Thank you for being a part of our December open write for educators. A special thank you to Jennifer Guyor-Jowett and Glenda Funk. We will see you back here in January 16-20 with Stacey Joy and Susie Morice. Looking ahead to our 2021 #VerseLove when we celebration National Poetry Month by writing (or trying to write) 30 poems in 30 days, please consider signing up to host a day. Complete this form by March 15th! Our community is strongest when we share this hosting space!
Our #OpenWrite Host
Chris Baron is the author of ALL OF ME, a middle-grade novel in verse, and THE MAGICAL IMPERFECT (2021) from Feiwel & Friends/Macmillan. He is a Professor of English at San Diego City College and the director of the Writing Center. Learn more about him at www.chris-baron.com and on Twitter: @baronchrisbaron Instagram: @christhebearbaron
Day 5, December Inspiration
Write a poem of any structure that behaves like a before picture. A “Before Picture” is meant to capture not just an image but also to serve as a symbolic remembrance of everything that happened at that moment but also what led to it–both inside and out.
Imagine you are taking a before picture.
Use images, figurative language, and everything else to help capture that moment in time: What it looks like AND what it stands for.
In my Middle Grade Novel in Verse, ALL OF ME, the main character Ari, is a 13-Year-Old boy who has been teased and bullied about his weight his whole life. But during the summer before 8th grade, he decides to make a change. Part of that change is realized in this poem. Part of Ari’s journey is going on this diet (even as the diet is of course not the real answer he’s looking for). This poem captures the scene.
Chris’s Poem (from ALL OF ME/Feiwel & Friends Macmillan 2019)
The Diet Book
suggests I take a “before picture.”
It makes sense to me,
even if I hate photos of myself.
Lisa suggests we go down to the beach,
stand near the lifeguard
with the beach in the background.
Pick suggests we hike up a small hill.
I choose the nursery
just to get it over with.
I stand on the deck,
the sky blue like crystal,
and the air smells like brine.
Last night, millions of anchovies
washed on the shore.
The beach is thick with sand crabs.
The seagulls pitch and dive
from the mountains to the beach
like I’ve never seen before,
lunging into the sand,
out of control.
I feel every cell swirling around,
my metabolism churning
starving, fighting.
So, in some moment of foolishness
or bravery or maybe both,
I step onto the deck,
take off my shirt,
and hold it over my head.
My pale skin
absorbs the naked sun.
Pick and Lisa laugh,
but not at me I think.
They are in the moment,
me with my shirt off
swinging it around my head,
the chaos and screech of the seagulls.
My body shudders,
in the sudden wonder
of a decision finally made.
What if I’m not alone?
What if Pick and Lisa
and maybe others might help me?
What if all this matters less than I think it does?
Let’s do this! I cry out.
I pump my fist into the air
because I don’t know what else to do.
Without asking,
Pick and Lisa step onto the deck with me,
stand next to me on either side.
My mother snaps the photo
Let me see, Lisa yells, and she
gets the phone from my mom,
stares at it, and makes a funny face,
then she runs across the deck
while we chase her.
In the photo,
my friends are on either side,
Pick, his smart, handsome face beaming,
Lisa, her chin lowered, eyes wide,
born for the camera,
and me, so much wider
than both of them.
It’s not fair, I think,
how my sides overflow my shorts
or the way my legs
always rub together.
I don’t think I can do this.
We print the photo
and pin it to a shelf
beneath two trolls,
one holding a tiny flowerpot,
the other a hatchet.
Then we go to the beach,
run the whole way
until our toes reach the shore,
we lay our bodies
down in the warm sand.
At the nursery,
the seagulls land on the fence,
stuffed or tired.
Your Turn
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Sorry my dear friends, Just was swamped today with stuff. I hope to write with you tomorrow. For now, I will submit this poem that I wrote a long time ago when I was admiring a spider.
Arachnid
I saw a spider spin a web today.
As the sunset and evening dew
began to stick by droplets
To each silken thread.
Around and around she went
Tacking the web to each cross joint.
Symmetrical
Calibrated
Exact
Silently the sun slipped.
My vision became dim.
I could hardly see the design.
Legs in rhythm
Body weaving
Around
Around
Around
What a contrast between my
jangled, frayed, unbalanced world
and the radial web.
Simple
Pulsating as she spun
And I knew she held within her web
God’s plan for the universe.
American Literature Since 1945
Dr. Sullivan asked English 101,
Why do men have nipples?
Uncomfortably long pause,
A 1997 pause, not a 2021 pause.
So they can find their cigarettes.
He reaches into his front shirt pocket and removes
…ugh…
Menthols
That’s okay Phil, I still respect you…
Cue 15-minute smoke break.
We huddle together in the mid-January chill
Curls of smoke and breath
Float overhead
So cool
So cool
Shaun, you set the stage and took us from the classroom and one thought provoking moment, to the outside with fascinating smoke rings rising. Minty ones!! Your ability to capture a moment in a smoke ring is a writer’s envy!
5%
By: Emily Yamasaki
It was 1 am
When I figured out
What that birthing coach meant
“When it happens, you’ll know”
I was dutiful
The perfect student
Timer – check
Paper – check
Pencil – check
Recording every second
Of every contraction in
Teacher writing
In my 3 column chart
25 hours later
Three nurse changes later
1 surgery later, less than
5%
Babies are born
On their due date
– check
Emily, oh, I am feeling some trauma here! I love how you record this event. The straightforward honesty leads up to that final punch so well at the end! Glad I returned this evening to read this beautiful gem!
Hello Emily,
I love this “before” – I almost wrote about the “before-kids-time” too.
I like the way you use numbers and quantify what becomes an unknown. The weight of “25 hours later / Three nurse changes later / 1 surgery later” really intensifies the moment.
Hope all is well with you!
Emily, I love your before poem. Though there is some trauma, you are so sweet in your matter-of-fact check marks on your chart, as a good teacher-learner. I’m so glad it ended in the birth of your wonderful baby boy! Even if a day late.
I decided to use this prompt for a scene in a manuscript I’m writing.
Star Gazing Before She Leaves
On the garage roof, lying on our backs
gazing at billions of white pinpricks,
blinking across the galaxy, we search
for The Big Dipper.
We are wrapped in summer music, crickets rubbing their veined wings together,
scraping into sound, the rustle of tree branches brushing against the
the garage, the scuffle of the neighbor’s cats.
And Leah and I sing verses from our favorite songs,
“Do You Wanna Know” and “Chlorine.”
We agree. Yes, we will both audition for the 8th grade musical
in the Fall despite Leah’s crippling stage fright.
Tackling this fear together, we will be unstoppable.
Leah breaks the news a week later — in the pause between our songs —
slips it in like an timid apology, she will be living in another state
before the summer ends
And now
No 8th grade musical
No stargazing
No more best friend
Tammi, Wow, the imagery of looking at the stars on a summer night with a best friend is striking. I love how the insects are creating the music. Your end is so poignant. I like how the final lines show how everything is changing for the speaker in the poem! Brilliant!
Tammi,
I love the way you honor your friendship with these gorgeous descriptions of the time you spent star-gazing and dreaming. I’ve had so many friends move away, and your poem makes me slow down and think about our time together. Beautiful poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Before I Teach
My best teaching
happens between 5 and 6 a.m.
fueled by the coffee warming my veins.
Pajamaed, unshowered
I plan the day,
asking only the HOTest questions;
my ethereal students
responding with stunning depth and clarity.
At 5:20 I refill my cup.
Posting links onto Classroom,
I see my darlings clicking
eagerly, atwitter with the love of learning.
At 5:35 my 6th-period class
is reflected in the still-black window of my study,
their faces glinting
with a teacher’s oxymoronic dream:
deep contemplation and unbridled joy!
—————-
Ah, Before.
Let me savor you
before the after.
Allison— the perfection that exists before reality hits! Love this…deep contemplation and unbridled joy…in your sixth period class… yes!
Wow, you are an early bird, Allison. Love the last stanza, especially “their faces glinting/with a teacher’s oxymoronic dream: deep contemplation and unbridled joy!”
Allison, you capture a teacher’s world so well in your poetry. I always did my best work and planning in the early morning. The ending of your poem is priceless!
Wow! This is ME! I’ve always been a morning person, and it feels like I go through the entire day during that first and/or second cup of coffee as well. You describe this “before” class picture so well. I love the optimistic attitude!
image junkies & photo fictions
the ubiquitous selfie
embodies self-appropriation,
owner imposed objectification
framing a false sense of experience
excluding the peripheral to claim
the appearance of participation
an attempt to sculpt a world,
reality imprisoned in a cell
phone roll, mutable, malleable
oeuvre pieces of experience
peeled and placed on
imaginary walls;
temporary ephemera
lifting a translucent veil
these portable pictures are
nascent, preemptory invasions
contracted with oneself as
artist and subject, our own
picture palace proliferation
layered upon stills like
Archimedes ancient palimpsest.
we’re all image junkies
snapping fucking photo fictions.
—Glenda Funk
BTW: I love selfies. Kylene Beers taught me about them at NCTE a few years ago.
Glenda, That ending!! (Truth be told, and why not?, I uttered a bark of laughter and actually clapped my hands together when I got to your last line. So thank you for that!)
Glenda — I have never been a big fan of selfies. I’m too self-conscious, but my daughter –OMG! Every second of her life is documented on instagram through selfies. You’ve captured the “photo junkie” well in this poem. So many really cool turns of phrases in this poem: “mutable, malleable/oeuvre pieces of experience/
peeled and placed on/imaginary walls; ” and “these portable pictures are
nascent, preemptory invasions”
Glenda, I want to hear what you learned about selfies from Kylene Beers…sounds fascinating! I loved the sudden change in tone at the end of your poem. I am always a little mystified by selfies, and I enjoyed how you developed the point of the fiction being produced by them.
I’d never taken a selfie until after a session I presented at NCTE that Kylene and Bob Probst attended. Kylene suggested we get a group photo and suggested a selfie. She took the photo and showed me how. After that I had students teach me more, which has come in handy during my travels.
Glenda, wow. This is so fun to read. So many sounds playing together in melodious ways. Lovely. As usual, I was reading your poem with a dictionary close at hand. Then, like Scott, when I got to the last line I guffawed sitting alone here at my table. Thank you for a lot of fun reading and writing this week!
Yes! This is why we take so many selfies, sculpting that image…Funny/strange to think how quickly and impulsively many selfies are composed (thinking Grand Canyon) and how inherently self-absorbed we are. We’re all image junkies!
I really like the similar length of each line, the beat of each line – how the poem rolls off my tongue as I read it aloud!
Placement
This poem will be the
fourth poem in the
book.
I like that for a couple
of reasons:
one) it presupposes
that there will, in deed,
be a book someday.
A book filled with my
poems that people
would actually want
to read and two)
because of the wild
audacity of its claim.
Why the fourth poem?
Why not the fifth?
Or third?
And what if the poems in
the collection
(Ooh, I like that word,
“Collection” — this
imagining is fun)
are all about astronauts
or whatever,
‘cause really, what do
I know about astronauts?
(I did once, however, see a
clip of Buzz Aldrin punching
a guy in the face. And though
that was startling, I didn’t
altogether hate it.)
But whatever the book — the
collection rather — is “about”
(wait, that sounds a little
too lofty, even for me)
whatever the through line,
the theme that’s trying
to be conveyed (Christ,
now I have to “convey”
an overarching “theme”?)
This is sounding more
and more like work,
and that’s what I’m trying
to avoid here, I mean,
I guess “space work”
(or whatever it’s called)
is still work — isn’t it?
These astronauts, these
men and women, who
have hurtled through
space to slowly revolve
around this blue rock
of ours have still punched a
time clock, haven’t they?
They still have had to write
out forms and fill out
reports; they still are
subject to observations
and formal reviews.
(This is sounding worse
and worse —
I think I’ll just keep
scribbling away in this
notebook and leave
this whole book thing
to actual working
poets.
Or astronauts. What
ever.)
Scott – You are such a pistol! So funny! Here I am rooting for you to compose a book, a collection of your fine and numbered poems… and then you did that Scott-talk thing and talked yourself right out of it. Now, put that in rewind, a create that collection! Susie
Scott, What Susie said: a pistol!
I loved this on so many levels. I highlighted this line the moment I read it:
(I did once, however, see a
clip of Buzz Aldrin punching
a guy in the face. And though
that was startling, I didn’t
altogether hate it.)
Your poem is filled with humor and truth. <3
Scott,
I’ll happily pen a blurb for the cover of that imaginary book. It’ll say something about the complications of composing poetry being analogous to rocket science and taking that first step in the moon: one small volume of poetry, one giant accomplishment for the poet. Now get to scribbling.
—Glenda
Scott— I was worried you wouldn’t show up—and here you are! The Buzz Aldrin bit was the pinnacle— and then you slid off the rails again into the place I love.
Scott — Thank you for this poem. I read it with huge smile on my face. Just love the humor: “I did once, however, see a/clip of Buzz Aldrin punching/a guy in the face. And though/that was startling, I didn’t/
altogether hate it.” — So funny!
P.S. I’d read your book of poems!
Scott,
This poem made my day! I love your sense of humor, and I want to by your “collection” and read this fourth poem again! The shift to talk of astronauts and “space work” brought tears to my eyes. I love the conversational style and the way you spaced everything made the timing just perfect.
Chris, Thank you for this invitation, presented with your wonderful “before” picture from “All of Me.” I just ordered the book so I can read the REST of the poem!
I should have seen it coming
since I believe 80% of all two-year-olds’
tantrums are the fault of adults
too oblivious to two-year-olds’ emotions–
or at least their two-year-old ability to process them.
This was me
before the carousel ride
before the joy beaming on his tender face and the wee squeals filling the air
as the pony went up and down and round and round
before the ride ended and the heartbreak began
before the screaming startled every masked person in the mall and all eyes
opened wide to see the punching, kicking, pawing at the ground as he gasped out one of only a few words he knows well–more
I sat on the floor in a public space beside this toddler-grandson, waiting for my love to seep into his shouting sorrow
I’m sure some people pitied me and others thought this child needs better parenting
Who are they to judge?
I’m sure every person there has felt and fought big emotions at one time or another
Imagine the freedom of fighting them out and then falling asleep like a two-year-old.
My brave darling boy, fierce in his want for more fun on that carousel, wore his little self right out. And later he woke up like he owned the world
Because he does.
I’m glad I’m not the only one writing every poem about my grandchildren. The classic two-year-old tantrum. We’ve all seen it. I could totally imagine this scene and your feeling of helplessness.
Amy, this was wonderful. I love how gently you expressed your world view: “80% of all two-year-olds’
tantrums are the fault of adults
too oblivious to two-year-olds’ emotions–
or at least their two-year-old ability to process them.”
You have a poet’s appreciation for the moment. You find meaning–even joy–in the 2-year-old’s freedom to melt down as needed!
Thank you for this poem. My first grandbaby was born in July.
Amy — Oh, my goodness! You have captured the before and after of tantrum so well. I remember those days so well when my children were little. I love the line, “Imagine the freedom of fighting them out and then falling asleep like a two-year-old” because it is so true.
Hey! How was your day?
After work
Before you shower
your beard is confettied with sawdust.
As you ease down on the couch beside me
I lean over for a hug
resting on top of square carpenter’s pencils
lined up in your coveralls chest pocket.
On any given day,
you smell like different combinations of
woodsmoke
something like motor oil
herby tea
an edge of paint
fresh snow
wool
earth.
I like it.
I love how earthy and sexy this is. The sawdust in the beard is a great image, and the carpenter’s pencils. The smells, ah. I like it.
Great description. I love the sawdust and wood scent plus the carpenter’s pencils. Made me want to sit next to him too!
Em – That is downright adorable. Gotta love a whiskery man with carpenters pencils wearing eau d’ woodsmoke! HA! Love it! Susie
Love the imagery here: “beard confettied with sawdust” & “woodsmoke, something like motor oil/herby tea.” And I love the way this poem unfolds with the promise of something more.
True love with snuggles before the shower. This is so simple and sweet. All the smells, and you like it. It is just so beautiful.
Before Teaching…….
Before my 4th grade “teaching” actually started,
there were worksheets and a GREAT deal of
monopolizing the copy machine.
Other teachers groaned when they saw me in there.
I was the QUEEN of coloring packets
along with lots and lots of easy work.
Crayon work dominated in that class,
friends sat together drawing pictures,
there were lots of “Excuse me I’m talking” in
my quiet nice voice.
My goal was to try to be friends with them.
I was always telling them my age
and bribed them with candy daily.
I would fuss at the students for 15 minutes straight,
would go to PE daily for about an hour
and argued with students who didn’t
follow directions.
Whew, THANKFUL those first two years are over.
Seana, I think many of us can relate to either not knowing what we were doing or thinking we knew it all those first couple of years. I’m so glad you have grown and reflected on your teaching, like all good teachers do. I bet things look different now, don’t they? For me, one of the joys of teaching is learning more about the art of teaching each day. Thanks for sharing your journey!
Seana — I can totally relate. Those first couple years are rough. And despite what we tell ourselves, we do want our students to like us. We are human after all. I love the line: “I was always telling them my age/
and bribed them with candy daily” — nothing wrong with that!
Thank you to Jennifer, Glenda, and Chris. Wonderful prompts. You really stirred me up. Wishing you all happy holidays filled with joy, peace, and laughter, even in these difficult times. Get rest and rejuvenate. Till January! ????❤️
Boobville
When I was little,
my sibs and I called female breasts
pickles.
Breasts, all covered up
and stashed in your shirt
seemed to invite, certainly,
adolescently-induced vocabulary.
Try these on for size:
boobs, of course, still highly popular today;
ba-zooms, heavy on the zooooooms syllable,
as if they might rocket forth at high speed,
aiming for targets;
the sisters, so endearing, so familial;
highbeams, those headliners in unswerving salutes;
pencil-worthy, a young engineer boyfriend instructed,
“…if they don’t have the heft
to hold a #2 pencil slipped under them,
then fuhgeddaboudit”;
knockers, which even today, I don’t understand…
do they make noise…not really,
but sizeable knockers do slap
into each other on a good run with a bad bra;
jugs indicate serious presence and weight,
as milk jugs tend to take up a lot of grocery space,
blouse bunnies, they are indeed soft,
and all the rest —
melons, the Dream Team, Twin Peaks, shoulder boulders…
I figure when the OED has to devote an extra page
to a body part that 50% of the world has on bold display,
it’s no wonder I might even write poetry about
the before and after
of my life in Boobville.
Boob-consciousness set in
with the arrival of a full-length mirror in our home;
dubiously, it was mounted at one end of the living room.
Really?! Geez! Not like in a family with too many kids
could I discreetly examine the potential
of my wee baby moons.
In front of the medicine cabinet mirror
in our single tiny bathroom,
I teetered on tiptoes examining whether
my nearly concave bare chest would ever
rise to the topography of full-on breasts.
My mean and fully-endowed sister,
sporting a set of sweater-stretchers
in high school, while I was thirteen
and still in undershirts, never passed a chance
to slap the wall in the hallway
and pronounce me FLAT AS A BOARD,
and then tear out the side door.
But as women tend to do,
they grow.
And grow
and grow
and grooooooan.
Now, after a lifetime,
breasts that have endured
tube tops, underwires,
bra-burning, sports bras,
unsolicited “brush-ups” at the mall,
the vice-grips of the mammography lab,
tempting thoughts of reduction surgery,
so many lumps I wouldn’t know a “bad lump”
from a “good lump” if I tried,
and the inevitable pull
of
gravity,
I am declaring
these bodacious tatas
are just another story in a list
of body parts
that still make me roll my eyes
when I stand naked in the mirror.
by Susie Morice©
Oh my goodness, Susie! I have tears in my eyes from laughing. You really caught all the expressions. For some reason my mother, sisters and I called them tinnies. Could that have been from teeniest? I wonder. I must share this friend who would get a good laugh as well. She has recently had a double mastectomy and has been given her new boobs called Busters. They are hand done by a survivor. Now at age 74, none of this really matters except the good laugh.
LoL, Susie – yes! Why so many strange words?!?? They are fun and also just WEIRD, and you really capture that in your various vignettes. You captured the comparison of youth to laughter later on. Love it!
Susie—this is so funny and so true! I chuckled throughout! All those names… in my group of friends, one of us was melons…I was acorns. Think about that for a moment.
Thus is my favorite poem I’ve read in forever!! You’ve captured so many of my own experiences and emotions in your details. My daughters, all three adults now, and I share a social media space we call “Boobie Groupie.” You’ve captured why, exactly!
Susie, your poem is hilarious. Love all the slang, although I could not quite follow the comment from the engineering boyfriend. So enjoyed your lines: “ba-zooms, heavy on the zooooooms syllable,
as if they might rocket forth at high speed,
aiming for targets;”
I can totally relate to the part about wearing a t-shirt to the way age has its way with our, oh, so special displays! Thanks so much for the laugh!
Thank you, Chris, for today’s prompt. Ari seems like a sweet character. His before picture experience invites me to get to know him better.
It’s been a busy holiday here in Bahrain, the 49th National Day. There are lots of special events and activities. It’s as if we all forgot about Covid, though. That is what was on my mind this evening when we went to the crowded fireworks display.
Before the Fireworks
No social distance to my lament
Seemed like a superspreader event
“There’s no COVID!” we labored to feign
Red and white! We celebrate Bahrain!
Flags, hats, sparkles for National Day
Couldn’t get out of everyone’s way
Then the show began, grateful we gazed
We left our fears–fleetingly unfazed
Denise – thank you for a glimpse into another world, both literally and figuratively. You made me feel your hesitancy, and willingness to have a moment of “normal” tinged with fear and joy. Such a mix of emotions, that you capture in your short stanzas.
How wonderful to have that moment of normality! Fleetingly unfazed—those two words are so true. Thanks for the entry into your world!
Denise, thank you for sharing this delightful poem and incredible photograph! Awesome!
Denise,
I think we’ll define this pandemic year as a before and after demarcation. Your picture captures these feelings in the image and in your words. I’m looking forward to when we can all proclaim
Soon, I hope. Thank you.
—Glenda
Absolutely love this photo! What beautiful fireworks! And your ‘before picture’ is chilling – what about COVID? These lines really capture how we get caught up in celebrating (hopefully not to any future problems):
This one had me thinking about what happens before something you hoped for arrives. For most of the morning I just sat with Emily Dickinson’s “Hope is the thing with Feathers” and the Sandra Cisneros line from “My Name” (House On Mango Street): “In English my name means hope…It means sadness, it means waiting.”
A Waiting Game
The concrete of the back porch is
honey smooth and
deliciously cold in the oppressive heat–
the only succor offered.
Not even the giant mimosa–
smelling fragrant and blooming
powder-puff pink–
gives respite on days such as this.
All movement is languid,
limp and swimming
through thick humid air.
Something looms on the horizon
masking itself behind full-bloom
cotton clouds,
indigo haze follows in their wake,
a gift of shadows.
Overhead, the sun is blistering,
but a breeze of cool promise
soothes the ache.
Quiet, dozing birds in trees
wake and tremble
with new-born anxiety
as the humming
electric buzz of insects
goes silent.
One roll of thunder,
crackling cannon charged
to doom
what will be forever lost;
a delicate tympani
drum to quicken what
will grow.
Two fronts of the same storm,
perfect, delicate balance.
Every good farmer knows
a tempest can make
or break
the seeds you have planted.
What offers life to parched
land can uproot
the dreams of bountiful harvests.
There was a reason hope was
held prisoner,
specimen in a jar.
There are so many layers here! I could feel the storm coming, then the competition between the two. “ One roll of thunder,
crackling cannon charged
to doom
what will be forever lost;
a delicate tympani
drum to quicken what
will grow.
Two fronts of the same storm,
perfect, delicate balance.
The sounds, the feelings… beautiful.
Andrea – you build up so much anticipation for this storm with the gorgeous imagery. Nothing gets past you! I love the duality you capture in these lines:
I also really enjoy the “delicate tympani” – such a lovely audio image, along with your “electric insects” – you painted this scene in images and sounds and it made me miss summer!!
Graceful Geese
Graceful geese scattered on the pond,
there must be several dozen of you
floating, resting, softly stirring,
soaking in the sunny day.
Near
but not necessarily with
one another.
Giving no hint of the disciplined flash mob that you are.
Each of you appearing lost in your own thoughts,
soft ripples surround,
small and intermittent honks of harmony,
a few beaks bobbing in the water.
In an instant, you will take flight
gather in your gaggle
simultaneously dividing into
not one, not two, but three
perfect formations in the sky.
Who directs your beautiful show?
When do you rehearse?
How do you know what to do?
What is the signal?
Will you teach this teacher your ways?
How you tease me
looking lazy, leisurely, and languid,
yet ready
to vault into your voluptuous v.
There is such mystery in this.
These two lines: “Giving no hint of the disciplined flash mob that you are.” And “ What is the signal?
Will you teach this teacher your ways?” You have made is a connection I never would have made, and will always think about from now on…
Maureen, what a beautiful topic and treatment of the geese’s flash mob show. There are so many favorite phrases and images here. I’ve read it three times. A few favorites…
and the alliteration of
Well done with the prompt. We rarely think of the moments before the v.
Maureen — This is so beautiful! You have slowed the world down to pay attention here, and I love that. Noticing the “flash mob” nature of geese suddenly appearing and skidding over the the water and then floating there as if they hadn’t just performed a miracle. And just as quickly can be up and gone in perfect formations. Oh man… this is just really so rich in those visuals. The “rehearse” is a part that really resonates with the wonder of it all…something we would have to rehearse for months or years is magically all right there for these creatures. Brava! Susie
Maureen – I love this! I had to shout at many children today not to chase the geese today, so this hit me just right. I love the voluptuous V, your list of questions in the middle, and especially the image of the flash mob – they totally are! What a perfect metaphor for the stillness into choreographed motion. Reminds me also of the poem “Something told the wild geese that it was time to go”
Maureen,
Your poem reminds me of Mary Oliver’s wonderful “Wild Geese.” I feel a sense of peace reading your words, which I sorely needed today. Comparing the geese to a flash mob is genius.
This and what follows in the description of nature’s organizing principles give me peace and hope. I simply love this poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Inside Out
Sitting on the steps hidden from view,
silently I would eavesdrop
On the always fascinating conversations that took place
Between all the Aunties and my Mom.
On this day, however, the words scalded me,
leaving traces of pain 60 years later.
“Lisa will always be my ballerina and,
Judi will always be my dumpling.”
The chubby little 7 year old sister
yet again a distant second.
Those words would replay in my head
throughout my life,
As if my life were somehow
already written immutably.
The only one of my Auntie’s missing that day
was my cheerleader,
mentor,
role-model, and
confidant,
my beloved Auntie Stella.
I spent a lot of time staying with her on the farm
Loving the peace it brought
Loving the love it brought
Loving the fun it brought
Most of all, loving the complete acceptance it brought
We were of a kind, Auntie Stella and me, dreamers and lovers.
We were the cheerleaders
She always had kind words for everyone
She always knew how to make me laugh
Even at ourselves – she taught me that
I so completely trusted her that I even told her
When I got secretly engaged to the
Love of my life (at age 6)
Even though it was her husband, my Uncle Alford
She didn’t mind.
Whether I wore rags or a mink coat
She never noticed, never even saw them
She adored me because I breathed
She never asked me how I was doing in school
She never asked me how things were at home
No one laughed harder at themselves than she did
Except maybe me – that was her gift to me
We were having a family reunion
Back in my hometown
I was so excited to see her, it had been years
She didn’t know I was coming
All the way from California to see her
Everyone was in cahoots on the surprise
They snuck me in the back door
And slowly I crept up behind the chair she was sitting in
Ready to spring
When she quickly turned around to face me
A long, green gummy worm hanging out of her nose
Judi Opager
December 16, 2020
Auntie Stella sounds like a real stitch! A treasure. Funny, I read the word “dumpling” and heard no insult, I heard only “my love, my soft heart, my dear.” No offense to your sister, but ‘ballerina’ sounds exacting, like a great deal of work! Oh, how words matter – and oh how we carry our wounds! I love these two lines:
Wonderful!! The build-up to something heartfelt, and then a gummy worm! I love Aunt Stella—and I love this poem!!
Judi, I wish I could meet Aunt Stella. I think we’d be kindred spirits. I love these lines:
Everyone needs an Aunt Stella.
A resounding chord struck in my heart, too! The gummy worm was just the most perfect surprise at the end of a love-poem with a deep heart. I can so hear the words at the start, and the feeling of acceptance. There were so many moments of joy and surprise in this poem, and you made me really miss my aunt who shares many of these qualities, too. I like your title, too – she saw what you were inside and brought it out. Love it!
This one’s painful to write and rather raw. It’s beyond heartbreaking when mental illness takes over someone you love. It’s baffling, gut-wrenching, and a nightmare when it’s your child. Here’s a snapshot of before and at the onset of my son’s battle with bipolar disorder, drug addiction, and schizophrenia. I’m crying as I write. You may want to skip reading this.
Where Did You Go?
By Nancy White
Mischievous cutie.
Your blue eyes twinkle,
laugh lines crinkle
You crack me up.
So silly and smart.
Your Lego creations
strewn on the floor.
I open the door
And step on one barefoot.
You love spaghetti
and a can of Coke.
You think of a joke
to pull on your sister.
You giggle and laugh
‘cause everything’s funny.
You love to get money
for candy and toys.
One day, like that!
You shaved off your brows,
hair dyed black,
so out of whack
in a world of your own.
I opened your door
you’re holding a knife!
Nothing in life
Prepared me for cutting.
I wept and I wailed.
You ran around manic.
I, now in a panic,
Your eyes shining wild.
I never knew
these things in your mind
had begun to unwind.
Psychotic break
was all they said.
You showed us some powder
you’d ordered online.
Destroyed your mind.
Oh where did you go?
The boy who once was,
forever gone.
Nancy, I want to envelop you in a big hug! How beautiful that you trust this community, shared with this community (I realize, simultaneously, what a beautiful community!) I know of what you speak – my mother struggled in the same way. I believe your son is not forever gone – he is all things at once; he is very much
and you must treasure this idea of him, always, knowing it is he. I hope he is receptive to a doctor’s care, I hope he and you, your family, are healing.
Thank you, Maureen! I appreciate your empathy. I am sorry you had to experience a similar struggle with your mom. And I’m sorry to say our Philip was killed by a drunk driver six years ago. It felt good to write this poem as it helped me remember the good years we had with him.
Nancy—this poem is so painful. And, having dealt with situations like this with my children, my heart breaks with yours. And step on one barefoot.
You love spaghetti
and a can of Coke.
You think of a joke
The innocence, and the loss. So sorry. And I am there with you…
Thank you, Gayle. I’m sorry for all who go through this pain.
Nancy – a beautiful rendering of a difficult story, so much heart in it.
Thanks, Emily!
Oh, Nancy — Holy crap, this is just so cruel… to have lost that playful sweet child to “powder/you’d ordered online.” and a psychotic break. I am just hurting here for you and your son. When you wrote it was “raw,” I did not even begin to expect what unfolded with these powerful lines…so short and so perfect in bringing me into this brutal loss. Nancy, you must keep writing… your words are important. You’ve made real what seems unreal. I am so sorry. These words…these are words that need to be in print…I am so honored that you felt brave enough to share this tragedy here with us. My heart goes out to you as you remember the beauty of your son who has giggling and laughing inside him. Hugs, Susie
Nancy, thank you for sharing your personal pain through your poetry today. You poignantly and artfully share the devastating change your beloved son experienced. Your final line is so heart-breaking, and my heart breaks with you. Words really cannot always express the crushing pain of loss, but you’ve accomplished this so well in your poem. Wishing you peace and healing!
Thank you, Chris, for sharing your time and poetry prompt!
My Sonshine
On a warm magical day in May
Your cherubic baby face smiles
Beneath the wide blue sky
Crawling across the green grass
By the white barn
To touch the golden kitten
Barb Edler
December 16, 2020
I love the clear image you create here with just four colors.
I love this! I can identify with the son/sun crawling across the green grass.” Clever in that see the sunshine light doing the same as the child.
What a precious picture! I love the words ‘magical,’ ‘cherubic,’ and ‘golden’ – seems like a fairy tale moment!
What a sweet, sweet moment. I can see it all. I can feel the warmth in the air in the baby smiles and the speaker.
May I join you in this idyllic poem? Please? I relaxed and felt warm in your simple, beautiful words.
Blue, green, white, and golden. Such purity and innocence these colors convey. I love this poem in its joy and simplicity. Life at its best.
Barb, what a gorgeous scene. It is like William Carlos Williams! Beautiful and peaceful.
Check Yourself
T’was the week before Christmas
And all through the school
Teachers were frustrated
Students were fools
And at the Sands household
The dog joined in, too
Consuming Godivas…
And the box became…poo.
The class sat at attention
(Not really)…just sat there
I had just begun teaching
When a scent filled the air.
What IS that smell?
I asked them, accusing.
Who brought that in??
T’were many for choosing.
No one confessed
Though many were snickering
when the bell rang, they left
And my temper was quickening.
I knew it was one of them
Or the class that would follow
T’were a rotten egg group,
Virtue tough to swallow
The dung fragrance grew
As the class continued
I asked them again
Whose fault was this? Who?
Then suddenly, what to my wondering nose did appear
But the realization that the smell was actually quite near.
In fact, it moved with me.
And the truth became clear
I turned up my foot
And there on the bottom
Was the chocolate the dog ate
The source of the rotten…
The excrement melted
As the day moved along
Deliquescing Godiva turds’
Odor is STRONG.
It was at that moment
I had to confess
The boys were all innocent—
It was I who transgressed.
The shoes spent the day
outside in the snow
I taught in my Santa socks
Much to my woe.
The lesson I learned
On that day before Yule
Check yourself first
When you work in a school.
Oh, my, dear Gayle! “I taught in my Santa socks”– this is a classic poem with just the right amount of alliteration for laughing all the way — Sarah
Gayle, what a wonderfully humorous poem! I am still laughing. Such fun you bring to a moment that may have been a bit embarrassing.
This is so fabulously funny! Such great lyrical pacing! I love that you apologized to your students (so respectful!!), I love that you taught in your socks! I really loved this stanza:
and, perhaps, if magic works this way, I can visualize this and resist my chocolate cravings! Ha! Thank you, Gayle!
Gayle — This is absolutely hilarious! I love that you wrote it in the Night Before… fashion. But the story …the poo… OMG… I’m dyin’ here! The honest humanity of a teacher. Just gotta love that…poo on the shoe and all! Susie
Hahahahaha – YUP, that’s the week before winter break alright! Lucky that you had those Santa Socks on. Oh my goodness… Godiva turds. Still chuckling, and impressed with the rhyme scheme.
I am howling! What a great story, told with comic self-depreciation (Check yourself first
When you work in a school.) This was a delightful jaunt!
OK, Gayle, this one wins the prize for clever storytelling. And such a classic form, retold beautifully. It was so well done, I didn’t realize the second stanza would be with us throughout. Well done!
Sky Surprise
We stood at the window
our ears strained
to make sense
of the fiery sound.
What is that?
my whisper harsh
with fear.
You shake your head
and then smile.
It’s a balloon.
We rush outside
Feet bare
Teeth unbrushed
PJs mismatched
Hair snarled
And there,
in the field beside
our home,
the hot air balloon
sits trapped.
The ballooners
(Is that what you call them?)
Wave
Their voices drowned
By the fire.
Get the kids!
We rush to wake
their Saturday sleep.
Half a dozen
bare feet join us.
We stand
in the backyard
our eyes strained
to make sense
of the balloon
brushing our roof.
Are they going to land?
I shake my head
It’s a balloon.
Three smiles
light their faces
as red as the balloon.
Squeals fill our ears.
The ballooners
Wave us over.
Three little heads bop
up from inside the basket
as the pilots
skip the balloon
to the longest stretch of yard.
After the balloon deflates
and the magic is a memory
COVID cares
hold my breath
until time passes,
time filled with repeats
of the moment
of the story
of the magic.
Danielle!
The pace of this narrative unfolding with short lines, drawing my eyes down the screen as image of the balloon wishes to rise is so lovely, so full of just innocent joy. We need this. And I love the use parentheses woven in. This line makes me feel the presence of people together sharing this experience: “Half a dozen
bare feet join us.” Love it!
Sarah
What a wonderful narrative poem here. I love these lines–the pacing really shows the action and the sudden revelation of just what it is. Wow.
Danielle, what a marvelous poem. I love the detail to show how the action, the looks, the feelings! Your ending is absolutely riveting: “of the moment/ of the story’of the magic”! Beautiful!
Danielle, You have done the work of a poet: You paid attention to the experience and brought it to the page in vivid, stirring ways. I did NOT expect the COVID ending, but it worked brilliantly. Ah, let us keep finding moments, magic.
Nature had a party and invited all her friends.
Just look at the haze left behind.
It rises from the puddles of spilled drinks.
A cold confetti covers the carpet.
I don’t have the desire to clean it up.
I can’t help but admire this beautiful mess.
Katrina-Such a musical line here: “A cold confetti covers the carpet.” Love it! And the “beautiful mess.” Sarah
Katrina, your creative imagery and use of metaphor is priceless! I especially enjoyed, “A cold confetti covers the carpet”.
Wow–yes..the ultimate after–I love the stepping back and admiring the mess. What a better way to see it. Also–this is an amazing image
Haircut
Today’s the day
I stand before the mirror
and see my long hair
sweeping along my shoulders
I am tired of the tendrils
that brush my face and tickle my cheeks
Soon to be gone are the itches
Soon to be gone is the sweat
that collects under the the nape of my neck
I run the brush fifty times through the tangles
pulling and yanking
breaking hair that has twisted into knots
Dry curls woven like bird nests in a tree
I get the scissors
I can do this myself
Cut it off
no one will see
whether the look is good or bad
In time it will grow back
and be shown
only when I don’t have to social distance
and hide under a mask, glasses and a hat
I clip
shreds fall under my collar
can’t wait to get to the water
to rinse way growth of eight months
four inches off
to lighten my head
and shake free
I feel refreshed
Susan, maybe it’s because I have not cut my own hair since March!!! But this poem resonates–these simple actions we take for granted…this poem reaches right into that idea. I love the notion of bravery–choosing the truth of “doing it for one’s self. Also—I love how you rhyme Collar and water…just beautiful.
Way to go, Susan — Your poem is an inspiration! Whacking off 8 months (for me it’s 10 months) of hair is sooooo what I am ready to do. I even ordered a super scissors for the task. This part really spoke to me:
Ha! You hit the mark that a whole bunch of us are fussing with right now. Well done! Thanks, Susie
Susan, I’m so glad you wrote about hair. I’ve been growing mine out for the last year or so after wearing it really short for the last 8 years. I’m getting many compliments, but it’s still so strange to me, having to push it back when I eat, write, or talk. Hair is such an important part of our identity, isn’t it? I’m not brave enough to cut mine myself. Kudos to you for doing that!
What a treat to receive this prompt and inspiration from you, Chris! Thank you. I need to read your books. Your prompt gave me pause to remember some routines of the past.
Routines
Mom likes her routines
Saturday morning waffles
Farmer John bacon
and Minute-Maid Orange Juice.
Summer beach days
with tuna “sand”wiches, moist
Lays chips, grapes, cherries
and Cactus Coolers.
Thursdays and Fridays at Holiday Bowl
in her polyester bell-bottomed slacks, polo shirt,
ugly beige bowling shoes
and leather bag monogrammed “GLO.”
Halloween costumes and stinged masks in packages
Trick or Treat buckets waiting for filling
Bowls of Tootsie Rolls, dum dums, smarties
and pizza, hot dogs, and Squeezits for all.
Journey to the railroad tracks in chilly mid-December
looking for our flocked Douglas Fir
Full, tall, but able to survive the ride
on top of the car, all the way back home.
Christmas brunch invitations sent 12-20-19
Gifts for too many people stuffed under the tree
Champagne, mimosas, turkey, ham, fruit, casseroles
family, friends, and new acquaintances warm our house.
Mom liked her routines
But she was dying
At home with hospice care, Christmas 2010
Everyone came, ate, drank and expressed their final goodbyes.
3 days after…
grief
missing
loss
created new routines
© Stacey L. Joy
Stacey, The imagery in this poem rocked my soul. Christmas is always a time when the reality of loss is overwhelming. I love this poem.
Hi Stacey! this poem is powerful. I really appreciate how each stanza is filled with the routine, but also the concrete imagery of the food–the details explode in the best way–help me connect and relate. Also–these very specific images of time, place, clothing…
These specific images become such important universal connectors. I also can really feel the loss at the end–especially with the abrupt change of tone. It would be interesting–when the time is right–to write the “part 2” of this poem–with the new routines that honor and remember the old–and how they are transformed.
Thank you for this feedback, Chris. I will most definitely work on part 2, the winter break will allow me to snuggle into a warm writing routine! Blessings!
Stacey, your poem shows such love in the holiday details, which creates such a striking contrast to the change that takes place when your mother is dying. Your mother may have liked particular routines, but you also share a woman who sounds warm, generous, fun, and loving. I appreciate the strength you express in the final line: “created new routines”. I am deeply moved by your powerful, loving poem.
That first stanza…so happy, so fragrant. And then such loss. I am so sorry.
I feel that I know your mother through your loving words. And the love and loss in the ending is palpable. My heart is full…
Stacey — I love the love in your Mama poems. It is just like walking into your lives and having a bacon, waffle breakfast with you. My mama was on a bowling league as well… and that stanza just made me smile wide… the week my mama died, she had just bowled a 200 game. She LOVED that game and the camaraderie of her bowler girlfriends. That you still have these routines just keeps her right here in your heart. And your poem brings back my mama too. Thank you for that! Susie
Uggh, the typos and too late to edit.
*stringed masks
invitations sent *12-20-09
Back Before
My skin was darker then
Drenched in sunshine
Freckles like map dots
Traced by sun-kissed
My mom would call
“Supper time” from
Out the screen door
I threw down my huffy banana seat bike
Growling within
Twisted each knob
Suds and rinse
The table was clothed in
Red and white checks
Adorned in frankoma
Plates, bowls, and trays
Seeped, steeped, and smelled
Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans
steaming whirls of goodness await
We bowed down our heads and gave thanks for God’s grace
Passed every bowl
right to left
Scooped and piled
And just a tad more
Laughter expelled from bellies so full
Dad talked about horses, grandma, and school
Mom rushed to fill tea glasses and bring over the ketchup
Sister made fork tracks and a big gravy moat
My mind how it travels to decades before
Now stuck in digital landlocked state
Cell phones, fast food, and busy day schedules
Compressed and smushed together like
Sardines and peanut butter
My heart craves a time much simpler in nature
With God, my dad, mom and my sister
Around a table prepared by mom’s hands
Bowed down
Grateful
together
Robyn, your before picture is so rich in detail. I can completely relate to the “before” time you create in this lovely poem. I especially like your end, “Around a table prepared by mom’s hands
Bowed down
Grateful
together”
The love and imagery here is so incredibly powerful!
A beautiful remembrance of being called into a meal with the family passing their plates, filling their stomachs, laughing and enjoying. I had a sister that also made fork tracks to watch the gravy to float out of her pound of potatoes. Yes, I do long to be back around a table prepared by mom’s hands. Thank you for this!
Any time I see “Huffy” in a poem or story I cheer. What a great symbol–but what gets me most in this poem are all the details–because the groundwork is built so well for the ending.
When I first saw today’s prompt, I thought writing about COVID was almost taking the easy way out, but when I sat down to write, I realized I needed to talk about grief. I recently lost two cousins, siblings) to COVID. It felt horrible not to be able to honor such amazing people the way they should have been honored. That was on my mind today.
It was easier, before
To say goodbye
To gather with family,
To laugh, to cry
We’d tell the old stories
That’s make the kids cringe
And wonder who was the third cousin
Meandering around the room’s fringe
We could pray we could honor
We could celebrate, we could hug
We could gaze at pictures of a lifetime
Which at our heartstrings would tug
We consoled each other,
Said it would be alright
And just BE together,
Long day into long night
But now I walk quickly
To the coffin, offer a prayer
Briskly walk to the car
Sobbing alone, with no one to share
Mo, wow, I am in tears reading your poem. The rhyme scheme works so well in showing how we once could share in our grief, but now are forced to handle it alone. This kind of isolation is so difficult. I adored your lines: “We could pray we could honor
We could celebrate, we could hug
We could gaze at pictures of a lifetime
Which at our heartstrings would tug”
You express this so perfectly. I truly believe it is so important to have this time to share a life and to share our grief. Hugs to you, Mo, and I am so sorry for your incredible loss. Barb
Oh, Mo! My condolences! The “we could” holds a hope, a possibility that there’d be healing and yet to “walk quickly/ to the coffin” is a tragic ending. Sending (insufficient virtual) hugs.
Sarah
Mo, I give you my whole heart and soul in a hug right now! Losing our loved ones right now and being unable to have proper closure creates a different level of grief that is hard to process. I hope you feel comfort in the power of knowing your loved ones have eternal peace. That’s our saving grace.
I must confess. My friend from childhood lost her mom. They had to do a virtual memorial as well as private face-to-face for select family. I thought I would be able to join the zoom on a different device since I was in my own classroom’s zoom too. Sadly, I didn’t even remember to log in to the service. I thought about it that night in bed. How sad is that? I have no words for my state of mind.
Love and peace sent your way!
?
Mo—this is so true, and so painful. I attended a virtual funeral last week. What I would have given to share my emotions with others. “Sobbing, alone, with no one to share.” Sorrow unshared just weighs more, doesn’’t it?
Dang, Mo — I just ache for your loss of TWO loved cousins… so crummy this C-19 nightmare. It was perfect that you wrote this poem today. How loving and right. I hear the frustration and how mad you are that you had this loss without the chance to hold all those you love. My heart goes out to you. I’m so glad you wrote this. You made real how hard this is. Hugs to you, my friend. Susie
I’m so sorry, Mo. Your poem made me visualize the universality of of funerals (who’s that 3rd cousin on the fringe?!) but also feel the emptiness left by our inability to hold and uplift each other in these times of loss. Thank you for writing what you needed today. It’s what I needed to read.
Mo–so many prayers and virtual hugs–standing with you the best we can in this. This poem is a strong piece of your grief–thank you for sharing it….so perfectly and profoundly expressed.
All of Our Befores
We live
in the moment moments
(some brief,
some endless)
occurring before
every now.
Our lives
are spent
in the
brevities
and the
perpetuals
of anticipation.
We count the days,
we spend our minutes,
looking forward,
eyes wide
or squeezed tight,
really only living in
the spaces between.
Jennifer, those spaces between are so, so important! Thank you for reminding us of that today.
Jennifer, This poem brings to light the reality of our days here on this earth. I really enjoyed it.
oh do I love those last two words. Truth. Right there.
Jennifer, the seeing or not really holds onto me here in these lines:
And this space between — so vivid and important.
Sarah
Jennifer, again thank you for the prompts and inspiration this week. Definitely needed them!
Your poem is a necessary reminder for me. I’m not sure if someone told you I needed it, but it feels like you wrote it for me. I’ve been the countdown lady at my school for decades. Everyone looks to me to put the remaining days on our office board whenever we are in those weeks/days/minutes before a much needed break. I started to feel guilty that I was always looking ahead, like I wasn’t appreciating and embracing the NOW.
Since the pandemic, the NOW is best, it’s safe, it’s calming. The before and the after are almost too disturbing to ponder. So thank you! I will stop pushing my sights to what is to come and soak myself…
You are amazing!?
Jennifer— “the brevities/and the/perpetuals/of anticipation.” Those spaces in between are so critical, aren’t they. You share a truth I really haven’t thought about here. Wow.
Jennifer — Your careful word choices that have us thinking about time…the befores and the afters …the nows and the forwards… these are so provocative… you’ve slowed time to force our hand to examine how we experience moments. You did that in so few words…I’m very smitten by this. “Living in the spaces between”… existential stuff here! How will we use these “between spaces”? You are good, girl! Love it! Susie
Jennifer we truly do,
I really felt this–and the way the poem moves. Wow.
Chris, thank you for letting me spend time with this poem from All of Me again as it allows me to re-look. I especially love this stanza:
It captures both the ability to grow (flowerpot) and change (hatchet) while also showing us the beauty and the need to cut away at ourselves. I’m reminded of the photoshopping and editing done with our own selfies and also celebrity images. We view ourselves through either a harsh eye or a forgiving, loving one.
I love your thought here…especially how we view ourselves. I am reminded of this last semester with my students–all of us staring at ourselves via zoom way too much.
Chris, Thank you for hosting today and sharing your poem and process. Your line: “What if all this matters less than I think it does?” is such a relevant question for this age group, teenagers and their overthinking…okay maybe this is a key question for any age. I look forward to reading your new book.
sunscreen in January
California babies
malleable bare feet, growing
stronger with concrete
DNA of PCH and In-n-Out
generational sun exposure
dreamin’ of wave jumping
traffic jams and winter heatwaves
layered goose down in January
now mid-western children
malleable to bi-polar temps
barefoot in thirty degrees
beaches without salt or sharks
dreamin’ of ice skating,
fishing in the backyard, home
Oh, Stefani, I love this contrast of place in these two stanzas with the echo of feet anchor beings in the spaces and this bi-polar shift that still holds home! Lovely.
Sarah
Stefani, I love ”DNA of PCH and In-n-Out.” It made me think of my DNA of 294 and Willie’s Weenie Wagon. The bi-polar temps made me smile. Great contrast and imagery!
[I wasn’t sure where this was going to take me, but I trusted it needed to go where it needed to go. Chris, so appreciate this invitation to think about the befores in our life. There are so many joys to revisit, but a particular before seemed to be asking for a poem today. Thank you for bearing witness to my before. And apologies if the grief here is not what some of you need today — feel free to scroll by!]
After bus duty, I race back to H103
to grab my keys and, oh, print my pages
for class. I know, I know, the school copier
is not for personal use, but what’s not
personal about spending nights and weekends
on becoming, well, just becoming? Still.
I feel guilty and print 2X2, front&back,
shaking the ink cartridge in between chapters.
After the page print, I check my email
one more time: a message from my professor
asking me to pick up his son on the way
to class. It’s on the way, isn’t it? A big favor.
No car. I know, I know, strange request, but
sometimes professors are like big brothers
after so many years, and it is on the way
from the burbs to the city, and class is at
the prof’s house, a la Jane Addams —
soup & bread, with sides of activism and dissertating.
After the email, I quickstep to the loo-
though I don’t call it that — it is a faculty
bathroom with a handmade gender neutral
sign and a lock. Privacy to do your business or
cry until someone knocks and I have to
say “occupied.” I pee- finally–brush my hair, wipe
smudged mascara from my cheek– it
really should be closer to my eyes-
notice the dried-pus pimple I picked
eight hours prior on my chin. Attempt to
cover it with decade old concealer I keep in my
bag to offer students who want to
cover a hickey though many like the badge. Attempt to
look fresh with Burt Bees lip gloss– sticky. Attempt to
smell fresh with travel-sized deodorant from my
caboodle of pencils, highlighters, sticky notes
and now wrinkling chapters because
I forgot to put the pages in a folder.
After the loo — liking that word now-
I turn on my phone.
.
.
.
.
.
Voicemails. S. from my sisters
who know texting is my preferred
mode, so I know something has
happened, and I know the something
is serious when the oldest’s voice,
which I realize I’ve never heard
in voicemail, tells me that he is
dead.
.
.
.
.
.
After the voicemail, I drive to
the place to pick up a son
to bring to his father
to sit at a table with soup
to read my crumpled pages
to Janes knowing in a few
hours, there will be
After.
Oh Sarah, the build-up of the before is so clear plus your spacing and change of tone make this such an emotional poem. Thank you for sharing this. I also like your use of the word, “dissertating”–it is definitely an underused word.
Sarah! I had to sit with this for awhile before being ready to type. It’s one of those moments that I tell my students they will experience – the ones where you’ll always remember exactly what you were doing when the space shuttle exploded, the Twin Towers fell, the family member died… That contrast of everyday life and your news, and then the return to everyday life (but now you’re changed) is heart-wrenching here. Thank you for sharing this moment with us today. Hugs.
Sarah – This piece reminds me of how quickly life can change – with one phone call – even when threaded across five voicemails. And yet life goes on, which seems impossible. Yet it does.
Sarah, I appreciate the narrative and inner monologue you share. It completely pulled me into this moment in your life. I also appreciated the detail about how something serious was being communicated. Some news, I believe, should not be shared through a text or email. I am caught up in how we tend to keep moving forward with expectations and life’s demands when we often just want to melt into a puddle and never move again. Your ending is knock your socks off powerful. Thanks for sharing this completely moving poem. Hugs and peace to you! Barb
I was there…all the way. Please tell us what comes after.
It is extraordinary to me how so many small details become frozen in time, crystal-clear, seared in our memories forever, when these moments are combined with grief. You have provided a beautiful and poignant poem. I think it is so dear that these sad voicemails are followed by
It is a beautiful image.
Lastly, thank you, Sarah, for making these five fabulous days of poetry happen!!
Sarah, not only have you ended the week with a power punch to my gut, but you have made this week one I really needed. Thank you for allowing Jennifer and Glenda to teach us and for introducing me to Chris, clearly someone who’s worthy of knowing, reading, and following.
Your poem took me in from the gate. After the painful turn and ending, I went back to re-read the tiny details in “dried pus pimple” “decade old concealer” “Burt’s Bees” and “travel-size deodorant” realizing these are the events we normally forget but on a day like yours, they’re remembered forever. Such a hard experience so many of us have lived through.
Thank you, Sarah, for sharing this powerful poem. Hugs ?
Stacey
You move from the mundane before to the sorrow-filled after, your words more powerful for their simplicity.
Sarah, I’ve read this several times–grappling with the nuance and the power of it. Thank you for sharing and writing it…I think we live our lives this way–knowing there is an after–sometimes is the only way we make it through. From just a writing perspective–if it’s alright–what really makes this poem so strong is the way the truths emerge out of the very concrete details…items…moments. Thank you for this poem.
OMG, Sarah — The sequence of this…the timing… jeez… This is really incredibly vivid and real and awful. You so effectively mapped this… I feel like I’m in a video that starts on double time, shifts to “loo” time, and vaults abruptly into slo-mo and hits a wall. How humans stun themselves with the capacity to stop time just enough to grind through a horrible jolt is amazing…you have captured that with this piece. The details that we take the time to see and be amused with at the start just magnifies that awful “After.” Whew! This is a really kicker! Well done! Thank you for sharing such an honest, difficult moment. Susie
There is something about bad news that makes the moments before stay in our memory. The all-knowing-what-were-you-doing-when-you-heard-Kennedy-was-shot moment. I am right there with you putting on the sticky lipgloss anticipating a night with colleagues and a professor. That connection at the end of the son to the father is gripping.
Sarah,
What strikes me most is there’s so much before leading up to the after. And my sense, although you don’t say it, is there’s a hollowness in the after. Perhaps this is because the before is so frenetic, so animated, but the after is lifeless, mechanical. Maybe this is me reading my own personal stuff into your poem; maybe it’s from reading “Obit.” Anyway, I like this poem and the infilled white space on the page w/ the string of dots seemingly representing all the missing, unimportant ephemera of life. Thank you.
—Glenda
So. Powerful. (That’s it, that’s the comment. I have no other words. This is just so good! Thank you for writing and sharing this.)
I have asked students to notice how writers manipulate time: speeding it up or slowing it to a crawl. As I entered the loo with you (ah! let’s explore how the term offers you distance from the reality!), spent real time at the mirror with you, I felt you slowing the moment as if to savor it…you were holding it a little bit longer in effort to forestall the…after.
This was a beautiful rendering of personal (thereby universal) loss. Thank you, Sarah. xo
Oh, Sarah, what a heart-wrenching story. You have told it clearly, and it pains me to read it. We sometimes do things like that. Live in the between before and after until we are able to come to grips with the after. It must have been an awful evening. And after. Peace and grace. Thank you for sharing. I’m glad you wrote it.
To
Robyn
Shaun
Emily Cohn
and to others who wrote w/ me Monday and Tuesday: Thank you. I know this week leading up to winter break is tough, yet you shared your art anyway. I appreciate you. I’ve read and commented on every poet’s verse and hope I honored each poem, but I missed Robyn’s, Shaun’s, and Emily’s until this morning. My deepest apologies for my lack of attentiveness.
Happy holidays to you all. May the peace and love that passes all understanding accompany you as we say goodbye to 2020 and greet a new year with hope for better days.
—Glenda
Oh, Glenda! I am in awe of your generosity of time and compassion these past two days. You sure stretched my poem-ing and way of being, and I know it is because you trusted that I/we had it in us. Such a good teacher to offer a space for us to move through discomfort toward creating, healing, discovering.
Sarah
Glenda, thank you for such a lovely note. You are clearly a marvelous and generous person and poet. Wishing you a much better and more peaceful year in 2021. Barb
Glenda– It is always fun to have you in my writerly life! Love and hugs and HAPPY NEW YEAR! You…we all deserve a NEW year! Susie
Glenda, Thank You for your prompts, for your exemplary mentor texts, and always for your kind and insightful comments! Happy holidays to you, too!
That was a lovely gesture, Glenda. Thank you so much. You have modeled responsive teaching and feedback to push us on to greater success! 🙂
Chris, your poem captures so much emotion and imagery. Thanks for this exercise. I was privileged to be present with my daughter a few weeks ago as she gave birth to my first granddaughter. Before labor was too hard, she sat on a bouncy ball and smiled for a snapshot. I tried to capture that before moment.
Before painful contractions
take her inside herself,
she smiles for the snapshot
before.
Before epidural lowers blood pressure
too far below normal & the team rushes in,
she beams on the ball
with labor glow.
Before pushing new life from her womb,
before cord-cut and baby cries,
she’s my pregnant daughter,
patiently waiting
for after.
Margaret, your new granddaughter is precious – I enjoy seeing your posts of pictures. This is a wonderful tribute to those special moments of joy before the pain of childbirth!
Margaret. what a lovely and loving poem! The second stanza has me worried things may not turn out well. Your end is terrific! Your poem shares so much grace and beauty! You’ve definitely captured an amazing moment!
Those smiles and love … captured perfectly in the time just before the wonder …
Oh, goodness–what beautiful moments captured. The scariness of the team rushing in. The image of your daughter before she is a mother. How beautiful a contrast to write about.
Oh, Margaret,
I so needed this poem after writing my own. The birth. The new beginning. The after that will fill your lives! Love the pronoun here “my” — and am imagining your daughter now able to use this pronoun with her child.
Sarah
Margaret, thank you for giving us this snapshot of such a significant moment, a forever changing one. I love that final stanza, the my daughter in the before and after, the patient waiting.
Margaret, how special to capture this moment of an “ultimate before moment” and I love the refrain of “before” as a way to start each stanza…
is my favorite
Good Morning Friends, first an apology…yesterday was one of those days I did not return to comment on poems as I should have. I will go back today and comment on at least three. Some days are just like that!
Welcome Chris Baron! It’s lovely that you are here with such a provocative prompt. I was perusing photos and wondering what on earth I could write about. Then, I went to my journal page, typed the date…and that was the poem title. I love it when a poem is waiting for me. Such good friends, these drafts.
Eight Days before Christmas
Eight days before Christmas
I wonder if we can make it.
Thirteen hours driving
stopping only for gas.
I must trust your
goings out and–
your comings in.
That you have masked
washed hands
not suffered contamination
as you must trust me.
In between lies worry
and warning upon warning
not to drive
all those hours
for Christmas this first year
in Forty-three without
your husband
our father, grandfather
friend
I wonder if we can make it.
Linda, I so feel your disappointment in the robbery of Covid. It hinders our togetherness and has been responsible for far too many heartaches.
Gosh … that last line …
Linda, wow, your ending lines have me reeling! To see two of my sons requires 13 hours of driving. In itself that drive is exhausting; now with Covid even more treacherous. You’ve capture all of that so well! The final question/thought separated from the rest at the end adds a wonderful and powerful punch!
Linda, my parents did a Drive By Gifting yesterday, a ten hour round trip delivery to 4 houses and 1 grave. We spent five brief minutes exchanging gifts at the door. I handed them a packed lunch to keep them safer. No hugs, no normalcy. It was harder than had we just done a zoom. I, too, wonder if we can make it. Thank you for sharing this Eight Days before Christmas today and paying witness to this year unlike any other.
Hi Linda!! I am so happy to be here….what a powerful poem–
So true–so much trust–so much faith
Hang in there, Linda — We’re all battling here right by your side. 2020 SUCKS and we will find a better year ahead. We will. Together, we will. Hugs, Susie
“We must trust” is so poignant. First Christmas without your father-in-law will be tough.
A heartfelt thanks to Jennifer, Glenda, and Chris for all of the inspiration over these days of gathering as a family of writers to build each other up and encourage one another – what a place of beauty this is when the rest of the world is not. Chris’s verse is rich in imagery and in emotion. I kind of want to reach in and slap Lisa and Pick for poking fun and being cruel. The rude flurry of seagulls is just perfect to convey the feelings here.
My mother left us in December 29, 2015, and today my verse is about her.
before and now
before
we silently sucked our teeth
when she
told us to buckle up
we secretly rolled our eyes
when she
told us to lock our doors
we soundlessly steamed at the ears
when she
told us to slow down
(“they sit right up here, you know”)
and covertly clenched our fists
when she
told us to turn it down
now
we hear her voice
echoing through the years
transcending dimensions
and through our blurry tears
we buckle up
we lock up
we slow it down
we turn it down
and wish
she were here
to right our world again
Oh, those words and that loss and those memories. I feel them at least as much as I read them. Mother’s nagging…some strange sort of love that we can only identify as love later when it’s gone. I miss my Mom too. Even though I was an eldest daughter that locked horns with my young mother, I miss her. I miss how much love there was in her trying. Your poem brings it all back.
I’m hearing the “we buckle up” in my mind now as I write …
Wow, Kim, this poem is so full of emotion. Tears. I love how you show the aggravation from hearing your mother’s words of caution, and then set all of the caution to action in the second to the last stanza. The parallelism works so well, adding both power and emotion to the poem. Your final lines are truly beautiful!
Oh, Kim. I am wondering about how it felt to write the line “blurry tears.” I was moved to tears this morning as I wrote, I it struck me how the writing here stirs us. I am struck by your wish: “she were here” and then thinking about how she lives on in this verse that allows us to bear witness and honor her and you. Maybe you can turn it up today so that you can then, turn it down.
Hugs,
Sarah
Kim,
Your last line draws in so much essence of parenting, “right our world”–how often this goal is unacknowledged by children until they/we are older in life. Thank you for sharing this poem with us today.
Kim, I echo so many thoughts already offered…this poem breathes empathy… for me–I just find your language so lovely—the subtle rhyme, the sounds of words–leads us right into the truth at the end.
When I read your final line tonight (“to right our world again”), I was reminded of why I read poetry: for the frisson. Thank you for lifting up your loss in this beautiful way.
Before the first letter I typed before this one
and then the one before that one, too,
and then another, typed chiseled scratched,
as well,
Before this invisible shape of poem of
gathering of lost and loose thoughts
tangled themselves together, like magnets
on the hill
Before even wonder, the string
of the balloon I’ve been holding appears,
and the poem appears, and remains,
motionless and still
Before there’s any indication what shape
my words might take in the moments
of just starting to write something,
I think I will
Love your repetition of “before.” I might steal that. And the image of the string of the balloon before release. Did this poem just come out in form or did you mold it?
The balloon arrived unexpectedly and unbidden, just there in my fingers on the keyboard. I did little molding (although just now I swapped the last two verses, swapping their positions). This is how my morning of writing often goes … before getting ready to teach kicks in ..
Repetition works so well here. The layers that go into writing drafts so beautifully described. Lovely.
Kevin, you always capture those feelings we so strongly identify with – the lost and loose thoughts resonate with me today – I seem to have strings of verse hanging hither and yon and seek to bring them together also!
Kevin,
I love the chaos of this poem, the anticipation of getting to it…and you did. I appreciate the imagery of the tangled thoughts and magnets. Thank you for sharing today.
Kevin…I honestly love poems about process.
I can imagine more lines like this–and what I think is so great about these kinds of lines is that they are so telling about pain and process. This could even be explored so much more!