All are welcome to participate in the 5-day Open Write — from one day to all days, depending on your schedule. There are no set rules for the length of a poem, and you are free to modify or reject the prompts as you wish, allowing you to write whatever is on your mind or in your heart. We firmly believe that the best writing instructors are actual writers, and this platform offers a supportive environment for you to nurture your writing journey. Just scroll down to share your poem in the comment section. For more information about the Open Writes click here.
Our Host
Fran Haley is a literacy educator with a lifelong passion for reading, writing, and dogs. She lives in the countryside near Raleigh, North Carolina, where she savors the rustic scenery and timeless spirit of place. She’s a pastor’s wife, mom of two grown sons, and the proud Franna of two granddaughters: Scout, age seven, and Micah, age two. Fran never tires of watching birds and secretly longs to converse with them (what ancient wisdom these creatures possess!). When she’s not working, serving beside her husband, being hands-on Franna, birding, or coddling one utterly spoiled dachshund, she enjoys blogging at Lit Bits and Pieces: Snippets of Learning and Life.
Inspiration
As Kim Johnson mentioned in yesterday’s Open Write: Come April, she and I will be honoring National Poetry Month by facilitating discussion of The Hurting Kind, the most recent book by current U.S. Poet Laureate Ada Limón (you can join us via Sarah Donovan’s new Healing Kind book club).
Let me linger a moment on the word healing. How often, how long, have we cried out for healing as individuals, families, communities, nations, humankind? When a group of students asked me what superpower I’d want most, that’s what I said. Healing. Oh, to lessen suffering, restore wholeness, impart peace…
In contemplating the despair and destruction of our times—of our human history, honestly—I cannot help picking up the inextricable thread of belonging. Think on this: How much pain stems from the need to belong? To know, to have, a safe place of being?
In a May 2022 interview with Angela María Spring of Electric Lit, Limón speaks of inspiration for The Hurting Kind: “We are all part of a community, we’re all connected. And sometimes we work so hard at trying to fit in somewhere to find our community, to figure out what it is that makes us connected…you’re already connected. You already have all that you need. And it’s in everything that’s come before you and it’s in everything that’s going to come after.”
That is the spirit of today’s poetry writing.
Process
Read Limón’s poem, “Ancestors”. Note that her images and metaphors are drawn from nature. She writes, exquisitely, of being from rocks, trees, and the “lacing patterns of leaves,” concluding with “I do not know where else I belong.” There are telling lines about roots and survival.
Considering the whole of your life: Which places impart the greatest sense of belonging to you? Why? Concentrate on details and possible symbolism of these settings. What’s the story? Which people are connected to these places? They’re often, but not always, family.
Try writing free verse or a prose poem incorporating these meaningful images, perhaps borrowing the phrases I’ve come here from and/or I do not know where else I belong.
Fran’s Poem
Origins
(after Ada Limón’s “Ancestors”)
I come here by way of the king’s river
a moody expanse, as vast as the sea
gray-green depths
with bell-topped red buoys
bobbing, bobbing
Right, red, returning
—a rite of passage
I’ve come here from bridges
yes, most of all from bridges
traversed by my predecessors
seeking livelihood
—did they ever encounter
bridges in their dreams
the way I have?
Distorted structures of dizzying heights
spanning waters at dead of night
absurd angles
impossible to navigate
I never think I can
but I always
find my way.
Like a pigeon, released
driven by some coding
deep in my DNA
I’ve forsaken the riverside
the mammoth steel cranes
the sound of buzz saws, rivet-guns,
metal striking metal
—over time, making a man
lose his hearing
to return, to roost
here in the dawn lands
where abandoned gray houses
and weathered-wood barns
sink decade by decade
into the earth
—for it always
takes back its own
where white-spotted fawns
guarded by their mothers
step like totems from sun-dappled woods
swelling with cicada chorus
—little living buzz saws
echoing, echoing in my blood
the generational song
—I don’t know
where else I belong.
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.
Belonging
I come from green hills of needle grass
When sat in, covers and hides.
And in summer becomes a thousand matches
Begging not to be lit.
I come from oak trees hanging with moss
Beside the singing birds and creek.
If you aren’t careful in the spring, the leaves will cover you in poison.
I come from the fields of wild turkeys
Of red-tailed hawks soaring
Turkey vultures, their bald heads
Circling and circling
Until they plunge and feast.
I come from the sea beyond the hill
Sparkling and green
Sailing on boats
Swimming
When the swell is high, it covers over
And throws deep into its rage
Until it spits back out.
Grateful to be alive
Despite the pain.
If you go back further, I come from the plains
Pioneers pushing and pulling
To freedom
I come from the fires of faith
Flaming
Across frozen land
Feet to the earth
Wrapped in rags.
Further still, I come from the white peaks of Alps
Where France and Italy and Switzerland meet
A little town where Napoleon nabbed the young ones
And put them out front.
I know where I belong
Because of where I come from.
I belong in the sea, the hills.
I belong on the plains, treading
An uphill trail.
I belong high in the Alps.
I belong to the sky.
I belong beyond it even.
I belong with all who went before.
Emily, I am awed by your lovely poem and the way you embrace your connections with nature: the needle grass (no matches, please!), the trees that drop poison, the sea, the plains, the Alps, and all those birds! Every line took my breath a little more than the one before, all the way to the ending summit:
I belong to the sky.
I belong beyond it even.
I belong with all who went before.
-this is incredibly moving and so, so beautiful. Reading it is a gift – thank you.
I started out writing yesterday but was interrupted. I came back today with a clouded mind, but I think I got it together. This is more of a “free write how I feel” poem.
Once again I’m fascinated by the alliteration: “bobbing, bobbing
Right, red, returning”. I’ve never been “one with nature” but the vivid imagery shared in both poems makes me want to take it out on a date and get to know it better.
Thank you for sharing! Here’s mine.
Back to the Beginning
I’ve come from a peaceful place,
where silence is golden,
dripping like sweet, glistening honey.
Now surrounded;
Winds whisper secrets of past hurts.
Shhhh….the present hasn’t realized
what the future will reveal.
Vulnerability hides out in the open,
camouflaged by empty promises
and half-truths.
Putting my ear to the ground,
vibrations of war cries and silent tears,
whirling dust clouds enveloping the sky.
Back to that peaceful place-running.
And then the still-
Returning for what comes next.
I do not know where else I belong.
Jessica, what a gorgeous offering – I am so glad you came back to finish and share this poem. These lines really grab hold of me: “The present hasn’t realized/what the future will reveal.” Profoundly true. As is that image of vulnerability hiding in the open, behind empty promises and half-truths – wow, is that ever well-said! The longing for peace – and finding it as a place – pulls so powerfully throughout. I needed this poem, just now. Thank you for it and for your wonderful words in response to my poem. You cracked me up with that comment about imagery making you want to take nature out on a date and get to know it better – love that!
Fran, this poem really made me think about my ancestors and what they would think today, and what I think today about home, belonging, and peace. I hope I made my meaning clear but it makes me nervous to be misinterpreted and also emotional. Thanks for making me go there. I thought your poem had lyrical imagery that went from giant bridges, all the way down to deer and insects. I loved how it ended in nature and the sounds that make you know you are home. So beautiful, and thank you.
Wandering Seeds
I’ve come from wind-scattered seeds, rooted in cold earth, then growing into beets, potatoes, cabbages.
Half my ancestors made lives
from these muddy crops on the border
of outcast and chosen.
The other half went West,
enlightened, lightened the outer
parts that showed we did not
belong. Our music sounded like church,
our hair and clothes looked like everyone else, but
still at the core our otherness
was hard-baked.
and then and then and then
no, they weren’t in Europe
then
I wouldn’t be here.
I remember the icy pit in my stomach when I learned
the other side of this story that chose me, and I remember
when I read the story of a survivor
who would burn herself with an iron to relieve her
pain- when I saw how our traumatized
people traumatize people.
And here we are in a bloody war and I shiver
every time I fill a bath with water
others do not get because of us, (andthemandusandthemandusaand)
I truly cannot fathom how we became
so wrong
or where we
belong.
Wow! Emily, what a striking, powerful poem. From the opening lines, you pulled me completely into your compelling poem. The hard baked imagery and running a bath echo a strong emotional pull. I feel the horror and pain. Kudos!
Emily, I feel almost wordless in the wake of this stunning poem that’s poured out from a deep, deep place. I will do my best to capture how it stirs my soul. First there’s the way the words flow – I have never heard your voice, but I hear a spoken cadence when I read (and reread) your verse.”On the border of outcast and chosen” – I cannot help thinking Ishmael/Isaac, a thought which comes back again in the last stanza about the war. I am struck by “enlightened, lightened the outer parts that showed we did not belong” and mourn that so many people across the ages have had to do this, assimilate to survive. I am horrified by the need to burn oneself to relieve pain, unable to imagine pain so severe that relief is sought through such severe means. I feel the heartbreak, the grief, yet I see a shining thread, paradoxically, in the jumbled “andthemandusandusandthemandusaand”… for, on the large scale, just as humanity has the capacity to destroy itself, it has equal capacity to heal and overcome. We need one another so. We are at our best when we remember it. All this, your poem evokes in me. It is incredibly powerful. I am grateful you wrote it, even more so that you shared it, for it needs to be shared. I believe, in our heart of hearts, we all crave peace…within ourselves as well as with one another. And that is the order in which peace comes. Thank you for every word, including the lovely response to my poem. I cannot tell you how glad I am that I came back here this morning to read this.
Emily, I’m speechless at the power of your poem! You take us to a
place that makes this even more real.
You open our eyes in a new way, now more real, and the line
andthemandusandthemandusaand
is particularly stirring, invading the space and blurring the lines – it reminds me that there is no preferred human race or beings – we are all one. And that last stanza just brings it all to the light. Thank you for sharing this and for going there today. The world needs to read your poem.
Ode to Bee
You belong, little bee.
Each drop of nectar,
beat of wing,
smaller than the smallest
of your five impressive eyes,
contributes to this mortal plane
we both call home.
Bee, long overlooked
companion,
we belong.
Allison, I love this little ode to the is hardworking, often maligned creature. I love its “impressive eyes” and your recognition of its importance in the ecosystem- whose root word means home, right? What a cool little science wordplay coincidence, and a lovely appreciation!
Allison, I adore your poem. The last stanza has such a strong emotional pull. Love the power of “we belong”. Yes!
So sweet, Allison! For we are connected to nature in myriad, mind-blowing ways. “Five impressive eyes” – a marvel; “long overlooked companion” – let us be thankful for the way these creatures sustain our world.
Hi, Fran! Today was busy, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to post. I like the inspiration for today’s poem, Ada Limon’s mentor poem, and your incredibly beautiful poem, where I will hold onto these lines:
“to return, to roost
here in the dawn lands
where abandoned gray houses
and weathered-wood barns
sink decade by decade
into the earth”
It’s not the first time I write about belonging and ancestral roots, and every time it is different. This is what I have today:
Belonging
I’ve come here from a rich tapestry
of origin myths of ancient Greece,
Roman Empire, of folk tales in
The Thousand and One Nights,
from the Ukrainian Kobzar
and Crimean Tatar dances—
not to challenge my DNA analysis.
I’ve come from the generous grape vines
in my dad’s sacred sanctuary,
from mom’s songs and stories of
Nasriddin Afandi, of my siblings’
unintended lessons—who couldn’t
be successful after hearing how to read
the same first-grade book
for seven years in a row?
I’ve come from my daughters’
first school recitals,
my grandchildren’s
Spelling Bee awards,
my husband’s loving care.
my flower garden,
book shelves full of wonders,
or Airbnb vacation rental
where I meet good friends.
I belong to any place
where my soul feels home.
Leilya,
I love the clarity and truth of your last two lines. It gives me a sense of hope, and the poem itself captures so many forms of nurturing. I used to feel this soul comfort in the cadence of my grandparents’ clock in the guest room in Indianapolis. Do you have this in a winter theme as well?
Like Rex, I found your last two lines to sum up your beautiful list so perfectly. I love the range from the ancient to the immediate. You took us through time and continents and came to rest on a beautiful thought.
Leilya, your ending line is like a gong being struck. Powerful poem!
Leilya, I love following the gorgeous, intertwining threads of your ancestry. A rich tapestry, indeed! You had me chuckling at “not to challenge my DNA analysis” and later with “who couldn’t be successful after reading the same first-grade boof for seven years in a row?” It reads, through and through, like a celebratin of family and story. Favorite line:”My dad’s sacred sanctuary.” We all need a place of “sanctuary.” I see it reflected again in your last line, about belonging “to any place my soul calls home.” I agree, wholeheartedly – thank you for this beautiful poem and also for your comments regarding mine.
Leilya, your poem takes me on a journey of You. I feel like I’ve been given a glimpse of a life lived to the full. But you last lines “I belong to any place
where my soul feels home” brings everything into perspective. Thank you for sharing.
The Poetry in Pickleball
I long to belong
Seeking new identity after leaving the classroom
Finding it unexpectedly
On the pickleball court
Where I seek solace from
Life’s obligations and uncertainties
Strangers becoming friends
As the back and forth of the ball
Like words in a poem
Bring you in
Make the bad things good
And the good things great
Don’t be so hard on yourself
They tell me
Whether you hit the mark or not
We’re just here to have fun
Sometimes there is music
I dance to the beat
Find my rhythm
With no need to rhyme
As the ball
Like life
Bounces where it will
Drawing me in
Closer to where I belong
Heidi, finding poetry in pickleball sounds amazing. It is nice to be able to “seek solace from / Life’s obligations and uncertainties.” I like the final stanza that leads me to think you reach the point where you trust that life will draw you “Closer to where [you] belong.”
Thank you for sharing!
I love when people can make me actually want to play a sport through their writing! The heart became lighter and lighter throughout, with the gentle encouragement from the community and the sense of play we’re conveyed in a lovely
little rhythm. It’s nice to do something where the stakes aren’t as high as they are at school, for sure. Play on, Heidi!
Heidi, the beats in your poem are like a ball being bounced on the court. I love “I long to belong,” looking for a new identity after leaving the teaching profession. Physical movement stimulates thought and new ideas – no wonder there is solace in pickleball! Life does bounce where it will, often bringing us unexpected gifts – like this pickleball poem. 🙂
Heidi, I don’t know much about Pickleball, but it sounds like another game of “love and community” Your last two stanzas round out the joy of belonging. Thank you for sharing.
The Couch
by Mo Daley 11/19/23
Right now, I can only think of this couch,
A sectional, really,
That has been beckoning me for hours
Hoping to comfort me after so long on the road
It’s hard to separate the shades of blue that are the sandwich of the couch, my pjs, and the blanket
How many minutes before the book falls from my grasp
And I welcome rest?
Oh, Mo! “The shades of blue that are the sandwich of the couch, my pjs, and the blanket…” I feel the blurry exhaustion! In fact, I think I belong in my own pjs on my own couch right about now… hope you get your rest and don’t forget to mark your page. 🙂
Mo, I feel this! Placing the unseparated shades of blue from three different sources emphasizes the pile that I can see of it all (and how comfortable that sounds!). i’m glad you have gained the couch! Rest, my friend!
Mo— this is a wonderful poem of exhaustion. But I have to admit that the first time I read it, I wondered what kind of sandwich you were eating that was blue!!!🫣 (which is why we read things twice…)
Mo, you deserve to be the sandwich, the couch, the pjs and the blanket after all you’ve done while away for NCTE. I hope you can rest and take it slow. Love this!
Mo, I’d say, let the book fall and enjoy some rest in the comfort of that couch and PJs. I will be on the road tomorrow, probably thinking about the same. Hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving!
Ahhhh so cozy and blue and zzzzzz. Sorry! Yes, I love that this is where you feel you belong today. Enjoy- I enjoyed your offering today!
The release of the book from your grasp is the most perfect illustration of succumbing to the power of sleep. Ahhhh!
Now this I can feel. Thank you Mo! The appreciation shown to your couch-if we really think about it, it knows our ins and outs, and supports our laundry, telling a story. My favorite line: “It’s hard to separate the shades of blue that are the sandwich of the couch, my pjs, and the blanket” makes me hopeful of tasting this nice long break. Thank you for sharing.
Where I belong
Where I belong isn’t land,
I have no memories of there.
Where I belong isn’t a town,
I am not loyal to one.
Where I belong isn’t even a family,
I do not stay with just one.
Where I belong is simple,
It’s with the people I forge memories with, have loyal one-of-a-kind bonds with, and stay with.
Where I belong is the land those people are on.
Where I belong is the town those people are in.
Where I belong is the family those people are to me.
Andrew, the “isn’t” framing of the first part of the poem was unexpected and worked so well. The first three stanzas were comforting for me as they followed the call-response pattern or rhythm that took care of my reader heart. The shift toward people was lovely, welcoming another rhythm and echoing the first part. That echo is just the sort of poetic thinking and being that make me love autobiographical poetry. Andrew belongs to and with “people.” Yes! Thank you.
Sarah
Andrew, those one-of-a-kind bonds are everything. We belong where we matter…and with those who matter most to us. I note the repetition of the words memories, loyal, and stay. All so intrinsic to belonging. How effortlessly you bring this to the forefront, speaking of your people. I am especially struck by “forging memories” – such a powerful, decisive action. Thank you for this-
Andrew, I love your set up in this poem. The isn’t a of the first three stanzas make the ises of the last two even more important. I love your message in this poem.
Andrew, just like Sarah, commented earlier, I like how you begin with the places that are not where you belong. I agree that people who make you feel included are of most importance. I think I attempted to go in the same direction with my poem today, but in different words. Thank you for sharing. I absolutely love the final three lines!
seek tender refuge
I’ve come here
from the outside
looking in
tiptoeing around
their distant eyes
tentative hold
heavy silence
I still feel
in my bones
cold rooms
in time
I threw open the doors
into more other all
and began to breathe
mother nature teaching me
to
live and love openly
observe with wonder
know there is light
I’ve dared to
bring the outside in
Maureen,
I was captivated by the pronoun “their,” which is at once specific and collective. The I here in relationship with the their. “Distant eyes” could mean so many things, and you trust the reader to see the bearer they need in that line. And then eyes come up again with “observe with wonder” — an invitation to come close, but to do so with intention and care. Bringing the distant near.
Love this,
Sarah
Nature IS a master teacher, Maureen. Love the lessons on living and loving openly, observing with wonder, and knowing there is light – and that you dare to bring the outside in. We need the solace and restorative power of nature.
Maureen—this is so beautiful—
in time
I threw open the doors
into more other all
and began to breathe
I love poems that are tactile and make me shiver, touch and breathe. This poem had be right at the start with tiptoeing, then the distant eyes (a bit spooky) that make you feel chill in your bones. Then the twist in this poem when all the doors are opened with light from the outside brought in by mother nature. I can really feel the change.
Hello Fran,
I love the way your poem moves from the steel bridges to the natural images of deer and cicadas. I was transported. Thanks for the inspiration today!
Teton Summer
There is an alpine meadow,
Speckled with daubs of Indian paintbrush and balsamroot,
As if Monet had just brushed his newest creation.
In this meadow, there is the faint buzz of bees,
And the rare chirp of a warbler,
maybe the slight rustle of rodents in the underbrush,
Or a light breeze shaking clusters of aspen leaves,
But my breath is silenced by the calm serenity.
I belong here. I am at peace here.
In this meadow, time stops.
Shaun, thanks so much for your words about my poem. And thank you for this incredibly lovely offering! Your meadow calls, with its Indian paintbrush and balsamroot, “as if Monet had just brushed his newest creation” – that line makes me sigh. This place, with its faint creature sounds and light breeze, truly invokes peace. You impart it in every line. In the end, is not what we are all truly seeking? It’s exactly what I experience with my fawns and cicadas here. 🙂
Shaun, I am at peace here, too. You’ve written the daubs and balsamroot in a way that I know this place with such familiarity (and yet I don’t, so I looked them up). The rare chirp made this feel special, a gift. That the sound is just for you, but a collective you. We need the time to stop here. Yes. Thank you.
Sarah
Shaun, this is so beautiful. I wish I were there, too. Your first stanza is just breathtaking!
Shaun, thank you for your poem today! When I got to the line, “But my breath is silenced by the calm serenity,” I realized that you are “at peace here,” so the ending felt organic, and it seemed that I also saw that “meadow,” where “time stops.”
Shaun, this is lovely and quite peaceful! I really enjoy your third line: “As if Monet had just brushed his newest creation.” Thank you for this respite today!
Shaun, “Speckled with daubs of Indan paintbrush” is lovely, as is the rich aural second stanza. You remind me to get outside, even here in November Iowa. Thank you.
Thank you, Fran. This is what your amazing prompt drew out of me. What a surprise for me!
Mermaid
If I wanted to belong
I would walk into the ocean
and never turn back.
My skin would soften
as the salt of the sea
moistened
and blended into
the salts of my blood.
I would have no need for air
as the oxygen in the ocean
would fill my lungs with happiness.
I came to the land as
a fish out of water.
I gasped to belong
in a world without
wetness
in a world without
the freedom
to swm in fluid, cool water.
If I wanted to belong
I would walk back into the ocean
turn my two feet into a fishtail
and become part of
what my father
so loved.
Oh. My. Gosh. Susan-! This is both unexpected and profound! My mind is reeling (no pun intended with the fish imagery, honest). Your poem is so visual; I can almost see the transformation, the melting skin… I was enthralled up til the ending, which blew me away. Just incredible!
Susan. Oh, wow. This. The poem is a wading in and out. Makes me wish for you this mermaid transformation. I can see it: “skin would soften” and “salts of my blood.” And that closing is a tender moment of origin with “what my father/so loved.” And then I read this poem as you wading toward his memory.
Sarah
Absolutely lovely! I love the line “I came to the land as a fish out of water”. There are so many meanings I can take from your words. I was surprised in the very best of ways with your connection to your father at the end. So poignant.
I find your poem fascinating, Susan. It moves like the ocean waves, in and out. I’m really thinking about “if I wanted to fit in.”
Susan, your skin softening, the salt of the sea blending with your blood, is such an original way to consider your oneness with the ocean. “I gasped to belong in a world without wetness” was perhaps my favorite of many lovely lines. Thank you.
The Wind
I come from the top of a windy hill overlooking a northern lake.
The constant breeze tolerated no nonsense.
It suited my northern family, born of Scandinavia and austerity.
They came there, and they remained.
The wind taught us to be careful.
It carried away anything not securely anchored–
hopes and fancies swirled away into the void.
It deposited grand pyramids of snow meant
to keep us inside our tiny house, snug and close.
So close that secrets were hard to keep,
but the wind careened outside, so we remained.
Drifts walled us in with our thoughts,
A white barrier to the world around us.
Summer brought shivering swims in spring-fed waters
and sprints back to sun-warmed towels.
Warmer breezes brought “summer people”–
Urban vacationers with money to spend and sails to unfurl on the lake.
Sunsets glowed in glorious pinks and oranges and for their pleasure.
We were their waitresses and store clerks,
dreaming of the someday when we would become them,
knowing that it probably wouldn’t happen.
Dreams scattered like dandelion fluff in the lake winds.
I dreamed of other breezes, the ones I found in books I consumed,
leaning with a book against a tree in the wind’s summer sigh
or perched on the register for winter warmth as the blizzard raged outside.
Those other winds took me with them, eventually,
away from the frozen lake and golden sunsets.
But I took the breezes with me,
I know to be careful, for the wind is capricious and unworthy of trust.
I hold my dreams close, so that the breeze cannot steal them away.
The wind is always with me.
I do not know where else it could belong.
GJ Sands
11/19/23
Gayle, I love the focus on the wind, the many winds, in your poem. The wind is a teacher imparting lessons, about self, family the world – as if it drives it all. This lovely line struck the deepest chord with me: “I dreamed of other breezes, the ones I found in books I consumed…” ah, aren’t all poets from such pages, the arrangements of words, the dreams and the stars that never end? Thank you for this window and the intriguing peek into your childhood, your history, your people… starring your friend, the wind.
P.S. My brain can’t help a bit of wordplay with your name and the wind, Gayle/gale.
🤣
Gayle, this is gorgeous. The wind literally carries us through every line of your poem. I love this line especially, “Dreams scattered like dandelion fluff in the lake winds.”
Gayle, the echoes of wind throughout this poem are moving breezes and storms of histories. The line that tugged my heart was “I hold my dreams close, so that the breeze cannot steal them away” because I began to think of all that “the breeze” represents here, the breeze in our lives that steal so subtle. The storm at least tell us of the assault.
Such a poem, Gayle.
Sarah
This feels so grand in scope, Gayle. I love it! I really enjoy the nuance in the line, the “Sunsets glowed in glorious pinks and oranges and for their pleasure.” As if the sunsets were only for the “‘summer people,'” the people that you would dream of becoming (and one day did become). And then at the end you end up taking “the breezes” with you. I love the complexity of this!
I come from the empty space around
the ink blots on a page. I’ve come here
from the margins—
left of notebook’s red line,
under a dog-eared perfectly-creased corner,
paper-cutted in page 50, blood-smeared at the turn.
I was born in chapter nine on Brandywine’s side
walk, my crib in the hallway between bedrooms.
I don’t remember who wrote me into that scene,
but the attic ladder creaked a lullaby of
siblings coming undone.
Later, I remember stairs, perched on the seam
of the day’s page. I’d sink into the tabs of dialogue:
the way my mother, my father traded shame and blame in their
he-said, she-said rhythms, spattering dashes and ellipses up each step
of words left unsaid, plots I’d never understand. Now
I write notes in the margin, the questions once silenced,
the words that may have healed. If not in that margin,
I do not know where else I belong.
Sarah, what can I say to this beautiful and heartbreaking imagery. The use of the words side and walk at the end and beginning of lines made me stop and read in all the wonderful ways possible. The phrase “paper-cutted in page 50, blood-smeared at the turn” is staying with me after I read this poem. Thank you for letting me witness it, in all its perfection (including spelling 🙂 )
Whew! What a doozie! I wasn’t sure where you would take us. It is beautiful and painful, raw and real! These lines held me for a while:
Thank you for sharing this brilliant poem. 💜
Sarah–you have drawn us into your life with this poem–the pain and the narrative you were written into. The imagery of that notebook and your place therein….the words that may have healed. Powerful and heartbreaking.
Sarah, I’ve read this over several times in awe. The empty space, the ink blots, and that perfect crease on p. 50 with the blood smears.. those are but the beginning of your powerful imagery and life/writing metaphor, leading to undoings, things set in motion long before your arrival on the scene. There are family undoings in my own younger life that I haven’t yet been able to write about, so, know that I take heart in your margin-notes of “words that may have healed.” This poem sears…and is a gift. Thank you for it.
This is beautiful, Sara, and so creative. I tells of your love of the book and stories. I visualize the notebook’s red line, the creased corners and the blood stained edge. I can hear the attic ladder creaking “a lullaby of siblings coming undone.” Oh, to read those margins!
Sarah,
I love the extended metaphor of the “book” of one’s life. The complexity of the story becomes clearer upon rereading (reliving? remembering?). So powerful!
I am mesmerized by your marvelous wording here – just, wow!
“the attic ladder creaked a lullaby of
siblings coming undone.”
This is a delightful poem. You have so many fabulous literary metaphors and references. I’m so glad you “write notes in the margin, the questions once silenced,”
I love the imagery of the paper and how you use it to make sense of your life. I feel I do that but not nearly as eloquently as you’ve done here.
i liked “sink into the tabs of dialogue”
thank you for this offering.
Sarah, absolutely raw and riveting poem! You should record this one! Such power here with the writing and marginalized imagery. I hear your voice and your pain! Incredible poem!
Kaleidoscopic Encounter
I met someone yesterday
At a conference–
We engaged in
conversation
standing in the exhibit hall.
She’s come here from a
South American country
Where she fled to the U.S.
as a refugee.
Her grandfather came there as
A refugee fleeing the Holocaust.
Her name came together,
a perfectly delightful mix of
Spanish, Arabic, and Jewish.
She is a kaleidoscope of
color and light and generosity,
And I am better for having met her.
I’ve come here from
a white-washed history,
a white-washed lineage,
and so much loss of
color and light and generosity.
I’ve come from who knows where,
Except the generic ‘Wales,’
all I was ever given when I asked,
evidence enough that we were
in the right pot, melting into America.
We came from who knows when,
not in this century,
Or the last,
maybe the one before.
We are all losers
in the myth of white supremacy.
We are not a melting pot,
We are a kaleidoscope.
We will all win, when
We all belong.
–Denise Krebs
__________________________________________
Fran, thank you for this prompt. It brought up a beautiful conversation I had yesterday with someone I met at NCTE. I love the metaphor of bridges and how you wove your dreams of bridges into the poem. I saw a beautiful Oliveresque stanza in your poem today as well about “fawns / guarded by their mothers” in the dappled sunlight with cicadas singing. So so beautiful. Thanks!
Denise,
I love how you move from a scene of conversation to a reflection of your own life. Alongside, you show this kaleidoscope that can be America, especially if we are willing to look into the lens and gaze, see, witness all that it reflects back to us. You step into the lens, which is a step further — a way of being “in/conversation.” And for that, we must go into the world and be alongside others who’d not otherwise come to our door. This is why I go to NCTE and have to move beyond Oklahoma. And this is why I read poetry. Thank you.
Sarah
Denise–wow! First of all, I want to meet this person, the one who “is a kaleidoscope of
color and light and generosity,” But where you went from that introduction blew me away. I understand the whiteness (blandness?) of your background–I, too am from generic northern Europeans. We live in a more colorful world now–a better world. If only so many people weren’t fighting the beauty of it… `
Denise, your poem has made me feel the richness in our world. Today, I heard music that was being played to refugees from Arabic countries to make them feel more at home. It sounded so foreign to me and beautiful at the same time. It emphasized how much we have missed because of our “myths and white supremacy”.
Denise, your striking kaleidoscope metaphor reminds me that when I first heard of “the melting pot,” I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. It seemed something painful – later I’d think of it as a crucible. But. As your encounter and your reflection show, our country IS a living mosaic of color and light, something beautiful to celebrate. I recall a conversation with a family whose child was struggling to read and the father said he couldn’t help much with that, his English wasn’t good enough, plus the family wanted the kids to keep speaking their native language, too – it is important for them to remember where they are from. And it is… for “We are not a melting pot. We are a kaleidoscope.” – Bam, Denise!
Denise, the image of a kaleidoscope and all the variations the spin provides offers both hope and beauty for the US, a much needed hope and a much needed beauty! Beyond this image, my favorite lines are “We came from who knows when, not in this century, or the last, maybe the one before” as it’s filled with nonchalance and unknown. Because in the end, as you so wonderfully said, “we all belong.”
Hi Denise,
I love how honest your poem and you are. And thank you for the ending because I appreciate the distinctness we each have if we are a kaleidoscope much more than when people want to claim we are all the same.
I believe in our possibility of belonging, someday.
Hugs, my friend!
Wow! The last 2 stanzas really spoke to me. I just finished reading The 1619 Project. We know so little unless we educate ourselves and others. Diversity is a gift you reminded me of today. Thank you.
fave lines: we are all losers in the myth of white supremacy
we are not a melting pot.
amen!
Wow, Fran! This prompt pulled me right in and begged me to enjoy my lineage without falling into my safe zone of “Where I’m From…” poetry.
I love how you moved from metal buzz saws to “little living buzz saws” and the beauty of life around you.
Finding Home
According to AncestryDNA,
I’ve come here from
Virginia
Mississippi
and Louisiana
by way of capture from
Nigeria
Cameroon
Congo
and Western Bantu Peoples.
I’ve come here from the Niger Delta
deserts, plains, swamps
broken flashes of color
from flowers and butterflies
from farming tobacco
and from nature worship.
I’ve come here from rainforests
home of screaming red monkeys
from sunbirds to giant hawks and eagles
from cocoa, oil, and coffee
from royal roots and strong spirits.
I’ve come here from the volcanic Cameroon Mountain
the highest point in West Africa
to enslavement in America
the lowest valley of our nation’s landscape
I don’t believe this is where I belong.
©Stacey L. Joy, 11/19/23
Stacy,
I am seeing you in rainforests with sunbirds and beside (or at the top) of Cameroon Mountain (but no lava, please). I love imagining this scene of belonging for you and how your poem bring it to being if only for the lines of verse — for now. So beautiful, such longing.
Sarah
Stacey, breathtaking in its scope and substance. I want to read this in your anthology soon. Those expansive beautiful stanzas of what is happening on the Niger Delta is like reading a travel guide. And then the gut punch of those last three lines! Oh, Stacey, thank you for writing and telling us these TRUTHS of our history!
Stacey–those last three lines… oof. Beautiful and far-reaching poem.
Stacy,
I love the shift from the literal geographical high to the metaphor regarding enslavement as the lowest valley in our landscape. It really sets up the ending sentence for having so much more meaning. The stanza really make the journey much more epic in nature as well.
Stacey, thank you for this breathtaking poem-ride trip through your ancestry…I felt I was on a train seeing the brilliant colors, smelling the tantalizing cocoa and coffee, hearing the sounds, and of course yearning after the sunbirds, giant, hawks, and eagles. I adore this alliterative gem: “from royal roots and strong spirits.” And I am haunted by the geography, the way you set it up so perfectly to that final point, which cuts deep. So powerfully rendered, so heartrending. You’re a gift… thank you.
Those last. 2. Stanzas. So heartbreakingly sincere. I appreciate your rich description AND your honesty.
Stacey, this is so powerful! I love the repetition of “I’ve come here” at the start of each stanza leading up to the reversal of my expectation at the end: “I don’t believe this is where I belong.” And I love the crafting of (and hate! the truth of) your second to last stanza: “to enslavement in America / the lowest valley of our nation’s landscape.” Thank you for this!
Thank you Fran, for the inspiration to really look at moments like connections in DNA. It is a good thing to explore, and worthy of more exploration. I think I will find it hard to be a bad person if I look introspectively at those links as I live my life.
8:57 THROUGH 11:20
In the elevated pews,
by the sound system crew
with a view of the choir,
in the 2011 Camry driver’s side seat
heading toward a quiet high school
a half cup of coffee left,
looking through a teacher’s edition textbook
planning a two day week,
listening to Ludwig van on a broken speaker,
on an elliptical,
the fourth one from the left in the back row,
in the cardio room near the darkened gymnasium,
still striving to belong to moments,
intrinsic and spiritual, the joints in my old bones,
the rests in the measures, the stacked stones in the cairn.
Rex, I so loved reading this having paid attention to the title. It is so fascinating to imagine this beauty all happening during that time frame. I love the line “still striving to belong to moments” and I think you have captured that in your poem. And I learned a new word “cairn.” Thanks!
Rex–I love this walk through your morning. The specificity is wonderful. And the phrase–the rests in the measures–I will think about that as I go through my day.
In every single scene, Rex, I sense inherent gratitude. And intense mindfulness. There is infinite difference between enduring moments or being driven by them vs. belonging to them. That last stanza…it’s a treasury of savoring and longing, manifest in one’s very bones and spirit, in the “rests in the measures” (musical pauses), and even in the stacked stones which somehow invoke Dickinson’s “swelling of the ground” in “Because I could not stop for Death.” I have reread it several times for the quiet joy of it. We do need more such introspection as we live our lives; thank you for this and for your words in response to my poem.
Oh, Rex! I am three days late, but I am glad I glanced back and found your poem. As self-appointed president of the Rex Muston fan club, I’d hate to have missed it.
I appreciate how each stanza gives me a new slice of belonging/longing to belong/belonging to the moment.
I FELT each of these experiences. And the final “rests in the measures, the stacked stones in the cairn” got me in the solar plexus.
Wow.
Let me start
this poem
with a poem
Last year I shared
something that I
had written with
my AP Lit students
and the next day
I shared something
else:
hands
cupped
in protection
and offering
I proffered
a small
flightless
poem
to some
students
in my 5th
hour class
and they,
startled by
something
not yet
beautiful
something
so strange
and new
to this world,
knocked it
to the ground
and stomped
on it
Needless to say
it had the
desired effect
Now, am I proud
of the fact that
I used poetry
for (seemingly)
the forces of
evil
No, but I’m
also not
not proud
of it either
Words matter
ideas and
emotions,
longings
and desires
fears and
joys are
all conveyed
through
words
and, yes,
shame and
hurt can be
conveyed,
too
and sometimes
need to be
___________________________________________________
Fran, thank you for your wonderful mentor poem and this inviting prompt today! I love the vivid details and subtle rhyme and rhythms you so masterfully employ throughout your piece. I am in awe of how your verse so often (and so well) can mirror the content of your message. Just look at this one example (of so so many): “to return, to roost / here in the dawn lands / where abandoned gray houses / and weathered-wood barns / sink decade by decade / into the earth.” There is such a grounding here in this stanza, such a “return[ing],” this settling into place.
Now, I started your prompt with the idea that I’d write about Tim O’Brien and Samuel Beckett (he lets me call him Sammy B, btw) or Shakespeare and J.D. Robb (strangely enough, she also lets me call her Sammy B), hitting on the fact that books are my friends, narratives are where I belong, hell, I’ve spent a lot of time with Ender and the boy wizard (although we’ve become quite distant due to the “antics” of their parents, yikes) but then I thought, this might be kinda sad [cue the Simon & Garfunkel song: “I have my books / And my poetry to protect me / I am shielded in my armor / Hiding in my room safe within my womb / I touch no one and no one touches me / I am a rock I am an island.”] And it’s not true. I do have meaningful and fulfilling relationships with the people around me. I have (at least) a handful of friends and close acquaintances (the poet doth protest too much, me thinks) I am part of purposeful and worthwhile organizations that foster kindness and fellowship and (this is just getting awkward now, tbh) all I’m sayin’, is yes, people (and family) are important to me (oh, so important you put them in a set of parentheses) but I also think books and words and ideas have also made me who I am, too…I’ll stop now, lol.
Scott, The vulnerability you share here about being a teacher who writes and risks the smashing of that writing to pieces is what it’s really about. We have to put ourselves out there if we expect that from our students. I see you.
Scott, this poem hits hard on the power of words. You’re a masterful writer!
Scott, such truths bombs in here. I love that you are giving your students the gift that “Words matter” and someday they too (if they don’t yet) will know that words and ideas have shaped them because you allow them to stomp words. Keep up the subversive fight.
“a small
flightless
poem”
Among all your wonderful words here, I think this phrase is my favorite. Your vulnerability and your courage and your words all sing true.
Scott, I am also someone who calls books(or rather, the characters I meet in books) friends. I even started a hashtag to use when reviewing books on my Litsy account—#huggable
Thank you for sharing. You’ve inspired how I plan to respond to Fran’s prompt.
Dear Scott… can I begin my response with a poem…part of a poem, yours, in fact:
they,
startled by
something
not yet
beautiful
something
so strange
and new
to this world,
knocked it
to the ground
and stomped
on it
-this is the EXACT human reaction of not understanding, even fearing, a thing… and I mourn at the fate of your little flightless poem. Please know this imagery is now part of the fabric of my mind forever (or as long as I have a mind). Thank you for this poem-within-a-poem, this homage to words, for very few things (if anything) have such power. As for your comment – oh my Lord, you have me laughing and nodding and thoroughly enjoying the rollicking, classic-Scott ride, complete with Simon & Garfunkel playing on the radio. When i was child, book characters felt like my very real friends, just sayin’. Many people are writing today about finding belonging in books, ideas, dreams… it’s all connected, for here we are writing together about it. I could say much more but just know I will be rereading you poem and the comment, too, for the sheer joy of it. For the record (if I never mentioned it here): My room at school is decorated in Harry Potter, complete with a backdrop of Diagon Alley and “floating” candles strung from the ceiling. Felt important to say just now. 🙂
Scott, I’m finding this three days after you posted, so I’m not sure if you’ll ever read my comment: Your poem and commentary to Fran are BOTH poems, filled with voice and honesty. Keep that pen to the page.
Thank you, Fran, for this prompt. I love that your poem flows like a river from its source and you can hear its “cicadian” rhythm’s buzzing echoes. Delicious! I am grateful for you and your poetry!
Here’s my stab at it! I’m writing right on the spot and trusting myself.
All My Life
All my life I felt
like I didn’t belong.
I was the puzzle piece
that didn’t fit.
Turn it around
this way and that.
Push it into that space,
that family space.
It just wouldn’t go.
Too big a heart,
too sensitive,
too easily bruised.
Early on, I learned
not to trust
enclosed spaces.
All that furniture,
dusty draperies,
worn out carpets,
and wooden stairs.
Stairs to be thrown down,
those steep stairs,
that dangerous curve.
Then the door, which opened
and shut closed tight.
It was only
in the leaving
that I found my space,
my space upon the page,
the white space,
the open space,
the one place,
where I belong.
Words wait patiently,
then flow like a river
rambling along rocky banks
into the salt-stained sea.
That came out in a stream that you were sailing all the way from pain to healing and into the salt-stained sea (your grief). Lovely piece.
Joanne, my heart breaks here and I held my breath hoping for a savior by the end:
I felt the exhale when you found your safe space. This poem needed to be written on-the-spot and I’m grateful you shared it with us. We are a safe space and for that I’m deeply grateful.
☺️
Joanne,
If this is writing on the spot and trusting yourself, you are in a good place. I like the leaving as the fitting in, as it is sort of the opposite expectation with a piece in a puzzle, tight and touching on all sides. It really creates a visual representation for me.
Joanne–The strength and imagery in these words–
“Stairs to be thrown down,
those steep stairs,
that dangerous curve.”
I could feel the fear. So glad that you have found that place where your words can flow. They are so full of power.
Dear Joanne… the inherent loss in your lines, the steep stairs with the dangerous curve, the opened door that was open, then shut tight…life hurts so deep, and I hurt reading of it now. Not to mention the ache of striving to belong and not feeling a fit; but oh, those ending lines about finding a path through to a place of belonging on the page where words wait like patient friends and flow like a river – such healing in that flow, in the salt (of sea, of tears). You navigate us through al these dark, dangerous places and past the rocky banks to your safe space (the repetitions here work so beautifully). Yesterday one of our fellow poets wrote of being a lighthouse – and that’s how I see you. You shine; you draw us with your light. We take it with us – thank you for this beautiful, poignant poem and also for your comment.
P.S. Love the wordplay of “cicadian” rhythm! Ever the master wordsmith, Joanne!
Thank you, Fran! I wouldn’t have written that poem without your prompt. All of a sudden I was thinking about river and sea and the poem just came out like a rush. It wouldn’t have happened without YOU! I am ever grateful.
Joanne,
Your imagery of a puzzle piece trying to fit resonated with me.
little living buzzsaws–that caught my eye and then my ear said, “howsabout ‘big living buzzsaws’. Good poetry inspires alt views and stances, right?
Too true, Terry; cicadas are huge and quite terrifying to many. In some parts of the world their decibel level can lead to deafness – not unlike the real buzz saws that can cause it, too – as happened to the man in my poem, which happens to be my grandfather, trying to “make a go” working in the shipyard when tenant farming and sharecropping couldn’t support his family in the Great Depression. In a word – sacrifice.
Thanks Fran! Your poetry resonates with me. I am with you in the present moment of swelling cicadas echoing. I’m at NCTE and enjoying a rare quiet moment to write.
I’ve come here
from a warm place
curled up in a womb of belonging
crossed the Mississippi
high above
looking down on
the geometry of earth.
She calls to me
to be myself
in this new place.
She grounds me
for
jumping off
high towers.
My smile is real
as the tears in my eyes.
Believe me when I say
I want to be here
but the beckoning bayou
calls me home.
I don’t know where else I belong.
I can see you, Margaret! Your smile is real, the bayou beckons. Beautiful. Thank you!
Hi Margaret,
I wish I could be there with you and your warm smile!
I feel the comfort in this line:
“curled up in a womb of belonging”
It’s funny how we can long to be away and it only takes a second to long for home.
Enjoy and safe travels back to…
🌷
Margaret–“She grounds me for jumping off high towers” How wonderful that you have that place that allows you to make the leap…
I love this so much – “curled up in a womb of belonging”…I have this sense that ‘the beckoning bayou’ is within you, guiding and holding, even when you are far from home.
Margaret, I can’t help smiling at “she grounds me for jumping off high towers” – reminds me of my Grannie, pursing her lips and muttering about “somebody gettin’ too big for their britches.” But the longing for home in your poem hits me harder, enough to draw tears. I so know it. Thank you for the honesty here and the always-lovely roll of your words.
Margaret,
The lines from “My smile is real” to “I want to be here” is powerful. I can feel the emotion behind those words.
The ultimate house of belonging is our family and nature:
https://youtu.be/1qXFLi57GeA?si=pGTrsY9jG5PRQN2p
Lovely (as usual), and the love in your voice comes through. I am reading The Comfort of Crows by Margaret Renkl, and this poem of yours reminded me of her writing, of worries of the pileated woodpecker, of the corn snakes, and more of the nature in her world that is being impacted by change. (I highly recommend the book)
Kevin
Yeah, I am listening to it. I am anxious to make friends with crows. I planted peanuts in the garden this year for the crows of winter.
This prayer – so, so beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing it. Before she could really talk, I was holding my baby granddaughter at the kitchen window to watch nesting bluebirds feeding their babies. Now, at two, she comes to be picked up and asks “Watch birds.” I hope. I pray.
The ultimate house of belonging: family & nature
Sorry, can’t embed. will try to belong some other way.
Frank your poem was just lovely! Filled with rich imagery that was absolutely transporting. Just beautifully done. 🙂
I went with a Golden Shovel for today.
My cousin Stevie said: “Growing up, I
was always told of Reenie, have
been warned away from becom–
ing her – a cautionary tale.” “Here
lay Reenie,” they proclaimed, in hushed tones, from
stone wells of sadness.
I imagined her in the bath, already far a way,
her last words smelling of life,
bare chest to heaven lifted,
scent of rose bath oil. She turned to her daughter – my
cousin, Karen: “Be a good girl” her last words. I, my self,
grew up, haunted to do the same. I
did not realize, then, that to do
what she did was not
an aberration, that to know
that terrible sense of desperation [where
do I belong?] was not an “or else”
but was one that I would grown in my womb, that I
would see in my daughters’ eyes, as they strove to belong.
Wendy, your poem has little puffs of enchanting magic dust that fly out as we read it and settle in the soul. It’s spellbinding. It makes me think of a young cousin of mine, a twin, who died at 7. I have wondered how much extra living the surviving twin did because she carried on the spirit. Your poem has mysterious strings that will pull me back again and again to this one. I’m so curious, and I love when a poem does what yours does today. And the Golden Shovel is such a perfect form!
Also, Fran, that was supposed to be a comma after your name — not a “k” — sorry, mistyped! XD
Th gold shovel
form was just right to contain this powerful thoughts. Belonging does not mean we have to be good.
Oh my gosh, Wendy – I love your poem. I didn’t know which way to read. My mind got ahead of me and read vertically first. Then it drew me into the body of the poem, so powerful, so true. Thank you!
Wendy, I love Golden Shovels and yours is magical! I pictured this like I was right there!
I didn’t expect the end. Wow! Powerful poem!
Wendy, I have chills up my neck…you weave a mysterious and sad tale with this golden shovel. To see ‘that terrible sense of desperation’ in your own daughters’ eyes…oh that hurts. (Perhaps I am having an emotional reaction because my nickname is Reenie.)
Wendy, I find Golden Shovels hard to do, yet here you spin a powerful story-poem out of that striking line… I am amazed and feeling a range of emotions here: grief, anxiety, fear, compassion… the rose bath oil and the stone wells of sadness are utterly haunting. They will stay with me.
Fran, through your poem I’m beginning to see all the roadmaps Limon offers writers. There is so much richness and depth that just keeps spinning off of the initial poem, and I see it in your poem and the poems of others this morning. These lines are the ones that I keep coming back to:
where abandoned gray houses
and weathered-wood barns
sink decade by decade
into the earth
—for it always
takes back its own
This idea of a recycling earth that takes back its own is reassuring and peaceful. We all belong. Thank you for hosting us today with this inspiration.
Ancestors Speak (inspired by Ada Limon’s Ancestors)
I’ve come here
from island and swamp
from Spanish Moss live oaks
from river and ocean
from marshland spartina
from cypress and mangrove
magnolia and black gum
Georgia roots running deep
all sunshine and black water
chaos and order
from hermit and hoarder
from ghosts that still speak
of lies that were spoken
of promises broken
of sermons not lived
the hard slap of truth
I don’t know
where else
I belong.
Kim, your poem has a beautiful rhythm to it, with such a great sense of finality as it dwindles to the last stanza. And the imagery! The kids at school would say, “#mood.” lol. The swamp, the Spanish moss, the repetition of “black” give this such an atmospheric feel — and that single, italicized line — loved it!
ooooh, this is a loaded sandwhich….those trees and plants…to those lies and unlived sermons. Kim, this is a rich, rich description. LOVE!
There is a frabjous word for that collapsing barn, that collapsing everything: desuetude. It is a word that isn’t high falutin’ yet is exactly right. If it’s right, then it ain’t showing off. I think your realization at the end flips the poem on its head and rightly so.
Love the images, can see them in my mind’s eye and you walking in the shimmering sunlight. Always thought spartina was a accessories store. Now, I know its salt marsh grass that I will look for on my next trip south. Love the lines: chaos and order/from hermit and hoarder.
Kim–so much to relish here–
“of lies that were spoken
of promises broken
of sermons not lived” (a lot going on in these few words)
and
“chaos and order
from hermit and hoarder” (the rhyme adds such a punch!)
and that “hard slap of truth” (how to really get my attention!!
Kim, I love your very words here! Your word choices are so incredible, tumbling me into the low-country. I’m particularly partial to the brief stanza –
The very land in this area is like this ‘chaos and order’ – wild spanish moss swinging from trees, all the once-living debris that washes onto the shores … love this so much.
Ah, Kim – the ghosts that still speak, the lies, the broken promises, the sermons not lived, the hard slap of truth – these hit home with me. Your rhyming is impeccable. I savor the images of those trees so familiar to me, magnolia, cypress, gum. So fitting, gracing a poem about one’s roots – and, as happens so often, I remember my own belongings, reading your words. Thank you-
Fran—not ready to write yet, partially because your poem has taken up my thought process. It took me back to your bridges and through your life. I am in awe. And that last stanza…. Oof.
(And I just reread the instructions and realized that the last stanza will be mine, as well. I was one of those students who did the assignment, then read the instructions…)
Lol! You always make me smile, Gayle – thank you so much for your thoughts here and I can’t wait to read your poem later. 🙂
Learning to Belong
I’ve come here from the trailer parks, the single-wide homes,
thin-walled, stacked side-by-side, terrified of storms.
I’ve come here from the three birch trees—peeling, growing taller, never wider, within a
mini-circle surrounded by eleven rocks.
I was born to a young mother, an abandoning father, and a stepfather
who filled those shoes, his name on my birth certificate,
his alcoholism and domestic violence—childhood shadows.
I remember my brother’s, my mother’s fear accentuating my own.
I don’t remember when I first saw the three willow trees, filled with wind,
edging the park’s bridge, but they unhinged within me
a desire to write beneath their branches.
Later, I remember relief, through a packed suitcase,
through only weekends with stepdad.
Always, I remember relief within the classroom windows where I truly felt safe,
the way they surrounded and protected me within the pursuit of knowledge,
all that power from choosing to learn and to be like my teachers.
Imagine you must survive without learning?
I’ve come from the learning patterns of teachers–
I do not know where else I belong.
“I don’t remember when I first saw the three willow trees, filled with wind,
edging the park’s bridge, but they unhinged within me
a desire to write …”
Wow. This is beautifully written.
Kevin
Thank you, Kevin. I appreciate your reading and comment this morning.
Wow…amazing narrative. There is a whole life packed into these very moving lines. My favorite is, “I remember relief, through a packed suitcase.” I hope you keep going with this.
Thank you, Linda.
“I’ve come from the learning patterns of teachers–
I do not know where else I belong.”
This broke my heart and filled it up at the same time. Your exquisite narrative is filled with pain and hope. “Imagine you must survive without learning.” I hope you share this with your teachers. They have done well…
amazing poem.
Thank you, Gayle. I will share this with my teachers. I appreciate the suggestion.
Danielle…thank you for your great courage, for your willingness to harness these words and let them roll. From shadows, fear, and suffering to the safe place of school (oh, my heart), and desiring, choosing, to learn…it is a triumphant story, a lifeline of a poem, a model for so many other students who need to know there’s a haven. The vulnerability in this is deep and also, paradoxically, strong. Makes me recall Hemingway’s words: “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places.” Your poem is incredibly powerful. It is strong; it reveals your strength. Those three trees that “unhinged” you with the desire to learn…know that the symbolism of the willow is endurance and survival. That there were three…it is considered the “perfect” number, representing completion or completeness. I love this poem, even as it wrenches my heart – which clings to that vital word, “choose.”
Thank you, Fran. Your words mean so much to me.
That deep desire to write beneath the three willows in the wind tugs at my heart. The need for thoughts to manifest on paper to sort, make sense, release the inner parts that need, like a helium balloon, to take off heavenward like a message in a bottle. Your poem is a place of both shadows and hope today. Thank you for sharing it!
Thank you, Kim. I love the images you shared in your feedback, too.
Danielle! This was amazing. It left me teary-eyed at the end, with happiness for and pride in your speaker. The imagery was fire. Loved the shift at Line 9, just as the sad remembrances threaten to overwhelm us, too — and loved the rhetorical question near the end. So many kids are in this position. Loved this!
Thank you, Wendy. This brought tears to my eyes, too, as I wrote. So many kids are in this position and teachers, too. We really do make a difference in this profession.
Those willows–first to leaf out and the last to leave out. They will survive. You will survive. You will thrive. I am a fan of personal imagery like I see here. I know those birch trees ringed with stones are real. They feel real.
Thank you, Terry. I really appreciate it.
So powerful, Danielle. Thank you! Some people come from dark places, but the spirit seeks light, and we survive and thrive. The light of education and poetry is a healing source.
Healing indeed! Thank you, Joanne.
I often fall
silent as a leaf
when talk
turns to
Family Trees
My branches
seem so barren,
while others
keep staring
at detailed maps
of places
and names
Mine remains
the same;
Empty
as always
As if someone
intentionally
misplaced
all the lore and
stories from
which we came
This poem is filled with emotion. I reread the first stanza a few times as the words truly resonate with me.
Thank you, Danielle. I appreciate the reading and comment this morning.
Kevin
I also did a version with Lumen5 – https://lumen5.com/user/dogtrax/ancestors-a-silent-wthvz/
Kevin
I love it, Kevin. A lone leaf hanging on. Thank you for sharing.
I read the strength of the silence in this.
Thank you for noticing that. I hope it’s true!
Kevin
Kevin, your poem, with its threads of longing, is the main reason why I went with place for finding the sense of belonging today. Place is a character, a spirit, in its own right… when I read your words about barren branches in the family tree, they stir an ache, much as autumn itself does. Most of all, I mourn the loss of stories. Deeply. Thank you for this.
Thank you, Fran. I love how prompts like these bring you to a place from which to write
Kevin, in your rich imagery of this tree, I see the strength of its trunk – and your last stanza is mysterious, haunting, and beautiful all at once. It makes me wonder about my discoveries of some of my ancestors as a hard slap of truth I hadn’t realized, versus the peace I might have not knowing some of these stories, almost wishing they had been placed in a trunk and buried as well. Your poem sparks such contemplative thought.
Good point, Kim, about the knowing or unknowing, and I don’t know (heh) which is better.
Kevin
Wow. This was terrific. Loved the last stanza and the imagined “intentional misplac[ing]” of your lore. This hit hard.
Thank you, Wendy
There is a sense of loss and abandonment in your poem. Family trees are overrated. You belong. You matter.
Thank you, Margaret. I’m fine, but I appreciate the words of connections.
Kevin
Sparse, powerful words to form a solid, powerful poem. The stanza that resonates with me especially is:
Mine remains
the same;
Empty
as always
Thank you for your honesty.
You are welcome, and thank you, right back, Joanne.
Kevin
Kevin,
Your poem speaks to me. I feel the anxiety of having no root that plants oneself in identity.
Some borrowed lines from a song.
The Woods
I’ve come here from
The woods
Where it is always night
The trail was fresh
Scared, wary, lost
I tried to call out
For anybody out there
Silence answered me
Step by step
I moved onward
Alone
I’m back here in
The woods
Where it is still night
The trail is here
Worried, tired, aware
But not lost
I knew the pathway
Like the back of my hand
This time, pausing
To sit by the river
it made me complete
I do not know where else I belong
Wow, Emily. You set such a worrying mood in this. Great words: night/lost, alone, tired, worried, aware. These go along with the last line starting with ‘I do not know,’ perfectly.
“Silence answered me”
A central line here, in my reading.
Wonderfully done
Kevin
Emily, I love the woods. A mighty metaphor for so much of life. I also love the transition along the path, through time; and of course I love the the river and understand how proximity to it makes one feel complete. Lovely all the way through!
Emily, I was hanging on every word – – worried you were lost. And of course, I could finally breathe with the shift in the fifth stanza. I love when a poem does this!
Emily, I loved how haunting this was. Loved your word choice!
Yes – I agree with Kevin – Silence answered me – the heart of the whole poem, echoing the feeling of the woods: dark, silent, encompassing, and familiar. Wonderful. Thank you.
Fran, I am digging this prompt. Your poem is stunning…the bridges and right, red, returning details are so sharp. Just beautiful.
I’ve come here
volunteer seed
near salty sands, ancient seas
and limestone layers
from ice-sculpted ravines.
From what I can tell,
my roots still run deep
sugared memories
running through maple trees
clay beds and rocks
down at the creek
When summer came late
and autumn early.
I love the descriptive language in that first stanza, Linda. It’s powerful.
Kevin
I echo your sentiments for Fran’s prompt, Linda. I also loved your line “sugared memories.” Vivid word choice throughout.
Linda, I love the sense of place and time passage here! Your poem is rich with sensory detail. I taste salt, sugar, maple; I see the rocks in the creek; I feel wistful at summer’s brevity – so like childhood. Thank you for all your words.
Linda, my friend, your sugared memories are alive and beckoning us to join you on this journey through the maples and woods this morning. “Sugared memories” sparks such a memory with me – the visions of sugarplums illustration that was my favorite of any book ever in the history of the whole wide world. I love the idea of a summer coming late and an autumn early, too – oh, the sweaters and cool lung breathing! I see the twinkle of the ice-sculpted ravines and want to set up a camp chair and start a fire to listen to the trickle of what isn’t frozen. Lovely, just lovely.
Linda, your first two lines, especially, were awesome — the active feeling of them, you as initiator instead of receiver of heritage — very cool spin.
Linda – oh my gosh – these lines hit me: sugared memories/running through maple trees. Just beautiful. Thank you.
This phrase–
“sugared memories
running through maple trees”
I grew up with maple trees that my grandfather tapped every spring. YOu brought back a wonderful memory. Thank you!