask, turn it upside down
to see a smile replace the frown.
Gorgeous poem, Glenda – such a deep reflection of time before, of what once was.
I find that poem forms can be a comfort when I am ambivalent about writing or not sure if or what will come. I like thinking about poems that exist but needing to locate them, and forms/templates give me a place to locate or put them, I guess. So I just did a search of poem forms to learn a new one today and am integrating Katie’s inspiration with this https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/ae-freislighe-poetic-form (which I’d never heard but clearly existed and needed to be located by me when I was ready to search for it). Ae Freislighe poem.
My partner just send our wedding VHS tape to some company for it to be made into a MP4 because we no longer have a VHS player. We had big ideas of a non-wedding 23 years ago, but then I had a change of heart and had a more traditional ceremony, which I thought I regretted until I saw the video this week.
Ring
Do you recall the engagement–
careful tradition stripping
till dress enchantment
sparked Cinderella-tripping?
VHS now live-streaming
an aisle, a song, vows witnessed
you in a white dress beaming
& him in a suit (so cute!)–tradition.
(Aren’t you glad you followed tradition this once?)
Sarah,
Cool form. It works so well w/ the playfulness of wedding planning, first eschewing then embracing tradition. I hope you’ll add a photo to this post. I’d love to see your dress. I love looking at wedding dresses. Thinking about that VHS tape makes me think of the contrasts both in recasting tradition and keeping them. Once the hot new tech now the antiquated relic.
Agreed Sarah! In my AP Lit class we always talked about the wild and particular inhibition that only comes with the restraint of structured verse, as in George Herbert’s “The Collar.”
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44360/the-collar
Thanks for your wonderful, story-filled poem, this piece of your heart.
Katie
Sarah — This is a cool form. I had never heard of it, and I’m thinking it worth a try at some point. Your poem starts with a fine title…”ring” with its many implications…the sound, the cycle/circle of both the coming around to tradition and the whirling of a VHS tape, the symbolic reminder on your finger. The rhythms that reinforce the traditions in poetry…rhyming, the movement of time from past to present. Quite a loaded poem! I’m with Glenda … let’s see a pic if you can share one! 🙂 Hugs, Susie
Sarah, I am going to experiment with the new form you shared. It works beautifully for you today in this walk down memory lane (or aisle). I’m glad you followed tradition – I’m also so glad to see that you call him your partner. Too many times I think spouses forget that we are partners in life. It’s uplifting to see the desire to return to the moment you said yes and both know you’d do it all over again and again and again.
Sarah, what a fun snippet of your life–and 23 years ago! Beautiful. I imagine that video did stay with you and came to mind with this prompt. What a joy. I love the sound of:
“till dress enchantment
sparked Cinderella-tripping?”
I too would love to see the dress that enchanted and sparked a change in plans.
Sarah, I feel motivated to challenge myself to explore more poetry formats and to continue to write daily. Perhaps by exploring formats I can accomplish that goal so thanks for the motivation. This month has been so challenging. I almost gave up today, but I really want to have something for each day, and yes, I know that I’ve written more bad poetry this month than ever before. Anyway, back to your poem….sorry…I love the title, I adored the line “sparked Cinderella-tripping?” …such a gorgeous play with words and image. I keep wondering about your last line though…are you speaking to the ring or your own decision to have the traditional wedding? Either way, I think the question is rich and provocative and timeless! Thanks for everything you do to make VerseLove possible and for sharing your incredible talent!
Hi, Barb!
The ring is the speaker, and I am the intended audience.
Writing daily for this long is a different experience altogether. The ebb and flow, the coming to the page/space no matter what to write. I love what Penny Kittle says about being a writing teacher — we don’t have to be good writers to teach writers, we just have to try, we just have to write. It is not in the product but in the process that we are writers, poets. I think about writing as a way of being. I am all me when I am writing and that means all– the good, the truth, the ugly, the bad. For me, this year’s writing has been about noticing that ebb and flow and giving myself permission to read some days, read and write other days. I have written a couplet because that is all I could muster, and I know you have not judged but found the pearl. This affirms my way of being that day, and for that I am so grateful.
Sarah,
I love this poem and the new form that you introduced us to.
I have to say the “(so cute!) is my favorite part.
I Want to Say…
this
is the sister that I love,
the one who judges no one,
the one not chiseled
by the rites and righteous
platitudes of fundamentalism,
the one in the red wagon,
sitting next to me
tickled with the notion
of my holding a chicken,
squeezing to feel its soft feathers,
the one stilled in the moment captured
as Mama chronicled
in simple ripple-edged black and white
with the Kodak Brownie,
our giggles
sixty-eight years ago
when we lived every moment
as near-twin spirits
as “the two little ones”
in a family now blown
like a spent dandelion pappus.
by Susie Morice, April 28, 2021©
http://www.ethicalela.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/susie3.jpg
Susie thank you. Your use of the periodic sentence style reminds me of Alexander Pope’s revelation that the sound must echo the sense. What a brilliant thing you have done, taking us through childhood and letting us grow up and come to the final lines with you, alongside you. So much depends on the red wagon.
With gratitude, Katie
Oh, Susie! This wagon, the camera, the chicken that has me tickled too, and the fierce honesty about the dandelion pappus as a metaphor for a family. There is warmth in the memories you share here – the beautiful snapshot in time that preserves the way things once were in easier times and places. With all of the pain of our broken worlds, in so many shapes and forms and types, I’m so thankful for this group who share and understand all the places that we are in our hearts and minds. I attended a Zoom
With the author of When Stars are Scattered, a refugee’s story, and listened carefully as he expressed the need for others to know his story. I think we all have those needs to express and share – I so grateful you have done this today! I would have been the one holding the chicken in the wagon, too! Hugs and cheers!
Susie,
I love this poem so much. I miss my sister terribly. I’m borrowing your line “I want to say…this” as a starter so I can write a poem for my sister. I love the details about mama and the Brownie camera. The photo and poem together have me ?. Boy, these poems, this prompt is turning in the waterworks today.
“I want to say…this is the sister that I love” – was enough. But then we got all the other beautiful and delicious details of that red wagon with the chicken in your lap and those two sisters living as “near-twin spirits” – Oh my goodness, such beauty in your words. Those last two lines are so powerful too, and the two sisters remain.
Susie, I adore the way you show your deep enduring love for your sister in this poem. Gorgeous! I can just see you holding a chicken. I have been around a lot of chickens, and frankly, I find them a bit unsettling. Your intrepid spirit clearly began at an early age. Loved your lines: “when we lived every moment
as near-twin spirits”
The closing lines truly pull at the heart-strings. Love the photo too! Gorgeous poem and memory!
Susie, how cute are you and your sister! I, too, am a total sap for my sister (I only have one) and without her I have no idea how I would have survived this crazy life of mine. I’m writing about her today. It’s still in draft form and bugging me.
Your poem brings me so much joy.
This is sweeter than sugar:
“our giggles
sixty-eight years ago
when we lived every moment
as near-twin spirits”
?
Katie, I’m so spellbound by this prompt! It moved me to tears- your poem, Sapiago’s poem – and now I’m a blubbering mess! Thank you for hosting us today and fir your work with Poetic Justice! I used your cardboard box and the form from Sapiago to inspire me today!
The Empty Shoebox
there can be no honoring
of a strong family legacy
in an empty shoebox
everywhere around there is family –
bloodlines, genes, those who harbor their own
who love in spite of shortcomings as she did
but there will be no spirit of all she stood for lighting the way
there will be no candle glowing in the dark;
the acolytes have extinguished the flame
there will be no glimmer at her grave
no fulfillment of the obligation
to never leave the gospel side candle burning alone
as the ordering of candles goes from left to right
in the passage of predecessors
there will be no living tribute to all that she loved
no keeping memories burning bright for future generations
no sharing remembrance across the tree canopy
so over her body, the grass grows thick
blooming vines climbing the chain-link fence boxing her in
the fragrances of pleasantry she cultivated
in those she loved
now forevermore kept to one small pasture shoebox
of the wide, wide world where she once lived
her spirit never meant to dwindle here where
her shoes will never be filled
just the shell of an empty shoebox
collecting tears from heaven
not one can wear her burial shirt with truth,
stained now with hypocrisy for those who would try
not one can fill a shoebox of hope without contradiction
not one can volunteer hands of love packing boxes that matter
when her legacy doesn’t
there’s no room for untangling the Christmas tree lights
there’s no place for pretending the joy lives on
how can we carry her light forth into the world
when her hopes, dreams,
examples for generations to come
have died, roots of a family tree now fallen?
No one can hate family and honor a parent’s legacy
at the same time
any more than they can love God
and hate His son
And so we walk away from all that mattered to her
an empty shoebox
a box of marquis letters now scattered
without message to passersby
who still look for divine truths her hands once
spelled out on a church sign
Oh my gosh, Kim — Yes, Katie’s prompt really did bring forth some mighty images, gut feelings, and raw truths. Your poem here is rich with image after image of the boxing and the preserving of a beloved mother…the “roots of a family” indeed. How did you find these words, these lyrical lines this morning already? Well, of course, these words are inside you and rooted deep…you chiseled them out and the stone fell away leaving us with this monument to the parent that taught you the lessons of legacy that “carry light forth.” Your wordplay with the shoebox…wow! And the light…the candles…the rituals… You really shared an exquisite tribute. Thank you so much! Susie
Susie I could not agree more. Kim, what a prayer – an exultation by way of negation, or a life-giving process in the face of loss. “So long lives this and this gives life to thee.”
I echo Susie’s awe – your poem is gorgeous and special.
Thank you so much,
Katie
Kim,
I’ve been pondering your poem this morning. I wanted to read, let time pass, reread and think about its layers, it’s additions and omissions. Who is this “she”? That’s my first question. How many shes have we tried to stuff into a shoe box? The box itself is symbolic of cultural expectations and limitations, yet this woman lived despite those whose lives did not measure up.
I thought about Absalom, Absalom and my favorite passage from that book: “ We have a few old mouth-to-mouth tales, we exhume from old trunks and boxes and drawers letters without salutation or signature, in which men and women who once lived and breathed are now merely initials or nicknames out of some now incomprehensible affection which sound to us like Sanskrit or Chocktaw; we see dimly people, the people in whose living blood and seed we ourselves lay dormant and waiting, in this shadowy attenuation of time…”
Why is there no candle for this woman? I have so many questions. And like Susie, I’m awed that you breathed life into this haunting, gorgeous poem this morning.
Oh, Kim, your poem is incredible. The emotions, pain, loss all radiate off the page. I feel the loss you share so keenly; especially through your lines: “her spirit never meant to dwindle here where
her shoes will never be filled
just the shell of an empty shoebox
collecting tears from heaven”
Thank you for sharing your heart throughout this poem. Hugs!
Good Morning Writers. Katie…what an incredible and rich prompt as is your poem. These treasures our kids give us…I have similar drawings that I cannot part with. A little preservation of my little ones. I so enjoy the humorous adult perspective of the rockette monk and the sandy hands. I know these moments.
This prompt is taking me into wonderful brainstorming in my morning pages. Thank you. I don’t have a poem to share quite yet…or even a draft but I’m having fun typing away before I head out to school.
Excellent! I am so happy it is leading you into the land of poetry this morning. We look forward to what comes, Katie