Our Host
Margaret Simon lives with her husband of 38 years on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana where she draws inspiration from nature, writes poetry, and nurtures grandchildren. She has been teaching 34 years and has her National Boards Certification in early childhood literacy. Her first book of poetry is Bayou Song: Creative Explorations of the South Louisiana Landscape, published by UL Press in 2018. She blogs regularly about teaching and writing at Reflections on the Teche.
Verse Love: A World Trying to Deal
I often find photographs can lead me into poetry writing, and especially when I can read about the photo and use some of the words and phrases found in the text. National Geographic photographs amaze and inspire me. I subscribe to their newsletter. On the anniversary of the pandemic shutdown, the newsletter featured some inspirational photographs.
Process
Photographers around the world were asked to select a single photograph that described a unique perspective on the pandemic. Select a photo that speaks to you and your experience in some way. Write a free verse poem including selected words or phrases from the storyteller’s text.
National Geographic: Glimpses of grief and resilience, captured over an unforgettable year.
National Geographic newsletter March 12, 2021
2020 Photos: The year in the Covid-19 Pandemic
CNN: The defining photos of the pandemic– and the stories behind them
Margaret’s Poem
Undocumented
“How can you say we don’t belong here when we are working so hard to heal this country’s communities right now?” Veronica Velasquez
Dear Margret, I really enjoyed your poem. when you stated “while they live in the shadows, in plain sight” really stuck with me because it’s nothing worse than feeling like you don’t belong or are welcomed.
Get out! you don’t belong here…
You do not look like me, eat like me, or dress like me
Why is your hair so kinky and unstraight? You will never get a job…
You can never bring your culture to a work environment it’s quite unprofessional
Hide your customs and change your style for you will never prosper in life if you don’t…
You are ghetto and will most likely be a downfall in this community…
Do I belong here? am I safe? can I survive being me?
NO!
Straighten your hair, whiten your teeth, change your culture, and be like me!
The key to success is to blend like me! no standing out.. change is not key
Sincerely, Corrupted America
Curve II Flattened
The round-about II Empty
The chaos II Physically silent
Spikes rising II Oceans lowering
News spiraling II Stomachs emptying
Fear II Hope
Interrogation II Election
Obsession of truth II Blissful ignorance
Anticipated rush II Healed time
Abuse II Quality time
White knuckles II Warm arms
Scrambled followers II Welcoming community
Sorrow, pain, and death II Joy, cure, and adventure
No room II Vaccines
Masks II Masks
The Curve II
Flattened
Margaret,
So many wonderful photo collections. I plan to save this for more writing opportunies.
I love the way you structured this poem.
Margaret and friends, I apologize for not having time to respond yesterday to other poems. I had my second vaccine on Monday and needed to rest yesterday after teaching. I feel fine other than a very sore arm today, but yesterday I gave 100% to my students and had 1% left at the end of class.
?Stay safe!
Lunar Loaves
My sun is in Leo.
My moon is in Scorpio.
My rising sign is Scorpio.
But I’d much rather
my sun a Sourdough
my moon a Dark Rye—
Ciabatta ascending.
Let’s not count the days of the pandemic.
Let’s count the loaves, the yeast cakes, the pounds of flour, the stacks of bowls, and the coarse grains of salt atop the thick pads of waning butter.
Good heavens, Laura, this is exquisite. I’m smitten by the simplicity of the poem while at the same time it holds a sensory depth of beauty. The alliterative title rests atop the poem like that “thick pad[s] of melting butter,” sliding and seeping over the rich Rye and Sourdough and Ciabbata. And I love the powerful choice not to count the brutal days but to count the beautiful loaves, to think of breaking those loaves in a satisfying love instead. The poem melts over the reader. I will remember this butter for a long time to come… a gorgeous symbol. Geez, I’m glad I woke up and found this poem. Thank you. Susie
Laura, this poem spoke to me in a way that put a smile on my face but also felt so real and relatable. I love that you say counting the days in breads, because I associate bread with warmth and love, and that is something that is so important to remember in a time of hurt.
Thank you for the prompt today! The photo collections were fascinating and prompted me to think about where I was at different points in the early pandemic. I spent last Spring running along trails near my apartment, so the photo of the runner glancing at a man in the woods with a drumset caught my eye. I had a hard time finding a form today, so I structured it with questions at the beginning and end like a poem I read with my creative writers today (The Summer Day by Mary Oliver)
The Spring Day
How did this happen?
Who am I running from?
What is that sound over there?
Each stride
On this trail of mine
Reminds
Me of a different time.
Left footfalls to foliage-
Forge forward on the path.
Right foot marches inline
Focus on the breath.
Pace is set by my feet
And by the steady beat
Of a man in the forest with
What’s that? A wild drum set.
I feel my mask slip
Down below my lower lip
So, I barely take my fingertip
To slide it up a little bit.
Cloth covering mouth
I run around and dance about.
Tell me, what else am I to do
when precious bits of air become fatal?
I enjoyed your poem. I can feel the vibe of one out hiking or dancing in the woods trying to make the best of the situation.
Rachelle, you’ve captured so beautifully the strange dance that we did a year ago as we tried to figure out what being was again. I, too, ran through my neighborhood at once connected to my body and rhythm and stride as I had been for years, yet suddenly needing to bob and weave around neighbors so as to keep everyone feeling safe. Your final question is the perfect ending.
I love Mary Oliver and that you used her as your inspiration. I love your last two lines so much–they really punch at the end.
Margaret, this was a delicious prompt. I spent (too long! luscious time!) choosing an image of bare shelves in the Watertown Target.
I tried to write a poem using only the words in the caption. (Fail.) I then entered the caption’s words into a spreadsheet and hoped that an alphabetical arranging would result in some avant-garde brilliance. (Fail.)
I’m telling you this as proof that I did, in fact, enjoy an evening of word-play/exploration/manipulation even if the mark I hit was far from my aim.
THANK YOU!
Panic 2020
Watertown wiped out
the hand sanitizer
supply at Target.
Pre-COVID,
I would have sooner bought stock in
Rubberbands.
But sanitizer turned gold.
Until it wasn’t.
Half-gallon jugs of jelled sani
(an earned nickname)
sit haughtily in my classroom.
A community service group
gifted each teacher
a wrist-band contraption
that held a
half-egg pocket
of glorious
COVID-hexing jelly.
Did you wear that bracelet?
A quick-thinking entrepreneur
sold (our) schools
dozens of laser-eyed
dispensers
that spewed
froth with terrible timing.
Oh, COVID,
deliver me
from hand sanitizer.
I love the prayer/plea at the end, Allison. We go to in-person learning next week, and at every entrance, there is a hand sanitizing station. I love how you captured that unsightly image in your poem
“dozens of laser-eyed
dispensers
that spewed
froth with terrible timing.”
This is really funny. Did your school actually buy those dispensers and do you have gallons of hand sanitizer on hand? Wrist bands with sanitizer? I love it! I know they will eventually be all used up even after COVID is contained. Thanks for the smile.
Oh, Allison. I appreciate you sharing your wordsmithing journey and this fun poem. I hadn’t thought it until I read it here, but my half-gallon bottle of cheap tequila-scented hand sani is so haughty; I can’t believe I’m only now realizing it! Thanks for the new/shared perspective! I may have to write about our touchless water fountains that were installed last week—students only went 6 months with no access to water…
Allison, this is a picture I stared at for a long time as well. Your sanitizer is the perfect example of so much that represents this past year. It has left behind hands that were both wrung out (from wort and caution) and aged, dried and cracked, and sterilized, open palmed, and hauntingly empty. The ending nailed the after-effects for me. Fine poem! Thank you. Susie
Hello Allison,
I loved your line “Until it wasn’t,” so I decided to write a short poem using it.
The IMPORTANT Things
Toilet paper was always in arms reach.
Until it wasn’t.
Lysol was always available for purchase.
Until it wasn’t.
Bread was always completely stocked.
Until it wasn’t.
Hand sanitizer was in bulk and cheap.
Until it wasn’t.
Empty Shelves Everywhere
Pushing her still empty cart through the eerily quiet store, she wonders the aisles as if in a daze. Her list was short today. Milk, cereal, eggs, coffee, and paper towels. Sadly there are no eggs or milk. No paper towels, not even the cheap kind. They only have decaf, seriously what is the point? She keeps wondering the aisles hoping to find something she needs that is out of place. No such luck. Back in her car she begins to cry. This was her third store today…
Indeed, this was so true, especially in the first few months. I remember, too, the fear of going out before masks became commonplace. Hopefully (doubtful) we’ve learned.
DeAnna,
In such a condensed space, you helped me see and feel the experience. Beautiful. I loved “They only have decaf, seriously what is the point?” A great choice in this context!
DeAnna, this poem brought me back to feelings I had at the beginning of the pandemic; though, coffee was not on my list because I was stocked up on that haha! I like your prose poem. It is really refreshing for this prompt. Thanks for sharing today!
Thank you for this prompt, Margaret! I enjoyed creating this poem!
Empty, but Full
Empty are the shelves,
the halls,
the rooms,
the offices,
the playgrounds,
the airports,
the stadiums.
Empty are the places
How can it be?
Where so empty are the places,
There is fullness
Full are the homes,
the zoom rooms,
the Lowe’s,
the families,
the slower-paced experiences.
Full are the experiences
If one can only see past the empty places.
Yes. At the time it was hard to see past all the empty places. I was grateful to have my husband and kids at home with me.
Bailey,
I love your line “If one can only see past the empty places.”
Such a strong and emotional line when I really think on it, because I catch myself thinking about what is missing instead of what is present in many situations.
Awesome job!
Inspired by the photo:
April 29 | A runner glanced up from his run along the Charles River to see Sander Bryce drumming in the woods. Bryce, 28, began drumming in the woods on nice days for his own mental health.
To
Take care
Of your own
Mental wellness
Is an act of love.
Self-care is not selfish.
Rock out to what brings you joy.
Move the beat of your own drum.
Prioritize a healthier you.
I love how the lines get progressively longer and I found myself reading this with the tap-tap-tap of a drumstick counting before playing. I agree with the message conveyed in this poem
What a beautiful response to a poem! WIWI (Wish I’d Written It)
Wow, Donnetta! I just posted my poem about this photo, and I love the route you took! Thanks for giving me another and deeper way of viewing that photo.
I saw this news article and photo, I think. Perfect sharing of ways we are learning to cope with the isolation, lack of jobs, and extra time. We are more appreciative of our bodies and nature, now, I hope. Love your careful construction of the poem.
I like to write poems inspired by or based on old obscure snapshots, but I went into my folder of recent digital photos for this poem. The photo depicts a chain link fence seemingly bisecting but actually being swallowed by the one-foot-diameter trunk of a tree.
Although we may have our doubts
And fear the enforcement of fence
Here is incontrovertible evidence:
In the natural world’s version
Of rock-paper-scissors
Tree beats fence
Every time.
Tree beats fence. It’s like you’re a rocket scientist! Why aren’t “they” listening to you?!? It’s just that simple.
Oh, I love this on so many levels.
First, the way your poem’s form upon the page draws me (a reader) to your concluding point.
Next, the “enforcement of fence” that uses language with attention to both sound and meaning.
Third, your R-P-S reference brings it all home.
It is ultimately all about
trees
&
fences.
Thank you for a wonderful prompt. I couldn’t decide on one photo, so I let my mind start on the one of the overflowing carts at Costco and then let the poem go. This is an abecedarian poem–one of my favorite forms.
About twelve months ago life came to a stop, the
Boundaries of life suddenly limited and full of
Canned goods and a chance to empty the refrigerator
Door of food usually forgotten. However, staples like
Eggs began to be in short supply. Things usually
Found in abundance were suddenly scarce.
Gas stations were now self-serve, people
Had to help themselves–you could
Identify those who had traveled out of state
Just by their ability to pump their own fuel.
Keeping to one’s home is harder than you think,
Laziness prevails and lethargy sets into every
Moment of the day. Everyone thought that
Now that they had time, they’d get everything
Out of the way that they’d avoided for all time.
Perhaps they didn’t realize that all of those chores in a
Queue weren’t just waiting for time, but were
Really things that were never going to get done.
Simply getting up and getting through the day at
Times was going to have to be enough. Crawling
Under a blanket was tempting, but even the
Veritable guarantee of sleep didn’t assuage
Wandering minds and racing thoughts. Even an e-
Xtreme logophile like me couldn’t focus on a novel,
Yearning for peace of mind in a time and year
Zealously striving to be the worst ever.
Oh how this made me laugh. Yes, I can pump gas. I even have a two page scrapbook spread of my sisters making me pump gas ⛽ for the first time.
Thank you for reminding us that the chore just may never get done. Depending on what those chores are it is okay.
There were so many lines that hit home for me, and DeAnna pointed out a few. You taught me a new word, logophile, today!
The image about not being able to focus on a book really rung true. I imagined myself reading so many books during the early stages of the pandemic, but my mind was preoccupied with worry and anxiety that a book couldn’t hold my attention. Unfortunately, that lead me to watch Tiger King, which definitely held my attention (haha!)
I particularly enjoy writing poems inspired by or based on old obscure snapshots, but for this poem I pulled something recent out off my digital photo folder to inspire me…
Although we may have our doubts
And fear the enforcement of fence
There’s incontrovertible evidence:
In the natural world’s version
Of rock-paper-scissors
Tree beats fence
Every time
The photo of a pregnant Bethany Mollenkof reminded me of my sister in law, who is a nurse and who lost her first (unborn) son during the pandemic. She is currently pregnant with her second child, a healthy daughter, and will give birth soon, and this poem is written with her voice in mind:
To My Unborn Daughter, 2021
Full of promise, without a thought of pain,
she kicks. Feet not yet formed in full
still want release. I want release from chains
that bind me to this earthly push and pull.
My dear. My precious child. So dearly bought
The prices paid remind me of this time —
The heartache that will rarely leave my thoughts
A brother lost, the pain of grief sublime.
And, too, a year of tending to a flock
Laid low to waste by grim disease and death —
I watched as angels waited out the clock
And heaven claimed their last and fearful breath.
— But when I think of what I will behold:
A sister cast in older brother’s mold —
Wendy, the emotional pain throughout your poem reverberates. I was especially moved by the line “And heaven claimed their last and fearful breath.” I am so sorry for your family’s loss., losing a baby is devastating. I am so glad she will soon have a daughter. Thanks for sharing this very personal and amazing poem!
Wendy, this is a powerful poem; every line moved me. Your poem makes me feel your loss, pain, and hope. “A sister cast in an older brother’s mold” makes me think of when your niece is born she will look like your brother. A beautiful and hopeful ending to an emotional and moving poem.
Wendy, I meant to say I am sorry for the loss of your brother. I can only imagine how difficult it is to lose a sibling. I am happy that your family and you have a new birth to look forward to. Excellent poem.
[Margaret, I have the photo that goes with this that I took in September of 2020. I’ll see if Sarah D. can post it with the poem. Susie]
2020
On a late September afternoon,
storm clouds roiled across the sky,
horizon to horizon, in an angry shroud;
the world beneath that steely grey
had been too sated in its own hubris,
too cavalier about the cautions,
too inert in the face of facts;
the viscous virus had already slain
thousands upon thousands
from New York to Los Angeles,
Seattle to Miami,
and still the sky seethed.
As I walked along the river,
the winds whirled the heavens
into knots of indigo and gunmetal grey,
some far and some so close
it was as if I could reach,
touching what would surely have bled
a tearing ink down my arm,
and low in the west,
rumbling pangs let loose
a quarreling complaint;
yet, it brought not rain
but a ghostly message
that much was still
to come.
And it did.
by Susie Morice, April 5, 2021
http://www.ethicalela.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/thumbnail_IMG_3916.jpg
Susie, I can feel, hear and see this storm. The ghostly message is haunting! I especially liked the way you describe the masses here:
The quarreling complaint of the storm is chilling and compelling. Incredible poem, Susie. Loved it!
Susie,
Through your poem I’m reliving the many times I’ve watched those ominous Missouri skies. These lines are so prophetic:
I think I’m my heart and soul I knew, but like a tornado watcher I didn’t want to believe.
Wow, Susie! My mouth is hanging open from the power and emotion you packed in this poem. Your usage of words, your repetition, your alliteration, your consonance, your images all work to make me see and feel this. Every line has moved me and brought back memories. The following image I can clearly see and cannot stop seeing:
‘As I walked along the river,
the winds whirled the heavens
into knots of indigo and gunmetal grey,
some far and some so close
it was as if I could reach,
touching what would surely have bled
a tearing ink down my arm.”
Your ending is chilling and excellent. Thank you for moving me with vivid images of 2020.
Susie, I’m struck by the shaded word choices (shroud, grey, ghostly) that help keep what we faced hidden. It mimics humanities inability to face what should have been more fully revealed. The indigo and gunmetal – dark and deadly “and still the sky seethed” – my favorite!
Thank you, Margaret, for this prompt and for your poem. Your use of the word ‘savior’ reminds me of the undocumented savior who was carried along as his parents fled to Egypt.
It’s something to see
Someone you know
In the news.
Maybe you saw her too…
Dr. Laverne Wimberly
82 years old
Retired educator
I knew her
As THE VOICE,
You know,
The inimitable
Voice of authority
Over the intercom
in high school.
All ears were on her.
A force to be reckoned with
She was.
Years later
I instantly recognized her
In the aisle of the Med-X
At Utica Square
And demurely
Offered greetings.
Lo and behold,
There she was the other day
On CBS Sunday Morning
Bigger than Dallas
With full-fledged hats
That would have given
Kentucky Derby divas
A run for their money.
Turns out
While we were
Worshiping from our couches
In ratty Eagles Tour 2013 T’s
And stretch pants,
Dr. Wimberly dawned her
Finest for virtual vespers.
It is something to see
Someone you know
In the news
Not because they
Were a victim
But because
They survived
And with style!
You may see beautiful Dr. Wimberly at https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/2021/03/31/sunday-virtual-church-outfit/
Katrina.
I love those hats and your tribute to Dr. Wimberly. Your poem reminds me of a woman I stoked with years ago. She was a teachers teacher. Your ending is so full of hope snd celebration:
Katrina, what a wonderful tribute to shine a light o Dr. Wimberly. I enjoyed the way you described how others dressed in
I also enjoyed the Kentucky Derby reference as those hats are something! Love the positivity of your poem and thanks for sharing the link.
Katrina, I loved this!! And it’s so cool that you knew her–her hats were amazing!! Your poem had a beautiful shape and rhythm.
Katrina,
I love the specificity and particularity of the images and details in your poem. Something like
just works so well because it lends authority to the poem (and the writer).
//david
Katrina,
I saw the pictures of her in the news and thought that was who you were writing about. Thank you for giving more background to the story that I read–your details make it so much cooler! I agree with Glenda, your last stanza is wonderful and powerful. Thank you!
Katrina, I love your poem, the article, and the photos of your former HS principal. What a beautiful and amazing lady! Your use and repetition of these lines in the beginning and end “It’s something to see
Someone you know/In the news.” are effective. I feel your images and words have perfectly captured your Dr. Wimberly with a bang! I especially love the images in the following lines:
“Lo and behold,
There she was the other day
On CBS Sunday Morning
Bigger than Dallas
With full-fledged hats
That would have given
Kentucky Derby divas
A run for their money.”
I think these lines resonate with me because I live near Saratoga Springs, home of the oldest horse track. When I used to go to the day track I remember seeing divas in “full-fletched hats.” I think your Dr. Wimberly looks beautiful and definitely gives those “divas a run for their money.” Thank you, I have enjoyed your poem. Your ending “Not because the/Were a victim/But because/They survived/And with style!” is priceless.
I recently received some photographs from my childhood which included the picture of a well used family wheelbarrow which I used as my inspiration.
Wheelbarrows Carry
Wheelbarrows are summer,
carrying children,
unsteadily giggling,
ferrying fruit from tree to barrel.
Wheelbarrows are generous,
moving earth to make room,
holding items too heavy to carry.
A barrow with wheels:
the etymology is “bear”
to carry,
not “bier”,
also to carry,
but those
no longer here.
Melanie,
Your poem returns me to my childhood. I think I’m going to have to write a poem about a wheelbarrow and uncle. I love the reference to etymology and thought about that word this morning as I worked on my writing. To carry “those no longer here” enshrined the wheelbarrow as a memory artifact, something more than a utilitarian tool. Lovely.
Melanie,
I encourage you to keep going with this. I was taken by the figurative play of the first two stanza – that wheelbarrows are summer and generous. What else are they? (And thank you for not making the wheelbarrow red, although perhaps part of my desire to extend the poem comes from memories of nudging my students to their own memories of wheelbarrow that could reveal the cultural or historical significance of WCW’s wheelbarrow.) But oh, keep that final stanza, which surprises us in all the best ways.
//david
Your poem reminded me of happy times playing ant my bonus grandparents. My brother and his cousin pushing me around. I can almost hear my squeals of delight.
Melanie, I resonate with your poem because it brings memories of my father and I gardening. It also reminds me of my husband raking up the fallen leaves for our young girls to jump in and giving them in our wheelbarrow. I watched through my camera. I like how the mood of positivity from the first two stanzas moves to whole different mood at the ending.
Margaret, thank you for sharing today’s prompt and links. As I read the articles and viewed the photographs, I was overwhelmed by the pain and awed by the resilient spirit so many demonstrated. I tried to capture a spectrum of what I saw, but I had to leave some things out that I had wanted to keep.
Unimaginable
Inundated with grief,
a blanket of despair
weighs heavily in the air
We fear the
infected; our inescapable
endless isolation
Health workers heal
then become ill;
death toll rises
No loved one
to hold our hand
as we breathe our last breath
Our life ends
without celebration
or funeral meal
Close to extinction
a baby is born;
her parent names her Hope
Barb Edler
6 April 2021
Barb you really tell it as it is. I love the last stanza about being close to extension but hope as a baby is born. May hope linger on with more hope to come!
Barb, this was really powerful–I love the ending after the gut-punch of the imagery. Such hard times. Your economy of language struck me; you did a beautiful job preserving the strongest words and images here!
Barb,
Thank you for ending this poem with hope. I’ve tried not to lose it this past year. Still, I do “fear infection.” The images are a stark reliving of this past year.
The image that I wanted to focus on was one of the pictures showing a car with a ‘Happy Birthday’ banner across the side.
The quote that went with it: “This moment was a small indication of what our world would face and learn to adapt” by Emily Elconin.
While I did not participate in any drive-by birthdays, I did get to be a part of a Vilonia School District parade of cars where we drove through many of the surrounding neighborhoods for our students. There was also a drive-by Senior Walk and so in this poem I kind of combined those two ideas to celebrate one of the changes I kind of enjoyed and am sad we aren’t doing more.
Adapting Traditions by Erica Johnson
I turn up the dial
on the heroic anthem I chose
a signal to those that know it
that they are super,
one final piece of shared joy to end a semester
cut short.
Of all the changes I expected,
out of a year of loss
a year of fear
it was not that drive by
would become a positive descriptor.
It was this moment
a small indication
of what our world could
would
should adapt as the new normal.
Warning signs became waving signs
and police escorts repurposed to
promenade a parade of
teachers, parents, students all in their cars
driving not to Graduation,
but through the streets.
Erica, I like how your poem shares how many adapted to the shut down to celebrate important moments like graduation. It seems like many communities tried to do their best to recognize birthdays, graduations, etc. by these car parades. It makes me wonder who came up with the original idea because it spread as fast as the disease. I’m curious about your heroic anthem. Loved your poem, the straight-forward sequence and voice!
Erica, wow! How you’ve flipped those negatives into positives. I just love that. I just love your last two stanzas. Terrific word choice.
Erica,
Though I haven’t participated in one, many of the elementary schools in my area have done these positive drive-bys in the early days of the pandemic. They are a wonderful transformation of a derogatory term into a proclamation of hope and community. A lovely poem of positivity.
Desperate Faces
They show up more than ever before.
The long lines waiting for meat and fruit,
breaded chicken patties and greens.
Hunger in America – growing
and wearing a mask
covering desperate faces.
A twelve year old girl holds a bag.
Food filling her arms, legs to her chin.
Revealing her eyes of gratitude
over a hidden mouth and a smile
and wearing a mask
covering a desperate face.
Unemployment is soaring, they say.
No jobs, no grub. It couldn’t be helped.
This impact of the pandemic.
An economic crunch. They line up
wearing masks
covering desperate faces.
A pop-up food pantry gives help
to people standing in a long line.
They go ‘round and around the park
filling shopping carts full of food
and wearing masks
covering desperate faces.
These people could be anyone
becoming less fortunate. No luck.
No savings in a day or two.
How can they plan for the future
wearing masks
covering desperate faces?
The echo of this line, “wearing masks
covering desperate faces?” is effective.
Susan, I really do appreciate the thoughtfulness of this poem. The repetition of the masks “covering desperate faces,” just really drove home the hurt that is all around us. Thank you for this poem! Susie
Susan, your poem is so poignant. I think what strikes me the most is the idea of how many people were in desperate straits so quickly. As a society, we really live from one paycheck to the neck. The image of the desperate faces resonates and I love how you repeated that phrase. Very compelling poem!
Susan,
I don’t know if you intended it, but this fits the form of a blues – four-line verses with a repeated refrain. I mean, can’t you hear Muddy Waters of B.B. King singing those first two lines:
And given the theme of the poem, the blues is an apt form to use.
Brava, david
Make-Shift Box People
Living on a couch, on a chair, or in the kitchen?
Living in Brazil, or New York, or Finland?
Living under a mask, under a protest,
the weight of your ever-smaller-growing-boxes?
Listening to animal sounds in the city?
Listening to social media war cries?
Listening to the banging of pots and pans?
Did you hear the camera lens snap?
Did you long to hug or for Chinese food?
Did you learn why pets escape the pen?
The repetition of questions is effective. Do you long for a hug or Chinese food? Such a dichotomy of things we miss.
Olivia, I like how you created this poem through a series of questions. They share their own photograph of the many images shared through the links. I also appreciate how you opened with common places where anyone could live in any place making this a universal poem all can access and make a personal connection. Thanks for sharing!
Margaret, I feel the emotion in your poem as if you are speaking it to me. Lately, I’ve been feeling more outraged than ever because of the wrongs and hatred our nation seems to constantly spew. I love all the photos and found myself spending time with the picture of Breonna Leon, a geriatric nurse in Atlanta. She said Blacks are dying at higher rates because of systemic racism in health care, pre-existing conditions, limited resources and poor access to care. Then I read one caption on another picture and let that sink in. (It’s quoted in my poem.) I couldn’t find a poem in me until I decided to fuss at my page! Here’s my rant.
Random Rant
The pre-existing condition of my people
Isn’t about skin color
Isn’t about deprived communities
Isn’t about diabetes or heart disease
Isn’t about food deserts
Isn’t about less access to health care
It’s about your choice to keep power
Away from us.
“Grave diggers adjusted,
So did funeral homes.”
When will you?
©Stacey L. Joy, April 6, 2021
Stacey,
This is powerful. Litote is one of my favorite rhetorical devices, so all these ways of saying what “The pre-existing condition of my people” isn’t moves me. It seems as though those with power only won’t more power, regardless of the cost to others. You’ve once again said what must be said.
Gut punched here! “Your choice to keep power.” I am so fed up with excuses for the racism that is so blatant. I’m glad you felt safe here to rant.
I agree with Glenda. This poem really hits hard — especially those last few lines.
Stacey, your poem is powerful and radiates of truth, anger, and the horror of this injustice. I read the quote you shared in your poem; it is such a grim reality and haunting I love how you catalog the injustices in your poem, and your final line/question is incredibly moving. I agree with your remarks to Margaret that our nation is continually spewing hate. Thanks for sharing such an important and honest poem.
Stacey, thank you.
Amen, Stacey — I am with you 100% and the voice is not a rant so much as it is that hammer of reality in a very messed up country. You just sooooo hit the nail on the head about what is really the heart of this horror…I feel it. I know it, and heaven help us, it MUST MUST MUST change. I loved this poem. You are a beautiful storm, my friend! Hugs, Susie
Do share this broader. As a poet, you hit the nail on the head! Succinctly. No messing a around.
Stacey, those last three lines make such a statement, especially with the grave diggers and funeral homes. Rant on (though I wish wholeheartedly there was no need). Thank you for sharing your powerful voice.
I chose a series of photos I took in May while hiking Little Wild Horse Canyon, which is part of the San Raphael Swell. The canyon is close to Goblin State Park near Moab, Utah. I’ve included a link w/ a description of the canyon and a photo. I also have a photo of my husband in the canyon posted on my blog today. Link in the comments.
Slot
We hike into unknown
history where slotted
sheer basalt walls
touch blue skies.
Narrow passages
force our bodies sideways;
rain-painted striations
stain curves in
rusty oranges and
fiery reds;
sand carpets the
canyon floor; a
corner swerves
into a sunbeam
casting a follow-spot
on a shadow. Soon
we anticipate the
canyon will open
onto an airy
range, but as time
descends on watchers
sandstone boulders
block our destination.
Forced to climb,
we thread our
way toward a
narrower passage, a
switchback sandstone wall
curves into channels
nature’s flash floods
forced rain-drenched
cascades to carve.
We hike life’s
canyons in tandem
the way we rappel
through time intertwined.
https://utah.com/little-wild-horse-canyon
“Where Do We Go from Here,” my blog post w/ a photo in Little Wild Horse Slot Canyon. https://evolvingenglishteacher.blogspot.com/?m=1
Glenda, “We hike into unknown history” – isn’t that the truth. It makes us seem more adventurous than many are. But “rappel through time intertwined” I love a bit more.
Glenda, the images you paint in your poem with “rain-painted striations” and “fiery reds” are vivid. I want to visit this place. Putting it on my bucket list.
WOW, I pictured this in my imagination as I read it, then went over to see the photo on your blog. Absolutely gorgeous. How brave of you too, I was getting a bit nervous…LOL…city girl who doesn’t know these adventures.
I love that your lines a short and bring me to the edge, almost as if I may fall!
❤️
Glenda, I love the beautiful imagery throughout your poem, especially the appeal to texture and movement. I adore the final stanza:
It reflects the beauty of the canyon. I surely would love to visit this place. Thanks for sharing the links. Truly incredible place, photography, and poem!
These words capture what I love about hiking –
yes, I love the unexpected natural challenges, keeping me alert and on my toes. I know this was gorgeous. I really like how similar each line is in its length, reads with a rhythmic beat, as if hiking. Love your closing stanza!
Glenda — This really feels like a sacred place. The way it “curves into channels” and the “thread[ing]”… the intricacy is quite beautiful. I love the ending lines
I’m inspired by your hike into an unknown place. So wonderful and sensory. Thank you! Susie
I love the idea of using photography as inspiration! I decided to use an image of new parents holding their newborn in the hospital. The photograph was taken from the other side of the glass. I assumed the parents were showing the baby to people on the other side, possibly their loved ones. I personally know some people who have had babies during the pandemic and they said it was so hard not being able to be with the ones they love during such an important time.
The Village
Glass between
The ones who love you
Want to meet you
Want to hold you
Want to raise you
To the sun
Want to kiss
Your little hands
Want to tickle
Your little feet
Want to feed you
Burp you
Change you
Sing to you
Whisper words of
soft affection
into your little ears
They say it takes a village
The village will have to wait
But they will be there
When the glass is gone.
Ann, this is so wonderful. You’ve captured so many emotions. In my family three babies have been born and I haven’t been able to meet two of them yet. It’s heartbreaking! You’ve painted quite a picture for us.
Ann,
Our neighbors have new twins, and I so want to hold them and all babies, so I’m feeling these words. The structure and line breaks in this section are brilliant.
I love the duality in these lines. Beautiful poem.
Ann,
The anaphora creates such a beautiful music to the many feelings and wishes new parents experience, and you slow down the poem with spacing to linger in this moment. The glass is like a picture frame holding this moment for them, for us. Lovely.
Sarah
Ohhh, Ann, this is sad but beautiful and sweet. I can’t imagine the impossible feeling of not being able to do all the things we love to do when little ones bless our lives, but so many have this unfortunate memory to last a lifetime. You write as if it were you in the picture, that speaks VOLUMES to your gift with poetry.
I bet every family in this predicament would love your poem.
?
Love the hopeful ending, when the glass is gone. I was blessed to be able to be with my daughter when she gave birth in November. I didn’t think I would be there. Such an amazing blessing.
Ann, wow, this is such an incredible poem. I love all the lines that share what the speaker wants to do, and then the end is so compelling. Your title is perfect for your poem. Your words capture the love we feel for our babies. Outstanding poem and photo!
Margaret, these lines of your poem are so poignant, about the plight of so many during this pandemic:
I enjoyed this poetry inspiration very much. I chose a photo from National Geographic, taken by photographer Anush Babajanyan in Armenia; she hugs her daughter Ella when she has trouble finishing her virtual math work. With Mama nestled in the hollow of her daughter’s neck, it was hard to tell who was reassuring whom. Throughout this pandemic, we are holding one another up.
Visually, I tried/hoped to center each line – but I couldn’t figure out how to do it!
holding one another
with the child nestled at her side
Mama reassures
there, there,
we hold one another up,
yes, yes, this pandemic is hard,
yes, yes, we are not leaving the house,
yes, yes, I will teach you everything,
yes, yes, I am here for you,
as we did yesterday, so, too, today, and perhaps many more to come,
I am here for you, yes, yes,
so much we have to learn, yes, yes,
we are home together again, yes, yes,
we’re going to make it through, yes, yes,
we hold one another up,
there, there,
reassures the child
with Mama nestled at her side
Maureen, this really spoke to the weight parents and kids have been feeling this year. The repetition of “yes, yes” feels both comforting and desperate somehow. I think you really nailed the form of the poem as well! I love the symmetry.
Maureen, I love the playful way you have written it forward and backward, with the two sides balanced. It is so beautiful. All the comforting and yes, yeses make me happy. Knowing that they have each other makes me feel peace in your poem, even during the difficulties. So beautiful!
Maureen,
The repetition of “yes, yes” and “there, there” offer comforting reassurance to both mother and child. They give a feeling there’s more to come, there will be an after all this. We hold on to one another. That makes me feel safe. Gorgeous poem.
I love the form you’ve created here. It nestles like the mother and child, there, there, yes, yes. The language of reassurance.
I chose the picture of the guy playing his drum set in the woods. The pandemic photos showed a lot of sadness, but also a lot of beauty and creativity. That’s what I wanted to highlight.
Gotta keep the beat
if I’m gonna keep my brain
Rat-a-tat rat-a-tat ratta-tatta-*tweet*
buildings are closed
but the forest is free
Dum-ba-badump ba-ba-*crunch*
a concert to the joggers
and the squirrels and the trees
tap-tap-tappety-*swoosh*
nature chimes in
to build a covid symphony
Ba-dum-*quack*!
This is so fun! A testament to all the creativity that so many discovered. I love the drum ‘lyrics,’ makes such a fun poem to hear read aloud. Also love this idea of a covid symphony!
Rachel,
This poem is a musical feast. I love the onomatopoeic words and the squirrel audience. Thank you for this uplifting poem, a concert of words. Love it!
Rachel,
I love this “covid symphony.” and how you show it so vividly with sound and rhythm. I feel like I am there for a moment, at the concert for joggers and squirrels — the free forest! So clever!
Sarah
I can’t get over the lovely use of repetition an onomatopoeia in this poem! It was so fun and creative, just like the picture that inspired it. Reading it brought a smile to my face — especially that last line.
The drum sounds echo wonderfully in this poem.
Margaret, thank you for your powerful mentor poem today! Your “essential now” caught me off guard (in the best of ways). Isn’t it interesting (and by that I mean deplorable) how people only become “essential” when they are “needed”? I looked through the first handful of CNN images. They were equal measures stunning and heartbreaking.
____________________________
Sometimes
it is
too much,
isn’t it?
Too much
to see
these images
of the worst days
of someone’s life,
images that are
so crisp and clear
so horrific
that at once
the full extent,
broad blown,
is apparent,
achingly and without
equivocation
apparent.
It is true
that pictures
speak
a thousand
words,
and
sometimes
those words
are brim full of
misery and pain
and grief
and loss
and I know
that we
sometimes
need
to bear witness
that we need
to document
lest we forget,
but at times
the cold
harshness
of the photograph
the stark realism
of immediacy
is all a bit
too much.
This poem so accurately describes how (I’m sure) so many of us felt looking through these pictures. It was all a little too painful and personal. I especially love these words: “achingly and without / equivocation / apparent” and “the stark realism / of immediacy.” Thank you!
You have hit the nail–needing to bear witness, yet feeling it is all too much. Beautifully said, Scott.
You have captured exactly what can be so profound and thought-provoking about a single photo –
It’s really extraordinary how much a single snapshot can document; I agree, it can be a bit too much, perhaps because it is so painfully raw still.
Scott, yes. The stark reality conveyed by these pictures is too much for us to take in. It reminds me of how I have felt seeing images of war. So surreal and incomprehensible.
Scott,
Yo answer your question:
Yes.
Yes. This is why I chose a personal photo. I’ve looked at Covid photos so often. Your post reminded me about Susan Sonrag’s “”On Photography” and her warnings about becoming desensitized to their shock value.
I hear you! I do feel we have pandemic exhaustion. Your poem expresses this well.
Scott — I so appreciate the sense of overload in your description of the photo images. For a long time this morning I wandered through them, and it rattled me all over again…in a sort of PTSD kind of reaction. I wrote and wrote and then decided I had no poem in me because it was, indeed, “all a bit/too much.” But then I turned to my own photos and landed on one for which I found some words. I appreciate in your poem the whole message and the sensitivity to what we have witnessed this year. Thank you. Susie
The Window
By Nancy White
I walked to your closed window
There you lay half reclined,
Disheveled, you tried to smile,
Framed like a picture behind a gauzy glare
I placed my hand flat against the slick silica surface
And you managed a crooked finger wave
The window, a necessity,
Like a mask
Safely separating,
An unfeeling buffer of cold glass,
Our only connection
In this catastrophe called COVID.
My heart cried, “Mama!”
Pushing back tears,
I mustered up my bravest face
And mouthed, “I love you”
As a truck rolled by and caused the window
To rattle.
Nancy, that window as a mask and the words to describe it – slick, cold, buffer, unfeeling – elevate the tragedy of this whole thing. But it’s that truck causing the window to rattle that hits home the most – what an ending!
I almost chose this photo, Nancy. It was too heartbreaking for me. How right you are, that window separating them – “An unfeeling buffer of cold glass.” Something so unimaginable became so ordinary during this time.
The window hit me so personally. Especially, “you managed a crooked finger wave
The window, a necessity,” I am currently visiting my parents for the first time in 18 months in their apartment. We’ve all been vaccinated and are feeling relieved.
Oh Margaret! I’m so happy you get to visit them after all this time!
Oh my gosh, Nancy, this is such a heartbreaking and visceral moment. That glass between you and Mama. Damn. Brutal isolating and yet a connection that was powerful. The truck at the end…dang, that was really that slap…the reality of how disruptive everything was and actually still is. My heart goes out to you. Susie
Thanks, Susie. This was not a personal experience, but based on one of the photos. I was imagining how that must feel…to see and not touch.
Margaret, there are so many powerful images in your poem–“While they live in the shadow in plain sight, essential now” and “Belong or don’t belong?” and wow, this one…”undocumented saviors.” This is such a powerful subject to write a poem about, and this one is a keeper. It reminds me of all the people who died early in the pandemic working in South Dakota meat packing plants, where the virus spread wildly. And the governor never took it seriously.
I couldn’t get the photo I wrote about out of my mind all day. It’s the last one on the Glimpses of Grief and Resilience article in National Geographic. “This picture reminds me that domestic violence doesn’t start with bruises on the skin, domestic violence begins with words and takes many forms,” says photographer Irina Unruh. (I also alluded to Jenny in Forrest Gump, Jeremiah 6:14, and a reprise of this week’s shadow and mask poems, as Angie noticed Margaret had in her poem.)
Hang On
Pray with me
fly, fly
away from here
Poison pulsing through the air,
Trampling and suffocating,
Cruelly wounded by words,
only to have them
superficially
dressed with
“Sorry” bandages.
“Let’s go for a drive, baby,
you know I don’t mean it.”
He speaks peace
where there is no peace
Masked by the thing with wings
Little glimpses of hope
Glittering in the sunshine
Come soon, Promise,
for she is still
hidden in the shadow
of the pandemic
Denise! “Masked by the thing with wings” works so well here. The “sorry” bandages, along with the “you know I don’t mean it” mask the lack of peace, bring forward the internal wounds, trampling, suffocating. Such gut hard words.
I like how you wove the butterfly into your poem, “masked by the thing with wings”, “Pray with me/fly, fly/away from here.” Butterflies are such a simple of hope and transformation, this photo seems so horrifically without either.
Painful, poignant. Thank you, Denise!
Speaks peace where there is no peace is so evocative of a situation of abuse.
Denise, this part is so rich with thought for me:
Masked by the thing with wings
Little glimpses of hope
Glittering in the sunshine
It’s beautiful, like the wings of a butterfly with promises on its wings. Imagery and hope abound in your words today!
Margaret, thank you for such an impactful poem today. Those undocumented saviors, assembly line style, are our mask. My piece today is entirely found in the captions shared.
Chalk Drawings
To grow a life
in such dark times
of death,
sit with the quiet.
Be present.
Embody an
earthly being.
Be on the land.
Don’t start
with bruises
on the skin.
Begin with words,
unbreakable hope.
So important and very wise to “sit with the quiet/ be present.” I love “Begin with words/unbreakable hope.” I feel peace in the storm when I read this. Thank you.
I love how you were able to piece together the captions to create such a beautiful poem! I love “to grow a life / in such dark times / …sit with the quiet.” There is so much power in stillness. Thank you!
I recognize some of your words from the caption I chose, and I like what you have done with them. Jennifer, you have found a beautiful poem among the photos and photographers observations. “Begin with words, unbreakable hope.” Thank you.
Jennifer,
This is cathartic. The verbs read like invitations and commands for survival: sit, be, embody, begin. Let’s live.
Love how the collection of captions makes a found poem. Unbreakable hope is my favorite line.
How creative and captivating to quilt the captions in an original verse! Your message is beautiful, too! Begin with words, unbreakable hope is profound and full of promise. Lovely!
Jennifer — This feels like a primer for surviving this year…”be present” and “begin with words/unbreakable hope.” Yes, I needed to read this poem every stinking day of 2020… and maybe for all the days forward. Thank you for helpful words and that hope. Susie
For some images, if you right click, you can open it in a new tab. Then, you can copy and paste the link into this comment box to reveal the image. Of course, you need not do that as the verse you write will capture the image from your perspective. Still, I thought I would offer this copy and paste way as an option and my found poem extracted from Univision through a Gaza photograph in this Oklahoma IP address. I used Google translate for the Arabic, so please say so if this is not accurate.
¿La nueva normalidad?
Is this the new normal?
Una madre palestina
A Palestinian mother
juega con sus hijos
plays with her children
a hacer máscaras protectoras
making protective masks
con hojas de repollo
with cabbage leaves
super heroes
‘abtal khariqin
_____ ابطال خارقين
Love the Spanish mix and simple lines. I especially like “plays” chosen here. That might be the smartest mask ever.
Love the mix of languages. Thanks for the photo tip. Cabbage leaves?! Such a creative way to make masks. Healthy breathing.
Sarah, what a powerful image. I love the partnering you’ve done here, placing the English after the Spanish and the symbolism brought about by that choice. I’m reminded that indigenous people were here first, that they fall on the front line first and more, that we might look past them to find what we can understand (or is like us). The cabbage leaves, along with the plastic bottles on the children in one of the NatGeo photos, makes masking seem like play too.
Sarah, this is so wonderful. I love seeing the picture here with your words. Is this the new normal? Yikes! Hopefully temporary, though the temporary keeps getting longer. I asked a friend about the Arabic. She gives you a big thumbs up!
Sarah, wow, I love the opening question about “the new normal”. The photograph is incredible as is your poem. Loved the final word: “super heroes!” Fantastic!
Sarah — This is truly one of a kind! Fabulous image to show the touch of the virus in faraway Palestine and the Spanish. “Super heroes” indeed!
I could not figure out how to upload a photo on my MacBook, so I sent a photo to you to post if you can. Thanks! Susie
I love the mix of languages. To me that helps one realize that the whole world is fighting against disease. The masks remind me of El Luchador fighting masks, which would indeed be Super Heroes to Hispanic children.
Thank you for this prompt today, Margaret. I really love how your poem is about undocumented workers but also how it contains “shadows” and “masks” from previous prompts!!! Intentional? 🙂 So, I decided to try out the pantoum generator today. I was writing one about the picture of UceLi Quartet playing music to a bunch of plants. That was the picture that moved me most. However, we had 3 way conferences at school today and I logged in to the conference, then my student’s dad logged in from the hospital. He has COVID but no serious symptoms. He is quarantining in hospital. Then my student and her mom logged on. It was such a weird experience and I had to “document” it. I’m sure you can imagine the google meet screenshot.
A Documentation on 4.6.21
student’s father is in the hospital
student and mother are at home
this is what the pandemic has done
tuning in from three physical spaces
student and mother all alone but
a surreal sense of incredibly close
despite three distant spaces
we are meeting virtually in one
a surreal sense of incredibly close
student’s father is separated but
we are meeting virtually in one
this is what the pandemic has done
The power of the pantoum is the circular repetition of lines – and how perfect is it for capturing the constant spiral of Google Meets! Especially this one, with the father in the hospital and the student at home with mom; there is just a sense of things going round and round and round. I can imagine the poignance of the moment which you’ve so magnificently rendered here, Angie.
Angie, this past week has allowed me to see the effectiveness of the pantoum poem even more. I appreciate the reading of them all the more than when I’m writing one (and the repetition feels like too much). Your subtle shifts in word choice/placement (“student and mother are at home/student and mother all alone”) beautifully emphasize the message here. Love!
Angie, I’m glad you documented this experience. These lines are my favorites:
I feel I can imagine the Google Meet screenshot you captured.
Angie,
The clipped structure and repetition of “this is what the pandemic has done” remind us we are in this pandemic together, although separate. The pantoum really works well here.
Angie — Holy cow! This is a rattling reality that you’ve described. I believer “surreal” really fits! I’m impressed that even though the separations are real, there is this unity despite it all… “virtually in one.” Whenever I think about how disruptive and cruel 2020 was, there is another story that makes my own experience feel like a softball game in May. I’m so glad you documented this! Susie
Angie, I have goosebumps. It’s really hard to wrap one’s head around “the pandemic.” But, you give a chance to understand the emotional impact of being separated during “business.” This is a great pantoum. I love writing them…there’s a generator? Wow! I need to find that!
Margaret – such power in your poem, and such truth. We need each other – all of us and each of us. It really invites an exploration of the word “belonging.”
Here is an attempt to write to a photo I found in your links, the 2020 Photos:
On the Playground in April 2020
the end of the world
blacktop oracle
scrawled in chalk
draped with a lifeless jump rope
attended by an ownerless bike
chalk left lying behind
as if written by
little ghost hands
the end of the world
is how it felt, Children
one year later
let us return
and prophesy
on how we can color it
new
Ughhhh I was stuck on this picture for a while. Couldn’t get anything down. Fran, this is absolutely eerie and beautiful and reflective with an optimistic ending. I love “little ghost hands” so much. Your images are divine. Thank you.
Fran, everything from your title through “the end of the world” captures the severity of the loss we’ve lived in words I wished I’d written. It’s simply and complexly beautiful. I love “blacktop oracle,” the chalk scrawls, the ownerless bike and especially “little ghost hands.” And that contrast to coloring it a new is so, so good.
Fran, even before I checked the photograph itself I could picture it fully the way you described it! I love the mysterious descriptions for absent children. The image of “little ghost hands” and “an ownerless bike” gave me chills.
Fran!
I was so moved by the imagery here, and this line — “little ghost hands” — tender, haunting, precious.
Sarah
Whew! What a picture of how the world stopped. The ownerless bike and the chalk and lifeless jump rope threaten tears as we think of how abruptly things came to a screeching halt that day. This is a jolt of a moment, and you captured it so memorably and accurately!
Margaret, thanks for sharing the photo to prompt us to write today. The photo of the drive-by birhday reminded me of ways so many events, from birthdays, to graduations, even to weddings, were acknowledged in new ways last year. The photo revived the way a dear family friend was celebrated on her 97th birthday!
Her name is Mildred, she’s 97, but she not dread
Her birthday last year when family couldn’t meet.
You see, she learned they planned a birthday drive-by
Inviting neighbors, friends, and family to slow down and say ‘Hi”
They set her up in a specially decorated hi-back lawn chair
And set a birthday bonnet on her always neat grey hair.
“Happy birthday” read the banner, “We love you so much!”
Motown music bopping in the background adds a special touch.
She’d been a teacher’s aide
At the elementary school across the street
So many remembered her, not just being sweet.
She took no stuff and even the 6th-grade toughs
Recall her with respect, come parade in cars along the street.
All afternoon, they drive up and wave, smiling from ear to ear
Pausing and handing her daughter a card or a gift of cheer.
To show they remember, but know not to get too near.
That day the neighborhood drove by to say,
More than just “Happy Birthday!
“COVID-19, you won’t stop us this year! See there,
Is a lady we love and this is a way we show we care!”
A wonderful tribute to a mighty woman, a true pillar of the community, always standing strong. I think about the line “she took no stuff” and those sixth-graders who returned to pay homage — love sometimes has to be tough but the point here being, the kids knew they were loved. And that makes ALL the difference. I am so glad Mildred got to enjoy this well-deserved celebration!
This is such a lovely poem to document how celebrating birthdays changed for a while. I hope her next birthday can be celebrated up CLOSE and all up in personal space!
Anna, I LOVE that you’ve captured the life of Mildred in this way. You’ve honored her, given her the respect she deserves, made us take note and see her as if she’s someone we’ve known all along. The birthday parades were among the good that happened during the pandemic. Thank you for showing us this one too.
Anna,
This poem documenting a special lady’s birthday makes me smile snd wish I knew Mildred. I love the image of the “bonnet on her always nest gray hair.”
Anna, what a beautiful tribute to a special lady! That bonnet is just perfect – like the icing on the cake, so pretty and welcoming! This parade is full of love and energy. What a thoughtful thing to do!
Anna, this is beautiful…so beautiful. The love for our dear, dear elderly in this time is so important and precious. I love that you captured not just that but a spark of this lady’s strength that not even those 6th grade toughs could weaken. I feel like I know her in some way. Thank you.
Thank you Margaret for the post and the model poem! I found it heart-wrenching (but also helpful) to look through the photos of the past year…there’s still so much sadness and anger and grief and joy to process.
As my inspiration today, I used photos and text that my friend Alexia posted on Instagram to create a found poem. She is a writer and journalist living in DC. I saved her post months ago, knowing it had a poem inside.
January 6, 2021
vendors on
14th Street
pack up
before curfew
a strange,
uneasy vibe
the neighborhood
somehow quiet
and busy
almost no cars
people everywhere
hurrying home
before dark
on 16th Street
two men
with flags
draped in red
marched along
the sidewalk
people stopped
in their tracks
watching warily
from a distance
the sirens
from earlier
have stopped
only the
ordinary sounds
neighbor jumping rope
neighbor blasting
workout video
gurgling radiators
and old pipes
people ponder
on CNN
president
banned from Twitter?
Pence
acting president?
I smell
the various things
people are cooking
as we
settle in
for the night
wondering how long
this
is going to last
Betsy,
Wonderful job capturing the mood and tone of that dark day. Thank you for this.
How vividly you capture the moments, the uncertainty, the strangeness…your lines catapulted me right back. For few seconds, I WAS there, not reliving, but living – whew, thank heavens I blinked and found myself here at the laptop instead…
“The neighborhood somehow quiet and busy” are the lines that stand out to me. I heard and saw this outside my apartment in Dhaka back in the day and hope it doesn’t happen again.
Betsy, I’m so glad you found the poem inside the saved post. So many times I’ve saved things, thinking of what they might be – if only I had the time or the words. You found the words today. Beginning with vendors and ending with the smells of the of people cooking makes this very real.
Betsy, you take us to a moment on the street – the sights, the smells of food, the absence of normal sounds. You take us into the minds of those taking it all in. I love the sensory imagery and the feelings inside as well!
Betsy, you’ve captured the peace of the day ending and the element of uncertainty that has ended so many of our days. That paradox is really beautiful in your poem.
Picture this:
A spring break extended by three weeks,
Then two months scrambling—
Scrambling to develop online curriculum
Scrambling to make connections
Scrambling to focus
Hold tight—
There’s an aperture—summer break!
I sit at home, photoshopping
Myself at the beach, atop Mt. Fuji,
And exploring Antarctica
But in a flash, it’s over
The lens is turned back to school
Yet the viewfinder is blurry—
We are exposed
Our response has not been optimal
I shudder to think of the snail’s speed
With which we move forward
We need to change this
Time lapse to a burst
And get on with life
I did not picture this
the picture you painted in my mind is so beautiful!
I am worried about the future for the students lost in the mix of our scrambling and snail’s speed. Your concluding line is truth, “I did not picture this.”
I can’t help but chuckle at this:
I love the humor you add to poems! And yes, that ending is real.
Fabulous extended metaphor, Mo! For one thing, I love thinking of summer break as an aperture. Good heavens, let us get through that opening before it shrinks! Humor juxtaposed with hard truth – “we are exposed” – this is all so well-captured. High-resolution image of the experience, indeed.
Mo, you always manage to find the words I could have written (if only I were so clever!). I love the metaphor of the camera and all the words you chose (viewfinder flash, exposed). The photo captured idea as a snapshot to our memories of this time (and the photoshopping ourselves into places that could have been – hehe) document this time so perfectly.
Mo — The crafting of the “picture” imagery is really effective! Because we’ve had lots of discourse around the pandemic, I am smitten by your return to the harsh reality of what this has felt like for teachers. The wordplay of photoshopping, aperture, viewfinder, exposed, blurry, time lapse… you really did a fun thing here. I love it! Thank you, Susie
I found an intriguing photo in the March issue of National Geographic showed a group of Pakistani soldiers finding time for a game of cricket in the midst of an ongoing battle with India over territory high in the Himalayan range. Here is a working draft.
In the shadow of Masherbrum
That shimmers in the distance
Under its blanket
Of snow
And ice
Men who are just boys
Playing their boyish games
(Gladly!) trading
Guns for bats
Grenades for balls
Fear for levity
This afternoon
As the sun sits low
Over a makeshift pitch
13,700 feet high
Men are just boys
The contrast of guns for bats, grenades for balls captures this real moment of men just wanting to be boys again, weapon-free and carefree.
Eric, I love the juxtaposition of language…like the images, the irony of the situation is clear and really beautiful. I can seen this poem growing and expanding beyond this one image and moment. For now, it is a tribute the photo. Thank you for sharing!
Eric, you have written this poem so well, I don’t need to see the picture. Wonderful. I love how you ended the poem with “Men are just boys”
“Trading fear for levity”… that is such a telling line, for everyone and especially for these men who are just boys; no doubt their fear is great. It is also unsustainable…there must be an outlet for it. And so they play. I am also floored by the visual of the “makeshift pitch” at an altitude of 13,700 feet! Your spare lines create such crisp images.
Eric, your words call to mind Alan Gratz’s book Grenade. Placing the men as boys playing a game against the weapons for war against the backdrop of those incredibly high peaks (and in their shadow) puts it all in perspective.
Margaret, what a glorious shout out to the unsung heroes – the undocumented saviors of this pandemic. My favorite word is undocumented – it emphasizes that humanity – struggle and survival and hope – does not require papers! This is beautiful! Your prompt is inspiring, and I love that we are using photographs today.
I snapped mine on Good Friday as we were having a PL day before our spring break this week. I will link to the photo on my blog in the comments below so that you can see the original poem, of which my own verse today is a rewording and extension. The poet is Micky Jones, and the title is “Invitation to Brave Space.” This describes our group!
#verselove2021
we come to this space
this brave space
scarred and wounded
turn down the world’s noise
tune in our hearing ears
to the amplified voices
of our community
to begin
to grow
in truth and love
to embrace imperfection
to work together
to express
to write
to feed
to water
to bloom
Kim – I love this. The plant imagery at the end shows the nourishing effects of the community. I definitely resonate with this middle stanza! I also appreciate the audio aspect of the second stanza – the listening and tuning in. Great poem and great representation of this group!
Thank you, Emily! This group is lifeblood and oxygen! We grow so much from the writing and the feedback of others.
Here is a link to a photo of the original poem.
Thank you again, Margaret, for hosting us today!
http://drjohnsonscommonthreads.blogspot.com/2021/04/verselove2021.html?m=1
I love how your poem speaks to us today as we continue to come to this space for solace and feeding.
Kim, your first stanza resonates with me. Since the pandemic, I’ve been doing a lot of “me” work on vulnerability and emotional agility. You are right in naming this space a “brave space” because we create and respond and share our scars and wounds. Thank you for sharing this poem…it is a lovely invitation to “bloom.”
I’ve read this several times, Kim, and come away after each with a deeper sense of our need for one another as writers and as humans. The human heart cries out to be heard and to belong – your poem dovetails with Margaret’s in this way. Many layers of bravery, finding a space, despite pain…I can’t get away from the idea of “communion” and “unity” being so foundational to “community” and that healing is found there. I love this poem.
Kim, you are filling up my scarred and wounded heart with your words today. Wow, thank you so much for sharing it and touching us. So many amazing phrases–“turn down the world’s noise” “to begin / to grow” “to embrace imperfection” “to bloom” are some of my favorites. I’m feeling nourished reading it again and again.
Kim, your poem reminds us to offer students this way, no judgmental, sharing space in our classrooms where they have the freedom
to express
to write
to feed
to water
to bloom
You probably are familiar with the research that says that writing is a heuristic, we learn BY writing what we are learning. Let’s do what we can to incorporate more “free” writing into our daily programming and see if our students begin “to bloom” as we have here in this space.
Kim — I love that you’ve chosen to honor this very space. Yes! I love this space and you captured the power of it to bring us “together” to “bloom.” Lovely! And all that despite the “scar[ring]” and “wound[ing]” that speaks to this brutal year. Thank you! Susie
Kim, you have brought together the myriad reasons we find ourselves here and we return – it is a brave space. And it so turns down the world’s noise. What a beautiful honor for this community!
Amen and amen. I read this like a prayer.
I chose a National Geographic photo of The Women’s ghat along the river Ganges in Varanasi, India 1907. It’s a stunning photo. I know very little about Hinduism so I looked up a very few facts. Ghat means steps.
Varanasi, India 1907
Before me
before you
flowing Ganges
At the Women’s ghat
she washes away
Death
Our ancient mother
Our ancient mother
Death
she washes away
at the Women’s ghat
Before me
before you
flowing Ganges
Varanasi, India today
Linda, your repetition here in these lines that describe the imagery of the woman taking the steps of washing away death at the sacred Hindu river of life forms the mirrored reflection of the water the way you wrote it! Oh, what a beautiful way to write reflection- style while thinking of the woman’s perspective as she washes! Brilliant! Creative! And such a way to relate to the death of pandemic that we all want to wash away.
The repetition and reverse structure make this a kind of chant I imagine women singing.
Linda, I love how your poem flows like the river, the repetition mirrors the washing, the ritual of cleansing, the lapping of the water on the shores. The poem itself creates a sacred space—like the river—where the past and the present exist simultaneously. Thank you for sharing!
Ahhh.. a pool of reflection, a mirror image of the women and the ghat in Varanasi in 1097 and today! I feel the rippling of life here, death washed away…so many sacred images. Just stunning, Linda.