Donnetta Norris is a 2nd grade teacher in Arlington, TX. She has facilitated workshops with TeachWrite, LLC. and continues to host a weekly Time To Write writing group session with TeachWrite. She is also a guest blogger with Teach Better Team. You can read much of her writing on TeacherReaderWriter, The Rogue Scholar, and Writing Is A Journey. She is a published poet in Teacher-Poets Writing to Bridge the Distance: An Oral History of COVID-19 in Poems by Dr. Sarah J. Donovan. Follow her on Twitter at @NorrisDonnetta.
Inspiration
Some of my favorite personal poems use lines from poems written by other poets. I enjoy discovering lines that speak to me and creating new meaning for the line(s) in my own poems. The inspiration came from Jennifer Guyor Jowett’s Burrow and Seeds (#verselove April 2022) Poets were challenged to “find a seed at the end of [a] piece…and let it serve as a title or beginning line.”
Process
For today’s poem, borrow a line or lines that resonate with you from a poem posted here or from your favorite poet. Give the line(s) new meaning by using it in your own poem.
Donnetta’s Poem
Can We Change Its Course?
(My title is a borrowed line from a poem by Rachel S. posted to #verselove April 4, 2022.)
Idle minds
The devil’s playground
Idle hands
Lead to poverty
Strong drink
Causes fights
Love of money
Root of evil
Craving money
Pierced with sorrow
People we love
Live life hard
Loved ones pray
Praying hard
The life they choose
Out of control
Ours and Theirs
Can we change its course?
Only God can.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to 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.
Donnetta! I love this prompt and the invitation to borrow from the poets here. Leilya’s poem struck a chord, so I borrowed “So when joy comes” from her poem below.
So When Joy Comes
So when joy comes
To knock on your door
Let it in.
Make it a lovely cup of tea
And bid it to sit in the comfortable
Contentment
Of a comfy chair.
And you with it.
You both know that
Life is hard
So when joy comes
Don’t imagine it leaving
Don’t wait for the other shoe to
Drop.
Just don’t.
Sit at the table
And hold its hand
While smiling
Your best smile.
Tell it stories that make it
Laugh.
Allow it be
Effusive
Rather than imagine it
Elusive.
You both know
There will always be trouble
So when joy comes
Hug it close
Breathe it in
And bask in its company
For as long as it can stay.
I am late again, and writing seemed to be challenging today, but I wanted at least share Mary Oliver’s wisdom.
Thank you for hosting today, Donnetta, and for an opportunity to look for some inspirational words from poems. I turned to Mary Oliver and her poem “Don’t Hesitate.”
http://www.wordslikethis.com.au/dont-hesitate/
The line I borrowed is “Joy is not made to be a crumb.”
Life can be tough,
a dreadful journey
of new attempts
and painful failures,
with turns and twists
that make us worry,
fall, stumble, chase
the fleeting hope.
So when joy comes,
don’t let it go,
it’s not a crumb,
a scrap, or speck.
It’s gift we all
deserve to savor,
embrace, breathe in,
and celebrate.
Leilya, thank you for sharing Mary Oliver’s wisdom — and for adding and complementing it, too! Joy is something that we, absolutely, need “to savor, / embrace, breathe in, / and celebrate”! Thank you!
Thank you Leilya for showing up. “Late” is not work I like to use. You showed up on time for you. I love the encouragement in your poem to savor JOY. After all, life is very short.
Leilya! I loved your poem and am using your line “So when joy comes” as my borrowed line! Thank you!
Donnetta, the lines “people we love / live life hard” is such a treat to say aloud with the alliteration. Thank you for hosting today and allowing me the opportunity to sift through poems!
I lifted a line from Allison Berryhill’s poem from a few days ago, To Eloise. I italicized her line. Thanks, Allison, for the gift of poetry (among many other things, including an iron, you have given me).
Passion
When I offered you
my burning heart, it was an untamed
fire, and only a fraction
of desire’s burning flame.
When you gripped it in your hands,
something like hope, slippery
and shiny and fierce, flickered in my
eyes, fueling the fire.
As days, weeks, months, years
and decades have passed,
where burning is eased to warmth,
I still offer you my burning heart,
fractions make a whole.
Rachelle,
This has so much passion in it and beautifully expresses an enduring love. Wow. These lines struck me in particular:
Rachelle, your poem is just beautiful! So much love. I love every line, especially the second stanza. Allison’s line became integral with your words. Thank you for sharing!
Rachelle,
Simply beautiful. The lines “I still offer you my burning heart, fractions make a whole” speak to me. This idea that the pieces of a heart still make a whole heart to love with.
Rachelle, WOW!! There is so much beauty in your words. I love how your poem shows transition over time landing on the lines “I still offer you my burning heart / fractions make a whole.” There is so much hope and optimism in these words as things may change over time. Love this poem.
Oh, wow, Rachelle. I only found your poem today (May 12, 2023) as I was reading back through posts for another project–
I am honored my line spoke to you, and more so that you carved that line into your own ‘burning heart.”
“Fractions make a whole” is a line I plan to borrow for myself 🙂 Plus it ties back to your “only a fraction” in such satisfaction.
I keep learning from/with you, poet friend.
Lines (italicized) borrowed from April Bernard’s “Anger.”
Yesterday
I slammed my fist on my desk
and then apologized, to the desk.
Anger has always fit like a leaden, squelching, soggy sneaker.
So, when it lets itself in,
I’m not sure how to be a good host.
I can’t offer a big hug—
that would be insincere.
I want to respect and honor it
but would hate to create awkwardness.
I try to strike up a conversation
lead with curiosity
let myself learn what I need.
Laura, the personification of anger in this poem is so intriguing. I love this line because I relate, “So, when it lets itself in, / I’m not sure how to be a good host.” Thanks for sharing this today.
Laura,
In your poem I see a life of learning to balance the fires of anger and control. What a perfect quote to borrow. Nicely done.
Laura, thank you for writing today. Anger Is a Gift, a novel title comes to mind. It is a reaction and has its rightful place in the range of human emotions. I like the idea “to strike a conversation/ lead with curiosity/ let myself learn what I need.”
late poems
it is the late poems
that are made of words
that have come the whole way
they have been there.
Borrowed from “Worn Words” by W.S. Merwin
some poets have a way with words
cause you to stop mid-poem
just to admire the way a word is used
or an idea is conjured
what are these “late poems”
the ones which are older,
that have been around for a while
or
the ones which came later
not so old?
hmmm
“made of words/that have come the whole way”
from where are these words coming?
do they hold a stick measuring distance or depth?
cause you to stop and look a little deeper
“they have been there.”
and I hope if I stop
and
listen a little longer
I will hear the echos into a space that I never connected
with the words in the stanza.
thank you W.S. Merwin for the excursion.
Jamie, two things: first, thank you for this W.S. Merwin poem –I hadn’t read it before! — and second, your stanza about stopping mid-poem is so good and so true — in fact, I did it here, just after reading that stanza! So, thank you, again!
One of my favorite things that poetey does is invite us to look at a word we think we know in a new way. Of course, in the classroom, “late” is thrown around frequently and disparagingly. Your poem is a nice departure from the everyday. 😊
Jamie, I am enchanted by your last stanza. Particularly “I will hear the echos into a space that I never connected / with the words in the stanza”. I love the image of a crevice or cave between words or stanzas, allowing us to see or hear the sounds & meaning of the poem differently.
Jamie,
Now I need to go look up the Merwin poem–thank you for the spark. Your poem captures that moment when a poem pulls us out of time for a few lines (or more). Thank you!
Jamie, I like your excursion into W.S. Mervin’s words. Great words and poems should makes us “stop and look a little deeper.” I love the ending of your poem, especially “if I stop / and / listen a little longer / I will hear the echos” – just beautiful. Thank you!
Thanks Donnetta for the suggestion to read other poets to find a line for inspiration–or to borrow. I decided to use the poem-a-day poem from the poets.org. I read the poem: Throwing Children by Ross Gay and selected the line:…for a minute she notices the ants organizing on the bark…. Here’s my poem for day 26.
Seeing
What do you see when you close your eyes
the inky black of the darkest night
lighted pathways traced by stars
ants organizing on the bark of the trees
bees humming to the tune of spring
When you open your eyes
do you see the possibility of tomorrow
in today
and get up
get ready
live
this one day
What a motivating poem, Kim. I really like how focusing on something so small can help us see the big picture. Ver well done!
KIm, it’s interesting reading this poem as I close down for the night in Eastern Time zone.
bees humming to the tune of spring
When you open your eyes
do you see the possibility of tomorrow
in today
and get up
get ready
live
this one day
I’ve not seen bees today, but I can imagine them, and look forward to the possibilities of tomorrow… maybe it will be sweet. 🙂
Kim, do you live in San Diego? Here the bees are swarming, the flowers are blooming, the ants are starting to stream (away from my house, I hope,) and the rodents are multiplying. Yes, there are lots of possibilities for tomorrow.
I do! In San Diego county.
Kim, I appreciate your optimism and seeing possibilities of tomorrow. The images you see when closing eyes are easily imaginable. Love the closing: “get ready / live / this one day.”
Kim, you have really great imagery here as you write about the night, stars, trees, and ants. I especially love the line “lighted pathway traced by stars.” I love your poem’s hopefulness at the end in seeing the “possibility of tomorrow / in today” and to live that day (one day at a time). Thank you for sharing!
I took the line “I had two sisters once” from a Stanley Kunitz poem called “My Sisters.”
My Family
By Mo Daley 4/26/23
I had two sisters once,
until the giant headache came,
causing one to lay her head on the desk,
saying, “I just need to rest a minute.”
But she never woke again.
Now I have one sister
who panics the rest of us
as she teeters on the tightrope
between life and death,
but somehow manages to surprise us
with her determination to live.
I had six brothers once,
before one acquired an
immune deficiency
and melted away, leaving us
pining for his gentle soul.
Now I have five brothers
whose hearts have decided
to beat to their own drums
without regard for anyone else’s rhythm.
What I dread more than anything
is waking up to a day
with no sisters
or no brothers.
Mo, your poem expresses a fear many of us have. Mine comes this year because my sisters and I have lost our sons, not siblings. Your poem reminds us that life is transient. We must realize, too, that folks choose their own way, sometimes because they believe in doing it now, in case there’s no tomorrow.
Mo your poem is very thought provoking. I am an only child but I feel the need to call and talk to family members after reading this. Thank you for sharing
Donnetta, Thank you for the opportunity to make beautiful music together for yet another day of VerseLove!
I wanted to honor my lovely, small class of Creative Writers today by lifting some lilting lines from poems they have been writing: Most of them are VerseLove prompts, as a matter of fact — they’ve been enjoying it immensely! So here is a found poem, an ode to them. Their lines are in quotes, mine are the responses in parentheses:
Benediction to My Young Poets
“I could not hold you –
Left in the darkened room”
(but we gave us hope,
the body of us, radiant)
“They say there is a monster in the woods
Their eyes are so pretty, like bright red poppies
And their smile gleams like polished silver in the sun”
(We keep them at bay,
wield word swords)
“Starved of blood,
“We reconquer
Dangerous language
This world controlled
Gentle rage”
(Reunited, rejoined,
We meet to mete out writing
and retribution
because)
“To be known is to be noticed
To stand out from a crowd
To be spotted by people unknown
And commented on aloud”
(Snaps and claps erupt
silently, reverently)
She says, “My shoulders are heavy
With the burden of knowledge”
(Uplifted by kind words)
Forged from the fires,
Burned nonetheless”
(Creative fires
burn within our souls,
burn our souls)
“Perhaps
That is why I’ll never believe, no matter how much
I wish I could, that you won’t fly away like a bird
Being watched from a telescope.”
(…and, together, we find faith):
“By tasting and touching
My mind would grow like a tree
With branches that reach out like wild sunrays
And bear thoughts and ideas like ripe fruit”
(Together, we grow from
seeds of sadness and lost comfort)
“My body was small and hair blonde as ever,
No cares in the world, for what was there to care for?
Would whistle when I could,
And climb on trees,
Wait for the bus to arrive”
(Where has that child gone now?)
“Gripping the next.
You shiver like a leaf in the wind.
Tempted to throw yourself off of the ledge.
To fly out into the storm.
Unafraid.”
(Take a leap of faith,
all of us together, as
world awaits us):
“The house holds its breath waiting for the mystery to unfold
Characters barely known, yet to grow in my mind like a peach tree.
Holding unknown words to stumble over in vanity.
Moments later I gasp with a new knowledge to be told.”
Sorry the second last stanza should read “nest” not “next”
What a great approach to this prompt, Wendy! I bet your students will love this. Will you share this with them? The creativity in this group astounds me every day!
Wendy, thank you for showing up. I love that you used your student’s lines and intertwined yours with theirs. This is a brilliant piece of work.
Donnetta, there’s so much to learn from your poem and I felt these lines deep in my soul:
Thank you, Donnetta, for nurturing our writing lives today! I love borrowing lines and had every intention to steal something from our community here. But things changed when I hit the road this morning.
I listen to The Slow Down every morning. The poem Major Jackson read today was “To The Buyer of Our Old Home” by Helen Pruitt Wallace. Her poem resonated with me so the line I used for my modified Golden Shovel is “old limbs keep falling even when no wind stirs.”
On Aging
Old takes some getting used to
limbs and joints crack and pop like floorboards
keep Salon Pas in my pockets and remember
falling down leads to broken hips
even little missteps over nothing can break an old bone
when did all the aches and pains start?
no warning signal or caution alert like a
wind advisory or extreme heat forecast in the body
(stirs cream in coffee and can’t recall what I was about to write)
ⓒStacey L. Joy, 4/26/23
This is delightful – and sobering, Stacey! I can definitely relate. I love the line you borrowed, and I especially love how you wove in the words “no wind” in your golden shovel
Aging is hard and surprising. Loved & chuckled at your last line!
Stacey, you’re speaking my language. Salon pas, CBD ointment, BioFreeze, all those ointments. After breaking my ankle last fall, I know the truth of the missteps and the breaks – – and the popping like floorboards is such a perfect simile! Yes, yes! I pop like a floorboard, too. I love the way your joy and humor shine through your love of Golden Shovels.
Stacey, your imagery is so consistently sharp. I love the joints creaking like floorboards. It’s interesting to see the connections you keep with the original poem as you create something new and beautiful. Also that last parenthetical line is the perfect cherry on top!
Oh, Stacey, I can completely relate to your poem. The falling is definitely a concern, but my favorite part is the end. What a hoot! I often have an idea, but before I can think to record it, it’s gone! “no warning signal” is what’s especially when we think like a we’re forty years younger. Fantastic poem!
Stacey, I love the line you chose for your Golden Shovel. It is wisdom speaking. Your poem is relatable and spells out the aging process with “no warning signal.” I don’t even want to think about memory tricks 😊
Stacey, I have a feeling you’ve perfectly described probably what many of us are going through. Your use of the “perfect words” continues and inspires me. I keep Salon pas in my purse too.
Bravo Lady 👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾
Stacey, it’s so cool that you used a line from a poem in order to set up a structure for the rest of your poem. I especially love how you modified the meaning of limbs from tree branches (if I am understanding the original quote correctly) to human limbs. This is so clever! Thank you for sharing!
Stacey, golden shovels are my favorite way of “borrowing’ lines Thank you for showing up.
I recently shared a slam poem with my creative writing students titled “Dear Future Generations:Sorry” by Prince Ea and I was really struck these words “…the thing about truth is, It can be denied …” However I decided to alter the ending.
https://genius.com/Prince-ea-dear-future-generations-sorry-lyrics
“The thing about truth …
It lives in music
in swelling sonorous symphonies
in dissonance and rage
It inhabits silence
It dwells in art
in waves of emotions splashed across canvas
and in precise sculpted anatomy
in lightness and darkness
in haunting photography of dust and desolation
in swirling colors of agony
in the screams of humanity
It can not be denied
Tammy, truth resonates through each of these. Oh how beautiful is the line, “It inhabits silence” – and I love how this stands as alone.
Tami, your poem reminded me of an assembly when the presenter showed pictures of ancient artwork and ask folks what did the artwork look like. Most in the audience acknowledged the humans in the images had features of people of Black African heritage. Then the speaker revealed where the art s located … all around the world…giving most folks a shock of the visual evidence of African presence so long ago in so many places and with such evidence of talented architecture and sculpture, as well as skillful sailing!
The truth is there in the art, but unfortunately, students told me that many of the teachers spent the next few days denying that what they saw was true. So sad!
Love how truth is expressed in all the art forms because they are a universal language.
Oh, Tammi, I love how you open and end this poem. Your poem offers so many layers of subtext. I love the image of “precise sculpted anatomy” and “photography of dust and desolation”. But your end is a jaw dropper! Love that “in the screams of humanity” followed by “It can not be denied”! Powerful! Thanks for the link, too!
This turned into a tribute to my seniors who will be graduating in just over a month. Thank you for the intriguing and inspiring prompt.
The line I borrowed is from Pablo Neruda’s poem, “There’s No Forgetting.”
…in that long train of impressions / that marks the passing of kindness and time.
At this point in the year
we’ve passed the point of getting to know you’s,
in that long train of impressions
that marks the passing of kindness and time
that an academic year is structured by and
we come to near the end.
No more discussions, conversations,
art projects, quiet questions, and shared ideas,
no more laughing at me when I groan
as yet another announcement interrupts.
Soon you’ll be off to another phase of life
filled with decisions that change courses
and people yet to be met or imagined.
Your life will be fuller than you
thought possible–
filled with adventures, arguments,
adjustments, acceptance, and
accolades that I won’t hear about.
I hope that occasionally you’ll
think fondly of our time together
and that even a few of my
intended life lessons hit their mark.
May you live well and long.
I wish you all the happiness.
What age group do you teach? I teach little ones, elementary, so they don’t all remember me, but when I see or hear about one in the world, I glow with pride. A lovely poem to send your students away with. They will remember you and may even place the poem in a box for their grandchildren to find after they’re gone.
I teach seniors and juniors mostly, but some sophomores, too. I see many around town, but quite a few move away, too.
Cara, such a lovely farewell or caboose on this long train of impressions. I like thinking about the railroad as endless here. That line “yet to be met or imagined” is beautiful for its sound and intention.
Cara,
What a beautiful send tribute to your students. I teach middle school and love it when they come to visit from the high school. I especially connect with this stanza:
I hope that occasionally you’ll
think fondly of our time together
and that even a few of my
intended life lessons hit their mark
I’m always hoping the same thing!
Cara,
This is lovely. I think you should get this looking snazzy via Canva or something similar and give it to each of them.
The overall message and wistful nostagia are what’s best about it, but I do love the perfecting Appropriate list of A words:
How hard it must be to say goodbye to your seniors every year! Ouch – I really don’t know that I could handle it. As a preschool teacher, I had the joy of seeing them in the hallways. This is a season of true goodbyes for you. I wish you well!
Cara, what a beautiful poem of love for your seniors. Sweet, sweet, sweet! “Your life will be fuller than you / thought possible” is a beautiful promise of hope, like a prayer you are gifting them with.
How beautiful, Cara! I get so sentimental at the end of the year. Even though there are always some stinkers, I hope their lives are “filled with adventures, arguments, / adjustments, acceptance, and / accolades”. One of the saddest parts of being a teacher was accepting “that I won’t hear about” all of them. I appreciate this poem and how I can see my own feelings about this time of the year reflected in it.
Stefani B gave me this idea: pull lines from the poems posted on your day to host. So I pulled these lines from those poems written on April 11 when it was prime poetry! I didn’t try to keep the syllable rule going, just pulled lines from poems to remix and create something new. Thanks for sharing this Donnetta — it was a lot of fun!
Prime Sleep
How strong are they?
You fight, Warrior,
but I was way too tired.
Afternoon sun sings a gentle hum,
shining in its moment
softly, a loosening comes
heavy like thick cotton down
lulling life into slumber.
Where did my crucial
motivation run off to?
Where will it lead
us from here?
The sun nudges me awake,
the whisper of glow-yellow
between the spaces —
waiting for the dream.
What a great idea. Did you keep the lines intact like a cento poem? Or mix the words up to create something new? I love the drift off to sleep “lulling life into slumber” and nudges back from a dream…dreamy.
Love this line “Afternoon sun sings a gentle hum”. Feels good to say aloud and to imagine the sun in a melody. That’s a nice nudge, I think.
Erica,
Your poem has such a relaxing quality, especially this stanza:
Afternoon sun sings a gentle hum,
shining in its moment
softly, a loosening comes
heavy like thick cotton down
lulling life into slumber.
Beautiful poem – really, a ‘found’ treasure…love that you pulled lines from many poems.
Erica, clever poem. My favorite stanza is the last one. I love “the whisper of glow-yellow / between the spaces” Lovely!
How wondrous it is to have prime sleep! I love your lines that show how often I feel too tired without motivation. Yet, you show energy in the sun’s glow-yellow of a new day.
I’m borrowing lines from our hostess yesterday, Jessica. They’re bold.
The Road
I’m heading in to the sixties curve with
eager and strength yet with a wee
bit of reluctance
I know to keep the speedometer
in the forties because when you’re on the
road of life, speed and precision matter
I remember that when you’re driving in your twenties
you tend to speed
because the road is clearly laid out and you think
your ebony black hair will always be that way
Once fifty-nine hits, you notice
the once jet black hair is now streaked with gray wisdom
There have been multiple conversations regarding dye, color choices
letting it be and giving in to become a silver fox
As a left handed child, the right lane is my preference
Have never loved speeding even in the beautiful vehicles
I’ve been blessed with over the years
plus pewter is not my thing
Once you’re driving in your forties
the full lips get to slow down and you get to
“fuss less” at your offspring because
they’re little older and as a teacher
I’ve taught them to recognize
caution signs
At forty-five, that rounded waistline and chin hairs come out of nowhere
just like a small zippy car zooming down the highway.
It’s a blessing to age, grow older and enjoy the
road ahead. Provided you’re in a reliable
exceptional vehicle.
How wonderful to see the phrases woven in so meaningfully with the bold text feature as a nod to Jessica.
Seana –You’ve captured the passage of time and aging so beautifully.
Although I’m not 59 yet, I have definitely contemplated dye choices and going gray, and I love the way you describe it as “giving in to the silver fox”. Sound so much sexier than just going gray.
What a fantastic new poem! Love how you wove in these different poems and created this one new beauty.
Seana, I love the analogy of driving to the journey of aging. It’s nice to see Jessica’s lines again today in your poem. I liked them yesterday, and what you did with them today. So funny; I can relate! “that rounded waistline and chin hairs come out of nowhere”
Hi, and thank you, Donnetta, for this great prompt!
The new superintendent would not call a snow day even under
What turned out to be blizzard conditions.
So, tenth graders thought warm, island thoughts
While reading LORD OF THE FLIES.
All day long, class after class envied the British boys
Who struggled to light a fire on the deserted island
But soon had a roaring, blazing (yea, out-of-control) fire.
By the time the final bell rang, admin realized the doors were snowed shut.
We would be overnighting in classrooms.
For pillows we would use the selfsame paperback
Copies of LORD OF THE FLIES, which we read earlier in the day..
(They were much more user-friendly than the honking,
hardback 10th grade literature textbooks).
As students settled into awkward sleeping positions,
“The debate raged over whether you could absorb an entire book
Or had to sleep on a page at a time.”*
*adapted from “Middle School Science” by Cara F.
April VerseLove 2023
Katrina, is this a true story? The book to life parallels of power and wisdom and survival are so nicely crafted, and the quotes and parentheses add so many touches of truth, so I think this is no fiction.
Katrina,
I have to know too! Inquiring minds want to know!
Thankfully this is not a true story.
Thankfully this is not a true story.
Katrina,
Lord of the Flies is one of my favorite books to teach. However, using a copy of the book as my pillow would make me enjoy it much less. I hope this isn’t a true tale. 🙁
Thankfully this is not a true story.
“We would be overnighting in classrooms.
For pillows we would use the selfsame paperback ” !!
This is wild. A whole new meaning of ‘sleep on a page at a time.’
Oh, Katrina, What a story! OMG. Is this nonfiction or fiction? It’s amazing either way, but if true….yikes! Cara’s lines at the end of your poem are so perfect.
Thankfully this is not a true story.
People Will See
I try to follow the rules
toward a life reshaped.
It I take the curve out
you say I am more aligned
yet it makes me rigid.
From lonliness to fellowship
is a significant transition
to wearing a mask.
You say I am more adjusted
based on what others want.
How do I show my heart
to a world that’s already bleeding
when I have such ragged edges?
You say my heart is solid
if I stop trying to control.
I need to live large, gamble wildly
find joy in the moments.
I want to laugh loudly
at the wrong moments
even if
you say people will turn and look.
(quote in italics from Madison Morrigan)
Susan,
“How do I show my heart/ to a world that’s already bleeding/when I have such ragged edges?” — There is so much vulnerability expressed in these lines.
Your poem really hits upon the dichotomy that often exists between the heart and mind,between what is expected of us in society and what we might desire.
Wow, I love the conversation of what you do and need and then the answer “You say” It could be a muse, a friend, an ancestor or anyone, and it’s okay to not know. I like the good advice you get and your determination to “I need to live large, gamble wildly / find joy in the moments…” and more. Wonderful!
I love those lines – – how do I show my heart to a world that’s already bleeding? – oh, I had to read again on that one, and really think about the impact of those words. Powerful. We are all hurting and it’s hard to see the hurt of others sometimes.
I would take Marianne Moore’s line from “Poetry,”
you know the one about the “imaginary gardens
with real toads in them,” and my idea would be
to dig deep into the fertile soil of Ethical ELA
to plant our own imaginary garden and fill it
with real toads, just litter it with them, let this
imaginary garden be filthy with them, toads
of all sorts, toads that are “curved like humpback
whales” wearing “Doc Marten knock-offs,”
“freckled [and] speckled,” “destined for root canals,”
toads with “thin calves,” “crossed [and] twined” fingers,
“listen,” these toads will be “compulsive, energetic,
hungry,” and have you seen their “pointy el>
bows,” these toads will be “quirky” and “caring,”
“governed by [the] moon and stars,” and,
oh, yeah, make no mistake about it,
they’ll be “super speller[s]” by the by,
they will be “empathetic and stubborn”
“friendly and fierce” a “cohesive crew
[that’ll] have each other’s backs”
“sensitive [and] strong,” “sassy and independent”
(“I think” I’m “refiguring [my] adjectives right now”)
they’ll be “reserved [yet] sharp-tongue[d]” and
“distinctive in their [own] way”
these toads, all of them, will not be “forsaken”
or “selfish” not “bloated [with] bigot[ry] or “inflated [desp]air,”
no, they will be “soft-spoken [with] clear voice[s],”
these toads, you’ve never seen such wonderful toads,
a veritable cornucopia of toads, which, granted, would
be kinda wierd, how did they get in there? No matter,
this knot of toads (some of which have “loonnnggg hair”
are “left-handed” which may or may not be “idle” and
did I mention all the “freckles”?) will take the “time and
energy” to make this garden a “refuge” for “generations,”
a place of “hope” “shared” together, “gifted” to each other,
this place, this “forever” place that is “double stranded”
with hope and “being,” “pulsing and poeming in [our] veins”
let this garden, our VerseLove Garden upset the Hanging
Gardens of Babylon and become a new Wonder of the World,
just with “many more” toads. So many more toads.
_________________________________________________
Thanks to the following poets for being toads in my imaginary garden – sorry, that may have come out wrong, lol: Cara F, Rachel S, Wendy Everard, Stefani B, Maureen Y Ingram, Susie Morice, Denise Krebs, Susan O, Bryan Crandall, Gayle Sands, Glenda Funk, Jennifer, Kim Johnson, Margaret Simon, Fran Haley, Jennifer Guyor Jowett, Kevin Hodgson, Angie Braaten, Joanne Emery, Barb Edler, Ann Burg, Leilya Pitre, Boxer, Anna J. Small Roseboro, Sarah J. Donovan, Jordan S, Emily Cohn, Amber, Seana Hurd Wright, Susan Ahlbrand, Katrina Morrison, Mo Daley, Dave Wooley, Stacey Joy, Jamie Langley, Laura Langley, Allison Berryhill, Donnetta, Jessica, and Rachelle
Scott, I am honored the be one of the toads in your imaginary garden. I absolutely love how you weaved some many of our lines into this poem. This is definitely a garden I enjoy being a part of.
Oh my, Scott! I have just read all these words yesterday. What a beautiful collections of pearls from the “VerseLove garden.” I love how you bring it to the point where “our VerseLove Garden upset the Hanging / Gardens of Babylon and become a new Wonder of the World.” Indeed, there just “so many toads.” Thank you for this treat!
Brilliant! You incorporated so many unique voices into this garden. I’ve never been so happy to be a toad, lol.
Scott – your imaginary garden is a wondrous place, full of color so exotic that I stand gaping in awe, as a good toad should. Your brain. Your ideas. Your artistry. This poem, just astounding itself, venerating our unrivaled VerseLove garden of real toads…thank you. It is the first time in my life I can recall being moved by the vision of multitudes of toads and longing for more of them!!
a “refuge” for “generations,”
a place of “hope” “shared” together, “gifted” to each other,
this place, this “forever” place
—it is, it is, indeed, this place.
Oh, my goodness, Scott! I love this. I saw my thin calved toad, and Stefani’s “pointy el>
bow” toad and so many more! What fun. Clever!
What Donnetta said! Thank you for making us (warts and all) feel at home in this “imaginary garden”
Honored to contribute to the gathering of toads in these lines, Scott. What a sweet way to surface beautiful phrases across hundreds of poems so like the freckles and strands and pulses that you have used to “let this imaginary garden be filthy with”. And I am confident in ending that sentence with a preposition.
Scott,
Leave it to you to create this masterpiece and have us all so dang proud to be called a toad. And, you probably threw this together in mere minutes.
This space is so special. The things we share . . . you can’t put a price on it. I am in awe but the respect and affirmation everyone shares. And your garden captures it all.
Oh, what a joy to be a toad in your garden!!! Yaaaay!! I am in awe at how you crafted this amazing poem with ALL these voices croaking of joy! You and your poem are a treasure trove, Scott!
Scott,
This is delightful! I love this toad garden and what you’ve done to create the fascination of toads whose voices I can hear….calling from the imaginary garden, with plenty of the sounds of the swampy wetlands at night.
Thanks for including all of us, Scott! This was a joy to read and imagine 🙂
Donnetta, glad my line is living on!! I love your poem & the hopeful ending: “Only God can.”
I took my first line from a book I just started reading, Tress of the Emerald Sea by Brandon Sanderson. It sounded too fun to just leave sitting there!!
Roll On
If you’re the sort of barbarian who enjoys slant rhymes
I’m sure you also color outside the lines
You brush your teeth after you floss
And often wear mismatched socks
You bike on the wrong side of the street
And drive on the freeway at half speed
You put ketchup on your tacos
And sing church hymns in vibrato
You like to wear beanies in the summer
And of all the early Christmas-ers, you’re the most stubborn
But hey, if that’s the way you roll
Props to you for having so much soul!
Rachel, your poem brought such a huge smile to my face! I feel so seen, hahaha! What you drew from your line of inspiration is wonderful – the way you actually affirm the things we “barbarians” enjoy is delightful. Thank you for sharing this.
Thanks Rachel for describing me with color outside the lines, mismatched socks, the flossing, biking, slow driving, ketchup, and singing. You describe me perfectly except for the beanie which I have but refuse to wear in our hot summers. Your poem is fun, fun, fun!
Rachel your poem IS so fun. Your poem affirms that its okay to be who we are. #DoYouBoo LOL Thank you.
Rachel, I was reeled in from the 1st couplet. I love how you cleverly keep that pattern throughout the poem. Mostly, though, I really appreciate the celebration of quirkiness that so defines the creative.
Rachel, your poem makes me want to do two things. 1. Read your next poem. 2. Check out Trees of the Emerald Sea.
I wasn’t sure where to find inspiration today, so I scrolled to a random poem today and borrowed the first line that spoke to me. 1,000 thanks to moonc64icloudcom for providing a line that I found utterly delicious. And 1,000 thanks to Donnetta for providing us with this interesting prompt. Finding inspiration in the beautiful words of other poets is a beautiful act!
[So wrong that it’s right]
Words flowing through the unsuspecting
You never imagined that I would spill
My own tea in such a careless, almost
Absent minded manner.
But is there a need to follow the
Perceived carnage with a clean up?
My mind screams yes! as the Type 1 introvert
Attempts to apply reason to the unreasonable.
But the flood has burst right through
A dam never meant to hold such ideas back.
Damage done. Layers of shame pouring through
The cracks. I feel so wrong that it’s right.
James, I agree that the process of going through these poems to find inspiration is a beautiful task. I really appreciate your poem and how it hints at writing as an act of catharsis. I definitely feel this deeply!
James, I have so enjoyed your poetry this month because I can feel your joy in crafting verse. This play in the enjambment “with would spill/My own tea” shows the way you are creating layers of meaning in the literal and figurative. Just clever. Fun. Thoughtful. Thank you..
James, I appreciate that you share something that I sometimes forget…
It reminds me of a friend of mine who is a writer and she said (or quoted someone) that people in her life better behave because she will surely share the truth about them in her writing. LOL.
We should all be able to let the dam break. I love this, James.
Wow, James, your poem is about something so rich and important and maybe also about a spilled cup of tea. That last stanza is full. Words poured out, libations of wonder.
Donnetta, thank you for hosting today and helping us make these connections. I borrowed my lines from titles used when I hosted last week.
Borrowed Titles: Found poem from #verselove 4/19
holding hands with poems
nothing so lonely as alone
mirror image
press eject
better left unsaid
decoration day
rainbow of noises
glass pitcher of water
ode to my summer
magnolia blooms
savage sequoia
autumn leaf
homecoming
aging
sheology
incognito
election season
heaven
being armed
unititled, entitled
freedom
she doesn’t need my title
notable student
a little bit about loss
my identity
french horn
song cycling
while drawing a nipple
time to let the dogs out
can’t live without it
cutting curbs
poetry’s funeral
Stefani, I bet it was fun to create this poem from your day of hosting. I love the way this poem flows and the contrasting emotions and images it evokes. I actually knew whose poems some of these titles came from and remember reading various parts which was fascinating for me as a reader. The way you end your poem is particularly evocative. Very clever response to today’s prompt.
Stefani, I enjoyed this lyrical twisting, turning poem. I was never sure where it was heading, but did I ever enjoy the journey. The first two lines were almost haunting in a way – “holding hands with poems / nothing so lonely as alone” – these are the kinds of beautiful words that transcend their meaning and elevate into something breathtaking.
Boxer wrote these lines:
And I want to try a poem using that frame:
Whatever I Write
I can become whatever I write.
Once I was a junk drawer judge
hating on Koozies.
I can become whatever I write.
Once I was an Oklahoman rainmaker
willing scarcity into a torrent.
I can become whatever I write.
Once I was propaganda exposer
crafting a pantoum of scattered ashes.
I can become whatever I write.
Once I was on island time
resisting tick-ticks of tocks, a haven.
I can become whatever I write.
Or is it that whatever I write
becomes whatever I am.
Sarah, I applaud you for how you were able to pull in details from other poems you’ve written this month to help create this poem. I love your first line! Fantastic use of your work! Loved it!
Sarah, first, I am laughing that you are reusing koozie again…practice makes perfect;) I love that you’ve drawn upon your previous words to demonstrate the possibilities of worlds brought to us with poetry. Thank you for sharing.
Sarah, I am in awe of this poem. You move so seamlessly verse to verse, creating something new in each stanza while never losing sight of the poem as a whole. Your last stanza is wonderful, and caps off everything in such a touching, heartfelt way.
What a perfect way to circle back to a few of the poems you wrote, Sarah. I headed over to my “gold mining” page and added “I am whatever I write” as a nugget to use for the future. I’m fearful that I will hesitate to do so because you pulled it off to such perfection. And then you land on something so good . . .
I love everything about how you crafted this from other poems you’ve written during VerseLove. That line resisting tick-ticks of tocks, a haven – – it sticks with me, the beat of the drummer determining the pace. And the final stanza. What a mindbender.
Sarah, I love your stress on the empowerment of language in the phrase, “I can become whatever I write.” I’m still cogitating on “whatever I write becomes whatever I am.”
Sarah, what a perfect summary of your #verselove poems this week. I smiled as I read all that you could become, especially that first one which was a snorter for me. Then that last stanza gives me existential vibes, and I see its truth.
Sarah, clearly, you absorb the contents/themes/ideas of poems here better than I can ever imagine. I tend to forget the best of the best in a matter of hours. (Blame my brain, not my heart.)
Wow, this is a phenomenal way to honor the various voices here in April. Now, I’m pondering the last stanza. That’s deep!
Your poem highlights such an important social issue. “Live life hard” resonates! My first two lines are from Debra Marquart’s poem “Chill Factor” in her book Small Buried Things.
It’s Too Late
hushed as if fearing microphones
in the walls crazy talk, really
a frantic chill crawls
believing the radio’s listening
what have you taken?
lies writhe like poisonous snakes
strike nothing matters anymore
a window rattles sun pierces
blinding from sudden steeled clouds
how can I help you?
breathing an impossibility
like midwest humidity swallows whole
victims clawing through layers of hate;
toxins impatient to destroy
can you save him?
Barb Edler
26 April 2023
Barb,
I am sort of haunted by the spaces within these stanzas, extra spaces for breath, for the words to linger a bit. Very moving for me. Right? The sound rests after “nothing” and reverberates in that space after rattles. Clever.
And the italics are haunting in the lower case, too. The questions, of course, cannot be answered or rather, it seems, have been in the “toxins impatient to destroy.”
Very moving for me.
Sarah
Barb, your spacing if effective here, it slowed me down and let your phrases sink in. Your image of the humidity and clawing out are my favorite. Thank you for sharing.
Barb, those italicized questions, the fear, the hopeful hopelessness, and the way this reads it feels like coming out of anesthesia after surgery, where you can hear but you can’t process what’s being said -these spaces of time in between questions, the thoughts flowing scattered and deep and shallow all at once, fragmented – that semi-here, semi-not state where the world is a blur. It’s phenomenal, emotion-laden, deep. And then that last question, and the title. Realization.
Barb,
The species mid-line, the caesuras, echo the breaking of people, the suffocating humidity, which I know well. So many possibilities in this line full of ambiguity:
“lies writhe like poisonous snakes”
are these lies only one individual believes or are they lies the masses swallow?
Mand isn’t this the postmodern dilemma?
“nothing matters anymore”
Hard to have hope thinking about that.
Did you see the news from Montana today? What they’re doing to a transgender legislator? Here’s the line for that tragedy:
“victims clawing through layers of hate;”
Brilliant poem. I gave much to contemplate.
Barb, the imagery is visceral…especially the questions, as if posed to someone who’s overdosed, and then to a doctor at the end. These words “clawed” at me most: “toxins impatient to destroy.” I note its proximity to “hate” – and it is so, so true. Raw and powerful poem!
Barb, this is so chilling. “What have you taken? / lies write like poisonous snakes strike nothing”
I hope I’m not being presumptuous to hope for a collection of poems about this abiding chapter in your life. Peace to you.
Barb, I really loved the pauses within your lines — to me, they read as halting and added to the breathless, claustrophobic feel of this piece!
Wow. Barb, I have read this several times and I am simply awed. I love how you take the spaces of those first two ‘borrowed’ lines and repeat these, adding this repetitive tension throughout the poem. That last question, followed by “breathing an impossibility” – I get more chills with every reading. Just gorgeous and thought-provoking. Thank you for this poem!
Barb! Here I go again with your poem giving me chills! You are so darn good at creating a deep wondering, longing. At first, I thought this was related to dementia because my friend’s mom always thought someone was listening when no one was there. But the turn to the snakes writhing…oh oh oh!
My second-grade teacher Mrs. Bennett at Atwater Elementary School read this poem to me. It has stayed in my heart ever since. This poem along with The Nobody loves me – worm song has help define my personality. The talent on Ethical Ela is remarkable, I enjoy reading all the poems!
Ladles and Jellyspoons,
I come before you, to stand behind you,
To tell you something I know nothing about.
Next Thursday, which is Good Friday,
There will be a mothers’ meeting for fathers only.
Admission is free, pay at the door,
Pull up a seat and sit on the floor.
We will be discussing the four corners of the round table.
Author: Unknown
UNTIDALED
EYE
Come before you, to stand behind you,
To tell you lies, that are always true.
from the farthest side of the earth,
Aging backwards from birth.
Riding condors to the clouds,
Writing so quiet, it’s loud.
Eating spaghetti with the devil,
Using dirt to dig up shovels.
So wrong that it’s right,
Decisive when I say I might?
Not left is still right,
But not slow is not bright.
Wrestle one dentist a day,
To keep orange apples away!
Knack knit for the pity- pat,
cross the road in front of black cats!
round the bus on the wheels,
play my cards before they deal.
I’m the only person to rhyme with purple,
‘ Cause I named my boll weevil Turple!
turning smiles upside down,
Saving fish that almost drown.
Turning frowns downside up,
Drink from plates and eat from cups.
Got Sasquatch’s phone number,
Make pickles into Cucumbers.
Doing stationary flips,
Letting go with tight grips.
Ladders walk under me,
Mirrors uncrack when it’s me they see.
I break the crack’s back,
And momma invented the tic tac!
All around the world except for here,
I’ll go far but still be near.
So will not rhyme any more today,
I’ll just whistle what I say.
Whssst whsst whsst!!
Whsst whsst Whsst!
Now, I hope you can understand,
I’m a homeboy poet.
From a foreign land!
– Boxer
Boxer, this is so fun and the first poem caught me off guard, I had to reread and fully process the wit and creativity it brings. then your version is spot on with four corners! Thank you for sharing here today.
The dirt road mystic strikes again. Hot, hot, hot ~ you’re on fire today, Boxer! I love these twists with truths and opposites. I like how you related it to a childhood poem and challenged yourself to use it as a mentor text.
Boxer, this was bonkers in the best way possible — what a romp!!! My fave:
“I’m the only person to rhyme with purple,
‘ Cause I named my boll weevil Turple!”
Haha!!
Donnetta, thank you for this prompt and the invitation to look back at all the brilliant poetry that has been written this month!
I borrowed the line “death is afraid of poetry” from Stacey Joy from the “Why do you write poetry?” prompt. I love that line!!!
You scared?
Death is afraid of poetry
and I intend to keep him on
his heels
Radio Raheem him with
a flurry of love punches
Get him on the ropes and
Death goes down!
I know he’ll take the standing
eight count and come back swinging,
but death is afraid of poetry
and I got some bolts in my quiver,
some lines and verses to keep him
in a jam, I meant
I can sling shots and shoot arrows,
penetrating the veneer of invincibility,
inevitability, disease and despair.
Death thinks he’s winning,
he can take a good look around
and grin his death grin,
counting the receipts
but Death is afraid of poetry,
and he can’t handle the truth–
what did John Donne say?
Death dwells with the weakest
partners–poison, war, and sickness,
and probably insecure dudes with AR-15s
who got some phallic issues and a creeping
fear of history. and just like them,
Death is afraid of poetry
and justice, poetic justice,
and Death should be afraid
I’ve been sharpening my sword and
I’m too ‘Pac, I’m too BIG
I got a slick tongue
and a good NAS ear,
and my pen never sleeps,
cuz sleep is the cousin of death.
Dave,
I also loved that phrase from Stacey, and you take such good care of it here in the personification but sort of refusal to speak directly to it, sort of like Death is listening in secretly and you know Death is listening. And those last lines “and my pen never sleeps,/cuz sleep is the cousin of death.” Write, right? That is what we are all doing here.
Love it,
Sarah
Dave!!! Death is gonna mess around and find out!!!…LOL. By these lines, Death had better recognize that you can handle yours. I love this poem and all the references to Wordsmiths-Gone-Too-Soon!!
Dave, this is incredible! Where do I even start?? Radio Raheem Death with a flurry of love punches-! I especially love this:
Death thinks he’s winning,
he can take a good look around
and grin his death grin,
counting the receipts
but Death is afraid of poetry
and this:
Death is afraid of poetry
and justice, poetic justice
and the nod to the rappers and your pen never sleeping because sleep is the cousin of death.
In a word: profound! I keep rereading it to see Death put in his place over and over again by poetry…no wonder he’s scared.
Dave,
Snaps and claps — amazing!
Dave, I love this! Your third stanza especially. You have such a flow and rhythm here: “I can sling shots and shoot arrows, / penetrating the veneer of invincibility, / inevitability, disease and despair.” And then you reference Donne and “‘Pac” and “BIG” and “NAS” so effortlessly. Just so cool!
Thank you Donetta! I love this prompt and wish I had more time for it this morning. (I’ll make more later.) “People we love Live life hard” really struck a chord with me today as several tragedies have occurred in the life of family and friends lately.
I borrowed a line from one of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver. (the last line)
A Bird’s Life
Today I watched you, Golden Crested Sparrow
Pick at the seeds
I left out by my garden.
Horns honked nearby
A police siren flew by.
But you didn’t stop eating
Until I stepped closer
And you flew away.
Just to be alive on this fresh morning
In this broken world.
Emily, your poem is beautiful despite that time you didn’t have. Thank you for sharing.
Emily,
Lovely!! What a beautiful picture you paint.
Oh, I love how your context reshapes the Oliver lines. They are some of my favorites. Is that from Evidence? Wow! Your theme of survival here is strongly felt.
I like the way the siren flew by…and the bird stayed. There is a stillness that I appreciate here.
I’m still thinking about the words which prompted your poem – “love Live life hard.” Your simple act of watching the bird eat the seeds you left, while the hard world of horns, and a siren pass. Your close presence prompted action more than those hard sounds. Lovely moment captured in your words.
Emily, I love how your poem is a short moment in time, yet so much happens. Reminds me of the need to slow down and notice what is happening around me, especially the little things in nature.
Thank you, Donetta! I borrowed two lines from Jennifer Guyor Jewett’s inspirational poem “Grammatically Ungrammatical” earlier this month (April 4, 2023) – this poem has lingered with me. Her lines were-
blinking our reflection,
there and gone
Here’s my poem –
not just here
throwing sticks in the creek
picking wild buttercups
making our way together
blinking our reflection
there and gone
was I not just here with
her father?
I want you to slide with me
her tender ask
my follow through
climbing playscape ladder
made for those more limber
squeezing myself into place
sheer surprise of a soar
wait, was I not just here
myself?
blinking my reflection
there and gone
I love this. I find myself thinking back to the joy I had as a kid and the ability and desire to play.
Maureen, I love the image of being there and then gone. Your opening imagery help pull me immediately into your poem. Loved “her tender ask” Sometimes what we are asked to do is not always so easy. Loved your use of repetition, too. Powerful and evocative poem!
Maureen, those flashbacks that seem like yesterday you capture here in the blink of an eye – – things change so quickly that the soar down the slide becomes a symbol of the passage of time and the speed at which it passes.
Maureen,
Im always amazed by how quickly a moment passes, especially those we want to savor and remember most. Yes, we bunk and it’s past.
Wow, what a beautiful use of Jennifer’s “blinking my reflection / there and gone” Wow! Such a glorious poem about aging and the generations that follow us. “her tender ask” is a lovely phrase. (Your poem reminds me of Margaret’s poems lately.)
Maureen,
Ohmigosh, I just loved that ending:
“wait, was I not just here
myself?
blinking my reflection
there and gone”
Made me tear up! Relatable.
Maureen–I love this looking back as you look forward. So beautiful!
Donetta, I’ve borrowed a line from you poem and climbed up on my soapbox. Your line is bolded.
What Matters?
The life they choose.
Will they win or lose?
It all depends on what winning means.
Let’s look at a couple of scenes.
Does it mean money?
Or getting a Honey?
Does it mean gaining knowledge
By going to college?
Is college the only way to win?
So what if their wallet is thin!
What if they have an artistic talent;
One that improves by doing.
The one they do and keep shooing
Us out of the room while they do it.
Lots to think about lots to posit,
Encourage all to bring dreams out of the closet.
Along the way, whatever the choice,
Choose to be nice.
Don’t have to think twice.
Just do it!
Anna, I love what you have done with lines; how you weaved into actually choices that have to be made in life and make a life. Thank you, and I honored you use one of my lines.
Anna, your rhymes in here are gold!! Loved this!
Whoosh!
The hole has sucked me in
and there are white rabbits
late for economic anxiety.
What I’m finding is Sloane,
thirteen and in Louisville
writing through the mass shooting
at Old National Bank:
There are people here. Do you see them?
after “There Are Birds Here” by Jamaal May,
in conversation with Nikki Giovanni: they’ll
probably talk about my hard childhood
and never understand that
all the while I was quite happy,
inspiring an anthology Black in the Middle —
they know what they’ve lived —
we can eat the cake that slow down weathering
and drink their told stories to swell deserved pride.
Amber, I read this a few times, intrigued by the voice(s), inspiration of Nikki Giovanni, and my nostalgia for Louisville (with all the tragedies it continues to endure).
Indeed they do….this poem is robust!
Amber,
Oof. Man, these were some powerful words and sentiments. Beautiful poem.
I love a poem that begins with Whoosh! and invites us to eat cake and drink told stories. Mostly I want to drink the told stories.
Donnetta — lots of thoughts tumbling in your poem, giving me things to think about. Thanks for your prompt and the chance to honor singular lines that speak to us — though not always landing us where we thought we’d go…this poem wrote itself after I read the student poem shared by Angie and written by her student Peter.
I typed the first line and let it lead me where it wanted to go.
For day breaks at dawn,
the elder wrote,
then closed the book
satisfied
that truth
had been recorded,
and hope
would be
pressed and preserved
like a precious flower.
The elder’s book
passed down
for generations
to workers in the field,
and warriors in battle,
sweat-marked,
blood-stained,
the elder’s book
passed down
for generations
until one dark morning
in the third millennium,
books were banned
and the elder’s pages
burned
like dried petals turned to ash.
That year, day broke
without hope.
Oh, Ann, this is haunting. Wow, I can’t believe that line took you on this beautiful journey. I feel a verse novel coming.
Ann, this is what I’m carrying with me today…all day…with inspiration…
Everything about this poem is gorgeous: its timing, its rhythm, its wording.
Wow, Ann, you did a whole thing here!! Omg, beautiful, devastating.
“until one dark morning
in the third millennium,
books were banned
and the elder’s pages
burned
like dried petals turned to ash”
what a look into the “future”, amazing. I love “elder” in this poem. Glad you were inspired by a line from Peter’s poem. I will share this with him. He will really appreciate it!
Ann, your poem reminds me of The Handmaid’s Tale. Its chilling and full of ominous emotions. I feel the petals turning to ash, the dark morning, and days filled without hope. Truly remarkable poem! Thank you!
This is so frighteningly real, and scary beautiful. Those last two lines! Wow.
Ann, this was terrific, cryptic, and positively apocalytptic!
Day broke without hope. Books were banned and burned. Prophetic – and you probably nailed truth for the coming years.
Donetta,
What an awesome prompt for us to visit today. Endless options (which is sometimes a problem for me).
I love your poem. I spend a lot of time thinking about generational poetry, abuse, etc. and how some people manage to change its course while others follow, unfortunately, into the negative pattern. I’m drawn especially to these lines:
“History—memory—is, by definition, fiction.”
. Rebecca Serle One Italian Summer
Memory’s Imprint
In my education classes,
it was called Revisionist History.
Malcolm Gladwell even has
his own podcast with that title.
He revisits events and breaks down
how details of key happenings morph
when we look at them through
the lens of time.
The same happens at the micro level . . .
our lives.
We remember things the way we want to,
filtering,
editing,
revising,
censoring
things to fit our needs.
Distorting details,
adding dishonesties
I’m sure there’s a lot of brain science
emerging to explain this phenomenon.
We know so little about the brain.
I’ve head it said . . .
“Memory is a form of storytelling.”
And the more we tell that story,
the more we embellish it
adding things that
add entertainment value
or cause for sympathy.
Sometimes, the new version is worse
than the real events,
sometimes, the new version is better.
We take the bits and pieces that
velcroed to our hearts and make them
core characters, significant events,
when maybe they weren’t.
But, maybe they were.
Our memories, just like history,
can’t always be trusted.
Fictional elements blend in
with the facts.
I guess our life stories
would fall under the genre
of historical fiction.
I wish I could trust
my life story.
It’s who I am.
I want to leave behind
a memoir of moments
that match reality.
I guess my version will
have to do.
~Susan Ahlbrand
26 April 2023
Susan, wow. So much truth here. I love how you wander through these feelings and brain questions in your poem. You really got me thinking about these ideas today too. I love: “We take the bits and pieces that
velcroed to our hearts…” and sometimes make them more than they really were.
My husband is an enthusiastic storyteller, and I try not to always stifle the wind in his sails. Sometimes though, I’ll be saying, “It is was really $59 dollars.” Or, “it only got up to 126 degrees once while we lived there.” Or a myriad of other observable details that he often exaggerates.
“I guess my version will have to do” is a great conclusion because that is all your loved ones would want.
Excellent poem, Susan.
“Our memories, just like history,
can’t always be trusted.
Fictional elements blend in
with the facts.”
ain’t this the truth. I can’t trust my memories, that’s for sure. I also love how you describe our lives as “historical fiction” – such an interesting place your poem went today!
Donnetta, Thank you for this prompt. Your poem gave me lots of food for thought.
I borrowed my title “Be Totally There” from a poem entitled “Each Moment is Precious” by Pat Fleming.
Be Totally There
As you arise in the morning
and turn off the alarm,
listen for the birds and
their individual charm.
Be Totally There
When you sit at the table
and begin to eat,
notice the texture
the savory, the sweet.
Be Totally There
While talking on the telephone
don’t try to multitask.
Please listen to me.
Is that too much to ask?
Be Totally There
And when your eyes begin to close
before you go to bed,
release all those nagging thoughts
remove them from your head.
Be Totally There
Love the repetition, Rita, and living by the motto of being present. It’s the best we can do, no?
What a great reminder, Rita, to be totally there as it seems I am always wondering and worrying about something outside the moment (except maybe when I’m eating.,.then I see able to concentrate on the savory and the sweet) 😉. A lovely poem and that started the day with a smile!
Rita, this is lovely. “Be Totally There” sandwiching some great advice. I like the short and sweet rhyming stanza form you wrote with today. I’m listening to the birds now, and I need to learn from the advice about noticing the food I eat. Today!
Ah yes, this is a poem of words to live by, Rita. Awesome.
“release all those nagging thoughts
remove them from your head.” I love these lines especially, sometimes it’s so hard to do but the way you have worded it invites us to. Thank you!
Rita, oh, I do love the way you’ve created this poem. It shares such an important message, and I love the way this flows so artlessly. Yes, let those nagging thoughts go! We all need to remember these important moments to savor. Listening is such an important key.
I love this, Rita! Your refrain line is so perfect and how often we forget to do just that. I love how you bookend the poem with the start and the end of the day. Being as verbose of a poet as I am, I’m sure I would have added many, many more middle stanzas trying to capture way too many moments between the start and end. You kept it just the right length!
Rita,
I love your poem. Preach it! “Be totally there.” The cell phone stanza is my favorite. You should write a picture book called “Be Totally There.”
Your poem reads like a meditation. Maybe all poems do. I believe in the value of being present. Try to remind my students sometimes when they are wrapped in drama. I particularly love the final stanza. The time I find I’m drawn to meditation. Clearing my mind so I may find rest.
Donnetta, that was fun. Your poem is so powerful. The short clipped lines are difficult to read. Sometimes I just cry out for God to save us from ourselves. I borrowed the last line of Stacey Joy’s genetic cinquain poem for my title today.
Their Heir
How else would I know
Where this work ethic came from
Or the demand to be cute at all costs
Or this wide nose
How else would I know
That this desert is where I would take off
Or that wisdom is here in this time
Or that cheese makes everything taste better
I’m their heir
Denise….is it gorgonzola? Have you made gorgonzola sauce for meatballs? I’m not an heir and this inquiring mind needs to know “that cheese” that “makes everything taste better.”
Haha, Bryan, I just used one that–any old cheese will do–sharp cheddar, gorgonzola, Parmesan, ricotta, cottage, Colby Jack, brie, Swiss, cream! Take your pick!
Denise, I love how you move from something expansive and full of possible meaning like
“That this desert is where I would take off”
and end the stanza with something more simple but equally important if we’re being honest “Or that cheese makes everything taste better”
lovely poem!
Denise, I love your poem, and the twist at the end to something so funny is a surprise. I am drawn to the lines: “That this desert is where I would take off
Or that wisdom is here in this time”. I’m thinking this could be about your current place in life, but perhaps something much larger, too.
Denise,
Your poem honors your parents beautifully. You are a cute desert girl, and cheese does make everything taste better.
“I’m their heir” – fabulous! I am fascinated by the juxtaposition of
Awww, Denise, thanks for giving my two words a special home in your title for your poem. I feel like I learned so much about you from these two stanzas! And most definitely, cheese is the bees’ knees! I love this and you too, Denise!
I love this prompt, Donnetta. It was fun to read through some of the poems I have saved so that I could find a line to inspire my poem. This line, “in the bright kingdom of my imagination,” comes from Jehanne Dubrow’s “Fairy Tale with Laryngitis and Resignation Letter.”
The bright kingdom of my imagination
In the bright kingdom of my imagination,
loved ones don’t leave.
In the bright kingdom of my imagination,
every student follows
all the directions I give them.
In the bright kingdom of my imagination,
my friends don’t suffer
at the hands of people
they should be able to trust.
In the bright kingdom of my imagination,
my future is happy with promises
of a rewarding career,
loving husband,
well-rounded children.
In the bright kingdom of my imagination,
I have plenty of time
to read books
to talk with friends
to pray and read my Bible
to enjoy life’s beautiful things.
In the bright kingdom of my imagination,
I can imagine a better world
and look for ways I can make
the world better.
Larin, how lovely is the kingdom of your imagination! I especially liked
“In the bright kingdom of my imagination,
I can imagine a better world”
I may have to spend some time in that kingdom tonight and imagine all the possibilities in my life.
Oh, Larin, I want to write a poem about what happens “in the bright kingdom of my imagination” This is so interesting–my mind went in a different way, but I like how you went a serious route, with a look into so many important hopes in your life. I especially like how in the last stanza your imaginative kingdom is calling you to action to make those things happen.
Hi Donnetta, thank you for the prompt today. I love what you do in such short lines with your poem and how you’ve made “Can we change it’s course?” your own. Today I’m tipping my hat to the history making Ada Limón.
What’s your song?
My song is not a song.
I don’t listen to music much,
but I do love a good beat,
words too fast for me to sing.
My song is a good book
that stays on my mind even when I’m done reading
that teaches me things I should have learned years ago.
My song is a hike that fills my bones with sustenance, my perspective with things literally larger than me so I never forget my place in this wide, wide world.
My song is family time that doesn’t happen often enough
but when it does, I feel loved.
My song is justice shown to those who deserve it, in the poetic form.
My song is a poem that makes me feel known,
a connection made so I know I’m not alone.
That song that’s sung when it’s too
hard to go on…
*Last line is from Ada Limón’s “A New National Anthem” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/147506/a-new-national-anthem
Angie, I just love this format. I am a former music teacher and music is still so important to me. This makes me want to write my song.
“My song is a hike that fills my bones with sustenance, my perspective with things literally larger than me so I never forget my place in this wide, wide world.”
These lines remind me to get out in nature more since I find it so inspirational. Although hiking is not in my future…more of a leisurely walk.
Oh, Angie, I’m crying over here with this beauty:
Amen and amen to this stanza. It is why I’m here.
Your beautiful “My song is…” anaphora lines are making me want to write this poem too. And Ada Limon’s line to finish yours is icing on the cake.
Hi Angie! Your student Peter’s poem gave me the first line of my poem for today. Between your poem and his, I feel a great longing for a better world where we learn the lessons we “should have learned years ago”. Thanks for your poem ~ and thank Peter too.
Angie,
Huge Ada Limón fan here. You honor her lines. I love music but will choose an audiobook over a tune mode days.Today is the first day I’ve been outside w/out a coat in over seven months, so I’m singing the hiking song today.
Angie – cheers to Limón for sheer glory in every line she writes and and to you for reflecting it here in this spectacular poem-song. A good book, a hike, family time, justice, a poem…all a song that is sung when it is too. hard to go on, for these all pull us onward. Love, love, love this. I sing it, too!
After the Fire
–For students, faculty, and staff at Highland High School, Pocatello, Idaho.
Every school teaches “we’re number 1.” Though often we finish behind first place,
we don’t tell our students we’re number 2 or 3 or 4 or last.
We teach possibility and hope.
We teach getting back up and trying again,
Trying again until we reach the summit of
each hill we’re climbing on the field and court and in the classroom.
We teach rising after the fire of defeat.
School is at least sometimes terrible, and
you’ve endured more terrible than most.
For every win there is a loss.
For every victory there is a defeat, a team heading home in agony.
For some school can be a fire burning in every classroom,
a conflagration singing the soul through every hall.
Still…
We teach tradition and possibility hidden in the bindings of our children’s future stories.
We teach rising after the fire.
We teach building back, persevering through the ash heaps of burned traditions.
We teach you to make this school your home even when home is a chrome-book screen.
We know this place could be beautiful, right?
You will make this place on the hill beautiful.
—Glenda Funk
April 26, 2023
*After “Good Bones” by Maggie Smith,
and with the following lines:
This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
*singeing (meant to check that spelling before posting)
Oh Glenda, what a perfect blend of the tragic school fire with “Good Bones” – so many good lines but I especially appreciate this relevance in today’s world: “We teach you to make this school your home / even when home is a chrome-book screen.” This was beautiful.
Glenda, what a lovely poem. There is so much “possibility and hope” in your beautifully crafted lines. I especially liked “We teach rising after the fire of defeat.” because isn’t that one of the greatest lessons in life? As you say at the beginning, “often we finish behind first place.”
Oh, Glenda, wow. What a gift to your community “After the Fire”
It was so important that, within the heart of your poem, you considered all the students–those whose school experiences are always burning, “singeing the soul” And I love the small tweaks to Maggie Smith’s line: “You will make this…”
Glenda, I’m so glad you were able to capture the devastation of this fire. The loss is tremendous, and you’ve captured the defeat and the emotions of moving past this terrible catastrophe so amazingly well. I am haunted by your line “For every win there is a loss” and “We teach possibility and hope”. Isn’t that what education is all about. Imparting the tools to help students imagine all that’s possible and then how to overcome the “fires” within our lives. Your poem radiates with emotion, and I am moved to tears embracing all you have shared here. Powerful, amazing poem!
We teach rising after the fire. What a life lesson after a tragedy where a school has been reduced to rubble and ashes. I’m heartsick for your families in the community. Your final lines say it all – again, we rise.
Glenda, this poem is heartrendingly beautiful, itself. It acknowledges the “at least sometimes terrible” facets of school but more so that there is hope, in pulling together. “We teach rising after the fire” – incredible power in that line; I see a phoenix, reborn. Courage ansd strength to all in the community, in this time of grieving and beginning to repair.
“We teach rising after the fire. “
This poem sings of that very rising, Glenda. What a gift of a poem, honoring the strength of your community. I love how the borrowed lines are your final lines – so beautiful, so so beautiful.
Thank you, Donnetta for this prompt today. I took my inspiration from Linda Mitchell’s Poem “Spring Cleaning,” VerseLove – 4/24/23. Thank you, Linda – your poem immediately touched a visceral response in me.
In his loopy messy hand
In his loopy messy hand
My father writes me poems,
Calls me Josie, April girl,
Admires my kindness and my spunk.
In his loopy messy hand
My father writes checks and lists
And poems about World War II,
His war – the invasion of Okinawa.
In his loopy messy hand
My father recounts his flaws,
His failures, his fears,
Hurls all his post-traumatic-stress.
In his loopy messy hand
My father recounts my flaws,
Tells me to sit still, be like my sister,
Be smarter, remain silent.
Joanne, I really love that some are taking lines from poets here. This is heart breakingly beautiful, the movement of recounting his flaws to recounting yours. Thank you for sharing.
Phew, Joanne. This is a poem-poem. I love everything about this: it’s appreciation, it’s dedication, it’s love, it’s advice, but most of all, it’s poetry!
Joanne, wow. I love that your father is able to “hurl all his post-traumatic-stress” into his writing, so well captured in “In his loopy messy hand”. Ouch, though, I wish it didn’t have to extend into the fourth stanza.
Wow, Joanne – what a range of feelings encapsulated here – nostalgia, admiration, regret, inflicted pain. As the saying goes: Hurt people hurt people. This is a complex poem, so seemingly simple on the surface, with deep, deep roots…so wonderfully crafted, with that twist at the end. I am in awe of it.
I love the portrait of your father with your words. You cause me to wonder how is writing looked. I faintly remember my father’s signature where the last letter in our last name is lost to a sweep. The shift is sad. The older version of my parents often did not match my early memories. I always thought it was my change in perspective.
Thanks, Donnetta, for the morning prompt.
I chose to revisit The Nail in the Tree: Essays on Art, Violence, and Childhood by Carol Ann Davis, a poet colleague, writer, and friend. We’ve been meditating over the healing power of words for several years now.
Recollection is Not a Perfect Machine
~b.r.crandall
I chose to skip school that day…well, a career,
knowing it’d be there tomorrow, year after year:
the noise, the chaos, the wants & their needs –
this day for myself, oxygen…smart to plant such seeds
in mindlessness…to simply disappear
I remember the phone call that came, the reception unclear,
in a theater playing hooky, The Hobbit, local premier..
Always a wanderer, but never lost in these weeds –
I chose to skip that day.
14th of December, schools, tragedy, a changed atmosphere –
so many nails in that tree. 20 lil’ lives and futures disappear,
where good intentions crumble, where darkness succeeds…
& our hopes and prayers are too late, This faith misleads
us with another senseless souvenir
I skipped school that day, my career..
Bryan, this is going to cause me to revisit your words, as they bring a sadness but also a push toward self-care. I was just contemplating the idea you present in that first stanza, and then, of course, the subsequent stanzas brought so much more to that contemplation. The “knowing it’d be there tomorrow, year after year” with the hindsight that for some it is not weighs heavily. I wish this could change. I wish it would change. It should change. But I don’t have much hope left that it will.
Bryan, what a shame that on a day you took to take care of yourself there was so much devastation. Your poem reminds me that what I took for granted early in my career is long gone and replaced by apprehension and uncertainty. Now more than ever though we need to take a day and skip school.
You give me Mr. Black
An underground firetrap bar
In Gotham City
You give me advice in makeup
And scold me for wearing tourist white
In the Big Apple
You give me admission to The Met’s
Alexander McQueen show, beaming at
His origami frock coat
You give me a place to stay when
You moved to Mississippi
You give me your signature droll laugh
You give me a poetry packet on my birthday
With your MFA poet signature
Such a thoughtful gift
You give me information about your health
You sound upbeat
You would fight it
You give me your sister
Who broke the news to me
You give me grief
And how to grieve*
*Catalogue of Ephemera by Rebecca Lindenberg
Hello Everyone!
I just have to share a moment of celebration in the midst of the dark and depressing land of AI. I’m sorry, I am not a fan and will not be maybe ever. However, a student chose to write an ekphrastic poem – his poetry anthology subject is about war…
and he used AI to create the image that went with his poem. He told me he entered a prompt to get the picture and asked if it was ok. I said yes since this isn’t art class. I’m glad he asked, I’m glad he did this, I’m glad he introduced me to this.
I asked him what prompt he put in and this is what he entered: “A city affected by war with some buildings now rubble from the perspective of a balcony, with medics and soldiers looking around, Pencil and watercolor”. The AI he used is called “Dall-E 2.
I attached his poem and the image with his permission. His name is Peter.
Angie, I’m seeing the depth to which AI will take over. Nat Geo posted three photos yesterday, one from AI, and challenged viewers to find it. And work is being created in the form/style of great artists now. Sad for where this is leading.
Angie,
Ive taken the same stance as you have about AI. But I’ve also used an AI art generator to create images based on a prompt for use on my blog. As you say, “it’s not art class.” I love your student’s AI image as a companion to his art. Kudos to Peter. His poem captures the devastation and abandonment and loneliness of war. That line about no committee to greet people, and the reflection on when to abandon a place are perfect.
Thanks for sharing his poem and the AI image, Angie. AI is getting more and more powerful. It’s all about petaflops, and how they continue to learn. Imagine if our students had the ability to consume information like AI. Imagine a classroom where you teach AI students.
Thanks for sharing. I’m moved at how Peter put himself into the perspective of watching this happen. A tough thing to do well. Hats off to him for letting you know how he got the image. Who knew?
Donetta, I’m especially struck by the lines
The life they choose
Out of control
Ours and Theirs
It is so hard to stand by and watch our loved ones make choices that we know can only lead to pain and feel completely helpless. Your poem really captured this pain.
I love borrowed line poems! The line I borrowed is actually double-borrowed…I noticed it in Fran’s poem, then realized she borrowed it from Amy Nemecek’s poem. The line is “pages stained with dusk.”
Evensong
The hedgewitch turns
her pages stained with dusk,
seeking mystical remedy.
She murmurs softly to herself
and the tiny sparrows
gathered close–
What power she holds in
her gnarled hands!
She is an outsider,
often regarded with silent
suspicion–
nobody realizes it is only
her twisted hands and stooped
shoulders
that pull all of the stitching
of earth together
and keep it tightly bound.
Wow! This is a powerful poem! “Nobody realizes it is only her twisted hands and stooped shoulders that pull all of the stitching of earth together and keep it tightly bound.” I’m going to be thinking about that all day!
I’ve been collecting lines from other poets in this group. I found a line from Jennifer Jowett in my notebook: “Words write with the rain of Perseids.” I wrote from this line.
A Shower from #VerseLove
When words
flow from my pen,
I am drawn into
the rain
of stars,
a shower of Perseids,
showing me the power
of putting pen to paper
day by day.
Margaret, another humbling from a borrowed line (thank you!). I love how your words gather together what we do here together and drop them from your pen to all of us as we gather together and shower poems upon one another. A beautiful image for spring. I especially love “I am drawn into the rain of stars.” I want to walk in that rain, umbrella tipped upside down, scooping up the stars.
I love the imagery this creates with the “shower of Perseids.” Also, I never considered that other readers would be collecting lines from our poetry. What a great way to know that our words are actually impacting others and for longer than just the moment when they’re read. I used to collect words from conversations I overheard when I traveled. I don’t think I own those notebooks anymore, but it is bringing me back to an instinct I think I want to renew.
Your use of including the words from Jennifer Jowett’s line throughout your poem makes it sparkle!
Donnetta, your poem is a chorus for so many who know, have lived, and continue to live those last 9 lines. Especially the last two. I’ve shared in this group the pain of watching children in the grips of addiction, and when God works, we begin to hear the Hallelujah chorus as they begin to seek help and enter recovery – – a lifelong process as the prayers become even harder to maintain the course. I’m grateful for your words of assurance today; they are music to my ears and strike chords of gratefulness in my heart. I chose a line from Mary Oliver’s “The Gift” today: that held only the eventual, inevitable. I dropped the word eventual and changed held to hold.
Family Bible
I close the worn book
haunting family secrets
manifesting truths
that hold only the
inevitable shocking
revelations: pasts
Kim, thank you for sharing a piece of your world with me, as well. Your words resonate with me. I love the lines, “haunting family secrets manifesting truths”. I pray healing a wholeness for your family as I do for my own.
Kim, the family secrets manifesting truths is chilling. I’m left imagining the speaker closing the book and dealing with the repercussions of what they’ve learned from their family’s Bible. Thought-provoking poem!
Kim,
This is profound. How often do we think of the bible as having “shocking revelations”? I love ambiguity in poems, so I’m particularly fond of the ambiguity in your poem. Whose “haunting family secrets” are these? Is there a clue in “family bible” as opposed to “bible” alone?
“Pasts.” Everyone has one. The words “worn book” speak to me of being used often, either in search of answers, hope, encouragement, guidance; certainly in petitioning for divine intervention. “Manifesting truths” just opens all kinds of doors in my mind…haunting family secrets and haunting haiku, Kim, spun with that Oliver thread.
I know this heavy burden of which you speak, loved ones’ addictions and “a lifelong process as the prayers become even harder to maintain the course.” What a beautiful, brief, touching poem you offer here today. Thank you for this, Kim.
Donnetta, thank you for this prompt and your powerful poem – every brief line packs a punch; it reads like an inherent prayer for overcoming, even in the questioning. These words are particularly gripping: “People we love/live life hard.” Unspeakable anguish lives in this… thank you for your courage in this offering today.
I used two borrowings for my poem.
Ars Poetica
A certain light does a certain thing, enough
to stir the tiny burrowed nestling
which does not yet know
it will be able to sing
A certain light does a certain thing, enough
to pierce the constraining husk
sweet kernels like gilded words appearing
on pages stained with dusk
A certain light does a certain thing
and it is enough.
*******
-“a certain light does a certain thing, enough” is borrowed from Ada Limon, “The End of Poetry,” The Hurting Kind
-“its pages stained with dusk” is borrowed from Amy Nemecek, “How Much Blue?” The Language of the Birds
Well, Fran, I’d say that your art is doing just fine this morning… I love Ada Limon and love your poem. Loved “constraining husk”… how apt! You shucked and pulled back those silks to give us a ready poem…it is enough, for sure. Thank you. Susie
“A certain light does a certain thing,…” Fran, as I read and reread your poem, a felt a sense of calm in your words; a sense of peace while a certain light does its thing. Thank you for sharing your lines today.
Fran, such beauty here – – that little bird that doesn’t yet know it will be able to sing is prophesy foretold as we gaze down on these sweetlings still fully unfeathered in their nests in these days of early spring. I love your lines of choice today. They are beautiful as they are, and they work together just the two of them in either order as well. Lovely, as always.
Fran, you took these beautiful lines and made them your own, worked them into even more beautiful lines of constraining husks stirring burrowed nestlings. I love the imagery here (it peeks out at us as if coming into the light). And the vagueness but specificity of that first line pushes forward in your last two lines – it is enough (though I want more!). Beautifully imaged!
Woo hoo! Ada! And you! I love how you have changed the meaning of Ada’s line from the meaning in her poem. It works so well, and it is enough 😀
Fran, wow, you’ve borrowed well here to create a musical poem full of sound and imagery. I love how you open your stanza and create such vivid “sweet kernels”. Gorgeous through and through!
Fran,
I love the repetition of “a certain light does a certain thing.” The appearance of the nestlings touch by the light is gorgeous. We need the light to grow, and although not directly stated i. the poem, I reading your words as metaphor, a metaphor that enters our lives through “certain thing”s.
Donnetta, what a powerful way to bring our work here alive by pulling it forward through what has already happened (from Rachel’s words). I am humbly honored that the idea carries back even further to a prompt I posted. Thank you for sharing your own powerful writing today. Acknowledging people’s choices as out of control “Ours and Theirs” holds truth. My poem is inspired by Poetry Foundation’s article on the writing of Kim Hyesoon, a new poet to me, and the description of her work (“women live poetry in addition to writing it).
Women live poetry
Words grow from our mouths
Sprout from the wombs of our ancestors
Fingers offer blooms, each petalled letter bright against snow
Women birth poetry
Verses pour from barbed wounds
Spill into word rivers
Swim alongside biblical fishes tossing men from their bellies
Women sing poetry
Stanzas bud beneath trees
Soar electric upon fibered wings
Hands scrawl stars upon the universe to form infinity nebulas
Women grow poetry
Words rain from our tears
Hatch into chirping things
Open mouthed cries that beg the wind for more
Jennifer…just glorious. Breathtaking. The power of the creative act, particular to women, the infinite cycles of nature and the universe…I cannot even say which lines I love best. They ALL sing in my soul – a shared heartsong – I savor every single word. This is a poem not merely of overcoming, but of triumph.
Jennifer — How’d you do this at 5:30 in the morning!? So many glorious images of the otherworldly power of women creating poetry…each one feels like it has to be re-whispered to catch and ride bareback with the movement of the creation. Phrases that do that: “sprout from the wombs of our ancestors” and “spill into word rivers” and “fibered wings” and “scrawl stars and “rain from our tears”… holy cow! My favorite image is “Swim alongside biblical fishes tossing men from their bellies”… oh yeah, girl, that rocks! I’m here “beg[ging] for more.” Geez, you are an awesome poet, my friend! Each of the images paint women in such a strong, step-back-and-hold-onto-your-shorts kind of way, that I am just breathless. Hugs, Susie
Jennifer, this poem is absolutely beautiful. I love how the first line of each stanza repeats, but the verb/action changes. Your poem speaks so elegantly to how we as women impact the world. Women are poetry.
oh. my. word. Jennifer, this is what I would see in an anthology of “the best of the most stirring poems of all time.” The muse came and brought all her spirit friends to pour straight out of your hands these words of wonder this morning. Powerful, my friend, powerful. Standing ovation right over here from middle Georgia!
Beautiful!! “Verses pour from barbed wounds” and so many other lovely lines.
Oh, my Jennifer, how did you do that? What inspiration you received from Kim Hyesoon. With that, you took off and created magic. Every single line is deliciously beautiful. “Words rain from our tears”
Jennifer,
What a beautiful poem about all that we women do with words. You nail it!
Some poems may stay as a nuisance …
— from The Creative Drive by Catherine Barnett
https://poets.org/poem/creative-drive?mc_cid=4032f83aaf&mc_eid=76f6a82f66
Annoying, they are, like
brittle shards of glass in
the side, pressing in through
skin until a poet finally
begins to work their way out,
writing words to expose
the ghosts
(I turned to the daily poem via email from poets.org for the line to work off)
Kevin
Kevin — Great source and look what we’ve got… an even better poem from you. I feel that tension of having that poem inside and balking at the task of digging “ghosts” out of the archives of your innards. Dang…good stuff! You did a heck of a lot with just a splatter of words…always impressive. I have to go tend the shards and the ghosts now, which are a bit more haunting this morning. 🙂 Susie
“Brittle shards of glass” is a great metaphor for the poems that continue to draw blood.
Kevin, your poems speaks to the intensity that writing can sometimes be, or any creative thing, for that matter. The beginning depicts agony and pain, and in the end all is exposed. Thank you for sharing your writing here today.
Oh! I feel some Billy Collins here. Tremendous image of the shards allowing poets to work their way out and exposing ghosts, bringing to mind resurrections and rebirths. Also, interesting that it’s the poet and not the poem working their way out. Good stuff!
Love the title (borrowed), Kevin. Love Barnett’s poem. And love
That’s a great idea to use the daily poem. I have been thinking of this lately…words being squeezed out until ghosts are exposed. And I’m enjoying the recovery that is bringing me.