Today’s inspiration comes from Glenda Funk. Glenda is an NBCT with an MA in English literature. She taught English and speech 38 years and worked as an adjunct instructor for Idaho State University and the College of Southern Idaho before retiring in August 2019. As part of the NEA Better Lesson Master Teacher Project, Glenda developed a full-year curriculum for teaching seniors, which is free on the Better Lesson website. Glenda blogs at https://evolvingenglishteacher.blogspot.com/?m=1
Inspiration
Golden Shovel: Inspiration for our poems comes from many places. Terrance Hayes created the Golden Shovel poetry form from Gwendolyn Brooks’s poem “We Real Cool.” Hayes named his poem “The Golden Shovel,” and if we look at the last word in each line of Hayes’s poem and read the last word in each line in order, we’ll see Brooks’s poem in its entirety. Golden Shovel poems typically take a line from a poem (or prose). The Golden Shovel form offers an accessible entry point for students, too. Nikki Grimes’s collection One Last Word introduces readers to poems from the Harlem Renaissance and pairs poems from Countee Cullen, Brooks, Langston Hughes, and others with her Golden Shovel poems inspired by these iconic poets.
Process
- Choose a poem for inspiration. You may also choose a line from a picture book, from a novel, or from a work of nonfiction; songs work, too!
- Select a line from the inspiration poem (text).
- List the words from the line down the right side of the paper (or screen). Remember, you should be able to read the inspiration line from top to bottom after completing the poem.
- Add additional thoughts, phrases, words, leaving the original line’s words as the last word.
- Put your inspiration line at the top of your poem, after the title.
- Have fun. I was in a contemplative mood when I wrote my Golden Shovel. Now I’m ready to explore other possibilities the form offers.
- Use the template below as a guide. I found writing easier when I could see the inspiration line on the page without additional words.
Golden Shovel Template (based on my poem)
_______________________ I __________________________have _____________________ Seen _______________ the _______________ moments _______________ of _______________ my ________________ greatness ________________ flicker
Mentor poem by Glenda
This is a Golden Shovel poem I wrote after teaching “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T. S. Eliot. I’ve left the words in the inspiration line bolded to emphasize the form. Grimes does this in One Last Word, too.
"I See Myself in Prufrock" after T. S. Eliot I have seen the moments of my greatness flicker. Looking on a long career, I see myself in Prufrock, have measured years, students, lessons. Seen the slow drip of time, the ones who come and go. Moments of athleticism of scholarship, of generations who level up the game. My years bracketed, dusty classics, greatness sparked, flamed, and ended in a flicker. ©Glenda Funk
Post your writing any time today. If the prompt does not work for you today, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Below are some suggestions for commenting with care. Oh, and a note about edits: The comment feature of this blog (and many blogs) does not permit edits. Since we are writing in short bursts, we all are understanding (and even welcome) the typos that remind us we are human.
“We let machines think for us, act for us.” The Diabolic, by S. J. Kincaid
The theory tossed about is that we,
teachers of high schoolers, let
ourselves be dictated by technology, machines.
And though some do, some of us think
about brain research and use it for
a map of the constellations around us.
We can reason and predict how and why people act
yet a response to our knowledge and supplication for
understanding eludes us.
“There is a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in.” Leonard Cohen
I look for myself there
for what I was, or will become. Growing old is
not what I expected. A
Sense of freedom sets into that crack
of being between responsibility and release, in
the realization that you do not have to do everything
anymore. Or cannot. Others will pick up where you left off. That’s
Good, I think. But will I become invisible? How
does one disappear? Is that the
way it goes? When the burden becomes light,
will I begin to fade, too? What becomes of us when the world gets
Bigger and moves on? Will you still let me in?
This is fabulous, Gayle! Contrasts have been on my mind lately, and you really show the freedom and burden of aging. Your line, But will I become invisible?” Is haunting.
Gayle, I can’t begin to tell you how much I relate to the ideas in your poem. I’ve written about these often. Yes, “Others pick up where you left off.” We know that in our heads, but we struggle not to be one invisible. The questioning technique is very effective. Sometimes I feel it is more work to remain seen than it was to work. It’s a constant worry for me, too. Well done and thank you.
Wow! I cannot tell you how much this spoke to me as I’ve wrestled with many of the same thoughts. I love that you acknowledge the sense of freedom that sets into the crack, that so much can be done by those who follow. The word “light” can be acknowledged doubly (less weight but also ethereally) and touches upon the idea that as we reach the end, we may be the burden (and become the ethereal as we fade). That last line!
Gayle this is so relevant to me. Recently, my friends and I were referring to our younger colleagues as the “youngins” because we see now how we are the “old ones” but where did the time go. I love “I look for myself there/for what I was or will become” because I see the younger me hiding behind the folds of skin, the achy back, the grunts as I move from sitting to standing. LOL. I pray we don’t become invisible. Let our loved ones “see” us for who we are and not what we look like.
Dear Gayle, The line, “But will I become invisible?” made an impression on me because I am getting older, too. My situation is a little different. I’m 41 and finishing my MIT to become a first-year teacher. I look at the world in such a different way than I did when I was in my 20’s and I wonder what time frame I will have in the education field before I am “invisible”. Ironically, my mentor teacher is finishing her 32-year teaching career at the end of this year, and I can tell you–I will never see her as invisible. She might hope that I quit calling her after her retirement because her knowledge is so valuable. I always think that once you are a teacher, you are always a teacher. There are several ways of teaching others outside of the public education system, so I hope you will carry on your legacy in other avenues. Thank you for sharing your words.
“There was still something volcanic about the way she held herself.” –Junot Diaz, “Drown”
I watched her body stiffen, knotted there.
Laura was
slipping away from Laura. Still
there was something
in her breathing, volcanic
shudders beneath her crusted earthbound form, about
to crack the
weight of clay and blast a way
the chains of pain she
had become. As I held
her, I felt her still herself.
Allison, you picked the perfect line to tell Laura’s story, and the title of Diaz’s short story collection fit this poem. “Laura was / slipping away from Laura” is a haunting image. So many wonderful images here: “crack the weight of clay” w/ the breaking sounds of the alliteration in /k/; the metaphor in “chains of pain.” Sad and beautiful poem.
The chains of pain holds a world of meaning. This is a beautiful and moving poem.
Laura was slipping away from Laura….
So many lines here made me gasp in awe, but this one, I read it over and over…
So powerful.
Holy cow, Allison — I missed this last night…fell asleep early. And this is not to be missed. I’m amazed at how the form worked so beautifully here. Your word choices are wowza! “…body stiffen, knotted there” was visceral … it took me to those last days of my dad… when he was “slipping away from” himself. And breathing that turns to “volcanic shudders” and “crack the weight of clay” and “blast … the chains of pain.” Whew! This was actually so brutal in its realistic transformations of human presence in a life extinguishing. Then, the sense at the end that “I felt her still herself” is a sort of admonition that all those crusty human changes don’t really take away the impact that is so real in the relationship one has with another. I really appreciate this…it sort of gives me a moment to think of and connect with my mom (whom I miss every day even tho’ it’s been decades now). She too is “still herself.” You are such a wordsmith in this poem! Thanks, Susie
Allison, this is a touching poem. I feel for both Laura and the speaker as both sound like the volcano is tearing their worlds apart.
Laura… would live this ☺️
With apologies to e.e. cummings
You and I
Seem to fit together so well, we really do!
Yet, there are time we do not.
You know
that our love is still what
is important, but it
sometimes retreats because of the nonsense that is
life. We worry about
the ridiculous, forgetting that you
possess my heart-that
never closes.
Thank you for capturing my marriage: We do! We do not! You said it well with “it sometimes retreats…(but) never closes.”
Mo, I think e.e. Cummings would be honored by your poem w/ it’s contradicting ideas at the beginning: “You and I seem to fit together so well…yet there are times we do not.” That’s so like cummings. My favorite part of the poem is the image of an open heart at the end. Well done, friend.
Mo — Oh, this really is lovely. I love cummings’ poem … said those words once to someone … you capture what they were meant to be. And I love your poem in its honesty. So graceful. You lucky dawg! Susie
Mo, I think anyone who has ever been married would have to agree that this short poem captures marriage beautifully. We often get caught up in “the nonsense that is life” instead of focusing our energy on those we love, and it is felt most often in marriage.
I go to seek a great perhaps – Francois Rabelais
Each detail crafted carefully, I
find ways to avoid the neverending go
Busy myself with work to
not be found, quiet is what I seek
to catch up with my thoughts- a
habit of my youth, but not great
In adulthood perhaps
Lauren, the never ending go is so easy to relate to, especially at this time of year. I am literally yearning or find a time to catch up with my thoughts. I love everything about this!
Lauren, I love finding you writing here! I do not know the Rabelais line that inspired this, but I will (shortly) go find it. Your poem made me think about the ways I craft the details…to busy myself…to avoid the great perhaps.
Lauren, the paradox in “busy myself in work to not be found” speaks to me. So much of modern life is occupied by being busy. I think folks sometimes forget the value of silence to “catch up with…thoughts.” Love this truth in your poem.
My inspiration is “In a Station of the Metro” by Ezra Pound.
Pressed together against humanity, The
masses, haunted by the Apparition
Of sunlight barely visible from the stairwell Of
The train, filled with a sea of These
Vacant expressions, bored Faces
Waiting, waiting, waiting for the next step In
Their travels, their day, their lives in The
City where they will step out and blend in with the Crowd.
Cindy,
I am so intrigued by your use of capital letters throughout this poem. Adding or making proper the nouns that are otherwise collective or without identifiers, makes personal The City and the Crowd and These Vacant. That some of these words come from Pound’s poem and rest within your phrases is so powerful. I keep rereading this!
Peace,
Sarah
Mostly I added the capital letters because when I typed on my phone, the words at the end of the lines seemed to run into the first words of the next lines. But it ended up creating an interesting effect! Thanks, Sarah!
I can definitely feel the mass of humanity within your lines. Somehow, being pressed together against humanity makes it feel even less human. I love the Apparition of sunlight – what a beautiful description.
Thank you! I’m NYC-bound again tomorrow so knowing I’d be on the train again made me both think of this poem and how I felt the last time we took that train in. I actually enjoy riding trains and the subway, but it’s novel for me. The people who do it all the time look much less excited.
Cindy, “In a Station of the Metro” might be my favorite poem. It’s my go-to example of how a poem can say more in a few words than some books of hundreds of pages. I particularly like the repetition in “waiting, waiting, waiting” and the way you capture the modern travel experience. I can see the crowds “Pressed together against humanity.”
This captures the daily commute on a train so well. That last line, “where they will step out and blend in with the Crowd,” really makes me wonder about the erasure of humanity in crowds, especially when the first line has them “Pressed together against humanity.”
Thanks for giving this poem to us.
I admire the way you expanded the lines of the poem, painting in the details of the scene presented in Pounds’ words. Love the line “their travels, their days, their lives”. The repetition develops the monotony.
“Defined By No Man, You Are Your Own Story”
-Nikita Gill
I will not be Defined
By expectation, by tradition, by any By.
In my own voice, I answer No,
Separate from that of Man.
I am not You.
I am not what we Are.
I rise further than both you and Your
authorship. I Own
My own Story.
Jennifer, I love this declaration of personal autonomy in poetry. “I own / My own story”! A resounding yes to this. My favorite phrase is “by any By.” So clever.
Whoa, Jennifer,
The assertive voice in this poem is so inspiring. The “I” using their voice to speak to the implied you in this way makes me feel like this is a statement long over due. ” I am not what we Are.” There is something even more powerful with the capital A in that phrase. Gill’s words woven within and through yours is a powerful gesture of solidarity between Gill and the speaker of the poem who can voice this alone but doesn’t have to with Nikita Gill nearby.
Love,
Sarah
Thank you again, Sarah. I love that I can always look at my own writing differently through your eyes.
Jennifer,
I am a fan of Nikita Gill too. I love this Golden Shovel that you’ve so beautifully crafted from her words. I have a deep need to remember who I am without a man because I spent so many years being a defender of a man who didn’t know how to love me. I am repeating and remembering, “I will not be Defined by expectation” because that is the root of self destruction. Thank you for your words!
Oh YES! I am moved by your poem. I especially liked “I am not what we Are” followed by “you and Your authorship.” You slide from the singular into the plural, then rest in the singular/plural “you.” I feel such a build in this poem, rising to your final line: I Own My own Story! Bravo!
This is great! Such flow and power here
Jennifer — When kids look at you with that puzzled, blank stare as you talk about voice in writing, pull out this poem. In just nine lines, you emblazon your voice across the wide expanse. Very forceful piece here! Cool! Susie
Glenda, I love your poem with its allusions and imagery. The “bracketing” of your career speaks to the sense of completion, but I feel that your “flicker” at the end is not a dying ember, but the spark of a new adventure. As always, you inspire me.
Debbie, you’ve said so well what I tried to say in my poem today! Thanks for narrowing the thoughts to show that an individual can be as much of a thorn in the flesh as a family when it comes to deciding whose life story we live.
At the same, we know that a single individual can be more inspiration than a whole family. So, like others here, I’m inclined to read and believe each of our individual stories.
Thanks for authoring yours so poetically.
“And along with that, the longing to steal,
to break into the poems of others
with a flashlight and a ski mask.” –Billy Collins, “The Trouble With Poetry”
Grounded
I look outside and
See a hawk sailing along,
Floating on the thermals with
The ease, the effortlessness that
Comes from the strength of the
Wings that I envy, longing
To be able to heave to.
But I am grounded, able only to steal,
Moments of flight in machines, to
Dream of the moment I could break
Away from the ground and into
The sky on my own wings. The
Earth holds my form to it. Only poems
Give me freedom from the embrace of
Gravity. Wings belong to the others.
Only my imagination goes with
This bird in the winter’s sky, a
Moment’s thought like a flashlight
In the darkness and
A brief freedom from a
Dreary winter afternoon. My thoughts ski
On the clouds, my spirit hides behind a mask.
Chris, Welcome! I’ve been looking forward to reading your poetry. I love everything about your poem, especially the contrast of the hawk’s freedom to your own desire “to
Dream of the moment I could break
Away from the ground and into
The sky on my own wing“ only to remain “grounded.” The comparison of thought, which I read as a metaphor for poetry, offers “brief freedom.” That last line, too, resonates in our confused world where we do often seek refuge behind masks.
Chris,
First, I love that you pulled this line — so perfect for the golden shovel form.
The lines that resonate with me deeply are these:
The ease, the effortlessness that
Comes from the strength of the
Wings that I envy, longing
To be able to heave to.
I just, for once, want something to be easy, effortless. And then the last line “On the clouds, my spirit hides behind a mask.” This makes me wonder if why things are so hard (for me) is because of the mask, because my spirit hides, or rather I hide it. Lots to unpack here, Chris. I have to sit with this for a while.
Thank you,
Sarah
Beautiful. I appreciate how you blend Billy Collins’s line so (seemingly!) effortlessly. Your word dexterity gave me double pleasure: reading your poem on its own, and then re-reading it with attention to how you crafted this gem!
A fellow Billy Collins fan! I love the way he captures something intriguing in powerful language. I love your image of your imagination going with a bird in the winter’s sky.
“…they can’t touch My inner mystery.” – Maya Angelou “Phenomenal Woman”
Sometimes I wonder what “THEY”
Think of me, naturally. But I CAN’T
Dwell in uncertainty. Peace beyond their TOUCH
Centers my thoughts. Drives my actions. Is MY
True self. I am confident yet teachable. My INNER
Self loves. Whether they love me back can stay a MYSTERY.
Debbie, welcome. I am so happy to see you here. My dear friend, you know how much I love “Phenomenal Woman” and how much your friendship and collegiality mean to me. I see you in your poem. I love the assonance in the long /e/ sound of “me, naturally, uncertainty” and the parallel ideas in “drives my thoughts” and “centers my actions.” This structure echos your calm demeanor and the steadfastness with which you live life.
Thank you for giving me a new Angelou poem to explore (I was not familiar with this one). I connect with your first two lines, a common pondering for people. The line, “My inner self loves” is a beautiful glimpse of you. And I like the defiance in your last line.
It’s interesting, to read today’s poem, to see how feisty they are! Yours, Debbie, adds harmony to the tunes others are playing today about the will to persist and be our own selves, regardless of what others think or think the know!
Debbie,
Thank you for this beautiful poem and for the reassurance. Self love can be so challenging, but your wording here “My INNER self loves” personfies self and makes it love. Gives the self action and agency to do what we need most — love.
Sarah
Debbie,
This part: Whether they love me back can stay a MYSTERY.
BOOM!!!!
Speaks to me in ways I can’t even put into a comment. Thank you!
Inspiration line: “break across his knee like a stick the way his ” from “On the Subway” by Sharon Olds
Silent Mother
Can a sister break
I wondered and looked across
The horizon as his
Anger brought my sister to a knee
At times our minds move like
Ghosts, dreams, or shadows a
Denial of reality, this time a stick
Last week a cord, the
Fury and the pain, the way
Of vocalizing that anger of his
Amber, this poem breaks my heart, but is also so truthful and beautiful in its violent imagery and in its critique of the “silent mother.” These lines are especially haunting: “At times our minds move like / Ghosts, dreams, or shadows a / Denial of reality.” It reminds me of the abuse so many suffer. Your poem makes me feel, and that’s exactly what I need from poems.
Ambre – Your poem moved me in a very complicated way. This is such a real and hard thing for a little kid to witness much less process in any kind of way. I love Sharon Olds’ poems… so poignant. The opening line really hurts…to think of a kid trying to make sense of this godawful scene… she breaks indeed and everyone around her. Such heartache. The “minds move like/ghosts, dreams, or shadows, a denial of reality” rings so real. Thank you for sharing what feels so personal and painful a memory. Susie
Wow Ambre, your writing is powerful. Thank you for sharing. The way your lines break adds to the feeling of things and people being broken.
Ambre, deep, heavy emotion resonates in every line, from the beginning question, “Can a sister break?” to the vocalized anger, and the insertion of the stick or cord. Sadness reigns. I love the line “our minds move like ghosts, dreams, or shadows.
Wow. What an expression of the pain and anger of a helpless child. “This time a stick, last week a cord.” Beautiful and heartbreaking.
From “Sonny’s Blues” by James Baldwin, “Everyone is looking at something a child can’t see.” And my poem, “BREAKING NEWS!”
Growing up and trying to be what EVERYONE
Expects you to be can be and IS
Quite a challenge. When you know everyone is LOOKING
To see if you’re obeying each rule, staying in school, working AT
What they say you should be. Then SOMETHING
Snaps. You stand up. You declare, “I will become A
Teacher! Yes, even though there’s never been one in our family!. ” No, a CHILD
Can’t see it won’t be easy. But you believe it’s for you and you CAN’T
Not be what you’re supposed to be even when you can’t make them SEE!
When you write “. . .what you’re supposed to be even when you can’t make them see!” (9) it makes me think of several students with individual education plans and specialized services who have to fight against adults to have their voices and choices acknowledged.
Anna, I love the short story “Sonny’s Blues.” Your poem is a perfect compliment to the inspiration line. I’m glad you became that teacher, “even though there’s never been one in [your] family. You gave and continue to teach many of us lucky to be in your orbit.
“Letting Go”
With a line from The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston, “I learned to make my mind large, as the universe is large, so that there is room for paradoxes.”
For most of my life I
pushed myself until I learned
the purpose of living is not to
sweat and suffer to make
a fortune or secure affection. My
heart grew weary and my mind
grew worries like large
tangled roots as
they wrapped around the
pit in my belly. The universe
spoke softly saying life is
more than obligations looming large
and guilt festering fiercely. So
I breathed deeply and found that
there
is
room
for
paradoxes.
Britt, how many never learn “ the purpose of living is not to/sweat and suffer to make / a fortune or secure affection”? It took me too many years to learn that lesson. Love the personification of the universe as teacher.
Britt, the lines that struck me are
” my mind
grew worries like large
tangled roots as
they wrapped around the
pit in my belly.
and the way you so graphically describe the physical manifestation of tension. That’s what poet do; this is what you have done. Thank you for showing us an alternative way to say, “buttlerflies in my stomach”.
Britt, you are a wordsmith. I loved “My
heart grew weary and my mind
grew worries.” What mind-tickling pleasure!
Your attention to the sounds of words adds depth to this lovely and honest self-reckoning.
“ My
heart grew weary and my mind
grew worries“
What a wonderful line! The phrase is so apt. And I, too am developing an acceptance of paradoxes. Love this poem’s sense of hope.
Golden Poetry inspired by Dominique Christina’s poem “Star Gazing”
Dominique Christina
“Too short a word for some to hear”
You said you loved me. I loved you, too.
Long-tanned fingers running through my short
brown hair. Sad eyes always seeing before them a
queen. A crooked smile whispering a coded word
of affection. You heart was different, love for
me? In dreams I ask forgiveness, but only in some.
Others–you walking away from the no that took us to
that last embrace. A sigh of sadness. Forever. I hear.
“the no that took us to our last embrace”—-so powerful, love how you’re using personification to illustrate the impact of this word…
Nora, that “no” – what a vivid memory from those of us who have ever been in a situation like this with someone. “In dreams I ask for forgiveness, but only in some.” That’s my favorite part – – because it alludes to fault on both sides of the brokenness, which is the reality of every broken relationship. I can sure relate! Thank you for sharing.
Nora, there’s a sadness throughout this haunting poem. “ A crooked smile whispering a coded word
of affection” reminds me of the imbalance in a relationships w/out common desire, goals, purpose; the alliteration is wonderful. I can’t help but think about the sadness that would have come from “yes” that should have been “no.”
Nora,
The punctuation within your lines is really powerful, especially the last line…”that last embrace. A sign of sadness. Forever. I hear.” The staccato of these lines feel abrupt but also brief, which makes me hope the sadness is also brief and that “I hear” means there is hope in the listening. This is really cool and has me re-reading these lines.
Sarah
“The Mythology of Baklava”
(after Joy Harjo)
Phyllo dough carefully unfolded, the
whisper-thin sheets seem fragile to wrap the world,
but with gentle, practiced care, the legacy begins–
the creation borne from daughter at
mother’s side. Communion with a
great host of witnesses begins in the kitchen,
the wisdom shared with all at the table.
“Whisper-thin sheets” accurately depicts just how rare a family legacy is in today’s world.
Julie, the title of your poem is full of stories we tell while baking. I love the stories that unfold from food. Yes, that image of “whisper-thin sheets” is a perfect image of the care making a beloved dish calls for. Now I’m craving baklava.
“whisper thin sheets seem fragile to wrap the world…..wisdom shared with all at the table” I love these lines and how they are at the beginning and end of the poem. It makes me think of the beginning of life, when a mother carefully swaddles her baby, and then later all that is left to protect is the wisdom of what has been taught and learned. I love the title you selected.
I love the language you’ve employed: “whisper-thin… wrap the world.” Such wonderful alliteration! And the choice of communion to celebrate how food brings us together. And yes, so much wisdom is shared through eating together, but all in the passing down of recipes.
I love that your poem brings to life the beauty and nurturing that comes from being in the kitchen with family. My favorite line is “Communion with a great host of witnesses begins in the kitchen”. Your word choice shows the sacredness of the tradition. Thank you for sharing these beautiful words.
Julie!
Love that you developed this poem from a Joy Harjo poem! The word “Communion” rests right in the middle of of the line, and it is where my eyes are drawn, where they rest. I also think about my Catholic upbringing here with “Communion” and “host” — a pun — and witnessing. Clever.
Sarah
Translating the Moon
(Inspired by a line from Francisco X. Alarcon’s “Words are Birds”)
The moon was full for the last time in a decade; there’s some
Poetry there, but I can’t find the right words
Cycles and timetables are healthy; in the end, we die
It’s better that way; we don’t want to be forever caged—
There are rhythms all around us and they’re
Supposed to aid us; light a path through the woods, but so often I find it difficult
To keep my feet on that well-worn trail; it’s easier, but I’m called instead to
The pathless woods, a deer rut, something untamed, not easy to translate
Haley — I really like the notion that there are “rhythms all around us…a path through the woods…” – makes me think of pausing to feel and hear those rhythms more thoughtfully. And I love the telltale signs…”deer rut”… that seem “pathless” and “untamed, not easy to translate” with easy answers. So much in this poem… the cycles, the unknowns, and being “called” to those let clear indicators. Lovely. Susie
I love your comment about the rhythms of life and our call to follow their song, yet the unknown is too exotic not to lure after…a perfect poem for an adventurous soul.
Haley, I love the poem “Words are Birds” and the way you’ve interpreted it in your poem. So many lines from poets today remind me of other poems I love. Your metaphor of the moon as poetry takes me to “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer.” The line referencing death “ It’s better that way; we don’t want to be forever caged—” speaks eloquently to the cycle of life and the normalcy of death. A good friend’s mother died last week, and the funeral is today. I sensed relief as I visited my friend and we made candied pecans together. Her mother had been “caged” w/ illness a long time. I’d love to share your poem w/her. And as Susie observes, the “path less wood” is not “easy to translate.” Aren’t we constantly searching for meaning to life. ❤️ this poem.
I really loved that last line “The pathless woods, a deer rut, something untamed, not easy to translate.” I can see a real spirit of exploration there, a longing to break free of the paths that we’re expected to follow.
Chris and Haley, this was the same line I was compelled to comment on. The entire poem is thoughtful and lovely, but when I hit the deer rut and the untamed…I felt that zing of recognition: pure honesty. We are at our essence wild. Thank you.
Haley, your poem is almost like a message to someone in therapy. I know that may sound bizarre, but I’m thinking about when my therapist would tell me to stop looking for freedom if I chose to stay in the cage. This line: we don’t want to be forever caged
That’s what I knew was true but it took forever to take that key and unlock the cage and seek the “pathless woods, a deer rut, something untamed…”
This is lovely.
“Lyric you in lilacs/dash you in the rain” from Kidnap Poem by Nikki Giovanni
Lilac Lover by Stacey Joy
(I am so sorry, Stacey, that the site had such a lag last night. I am trying to figure that out — Sarah_
I love you, my sweetest LYRIC
to my favorite childhood song.
YOU
appeared in winter like a rainbow
IN
the sky, painting my greys
in LILACS
and light. Sprinkled a sweet
DASH
of bliss before and after my
sadness. YOU
loved me and I let you IN
and around my broken pieces.
You held me tight and THE
holes closed before we welcomed
the RAIN
A line from Billy Collins on this rainy day: “I am the sound of rain on the roof.”
And my “Golden Shovel” poem:
In December, I
want nothing more than snow, but I am
drowning instead, the
songs about stars lost in the sound
of my dog shaking, ridding himself of
the day’s walk’s rain
clinging to the fur on
his nose, and the
dripping from my umbrella roof.
Katrien, your poem puts us in your moment under the umbrella with you. With all of December’s chaos and busy-ness, here we are in the rain – wishing for snow days – and enjoying the simple walk outdoors with you and your dog….in the rain….and getting that quiet moment of solitude. Thank you for a rare moment of peace in December.
I love the use of water in this poem, the way you played with its forms. And your last line –“umbrella roof” — great imagery!
Katrina, Come on over. I’ll share my snow w/ you!
Billy Collins is one of my favorite poets, but my son took all my BC books! I live the way you juxtapose the shaking dog sound w/ the “songs about stars.” There’s music there. You have created the perfect image of a wet dog and his mom coming in from the rain, and in it there’s love of owner for pet.
Katrien — Aah, Billy Collins…love him. I’m here in the rain too (St. Louis, MO) …walked my ol’ boy early this morning. We were a similar mess. Now, we’re both cozy inside waiting for this rain to turn to ice tomorrow and then the snow you wish for here. I am a sucker for dog poems…you’ve captured the wet, the “shaking” and “nose” and “dripping.” Doggy love. Your poem made me smile that we are both “drowning” today. Ha! Thanks, Susie
Katrien, Please forgive my clumsiness w/ your name. ? autocorrect. I’ll be more careful in the future.
No problem at all! Thank you.
When you write “. . .my dog shaking, ridding himself of the day’s walk’s rain” I can picture my Onyx doing the same and also smile because he hates the rain!
Even a poem with words in the air (a line from Glenda Funk’s poem on day 2 of the November Challenge, http://www.ethicalela.com/november-2-5-day-monthly-writing-challenge/#comment-9240)
in that space between sleep and wake even
seconds extend as lines emerge, a
solution forms, a phrase into a poem
floats forth from puddled thoughts with,
in, through, across notions into words
ready to be uttered or written in
blank spaces left wanting, waiting, the
until eyes open and answers dissolve in air
Sarah, I get this cool feeling that the form
We are using today are the puddles of words we are using to make something new – I interpreted this as a metaphor – a very creative one! A phrase into a poem….. you always get me thinking in new ways.
Sarah, I am honored you found inspiration in my poem. You melt my heart w/ your generosity and kindness. I floated on air all through NCTE after meeting you in person. ❤️
I love your poem. It describes what happens to me all the time. I feel that “space between sleep and wake.” And “puddled thoughts” is such a lovely image. I see piles of words wanting to take shape, to find their way into an organized meaningful something. Then, poof, they’re gone.
Thank you for lending me your words. I also loved seeing you in person.
Sarah — How cool to pull up Glenda’s November poem! You have captured that moment of in-between the writing and “puddled thoughts” — it’s like dancing in the rain…in the puddles, out of the puddles, on the sidewalk, up and down the curb. “Notions into words” is a very elusive part of the dance. My favorite line is “blank spaces left wanting.” Boy, do I know that feeling…like the “space between sleep and wake.” Thank you! Susie
I so connect with those moments of brilliance that seem to dissolve upon wakefulness. I hadn’t thought of the image of the answers dissolving. That’s quite evocative!
I love that you used a beautiful line from Glenda’s poem to create more beauty! The soothing feel from the “space between sleep and wake” (a moment I want to savor) evokes the awareness of ideas that happens in that time. The alliteration in “floats forth” pulls an even stronger image from the “puddled thoughts” that follows.
Wow. Even without the delightful golden-shovel aspect, this is a beautiful poem. I loved “Puddled thoughts,” the sequence of prepositions that addresses the magical way “notions” become words, and your choice to end the poem in the dichotomy of “answers dissolving.” <3
line borrowed from Sandra Cisneros’ poem, “Loose Woman”
“By all accounts/I am a danger to society.”
LET LOOSE
Tougher than I used to be, I get BY
my ass-draggin’ days when ALL
I really want is to forget those lost ACCOUNTS,
lay low ‘neath these covers where no eye sees that I
am not the sum of my parts, AM
maybe just one woman but more A
splinter ‘tween your toes, a nagging DANGER
against your old order, ‘cause I persist and know TO
rise up, let loose, and slap down ugly in a white mans’ bent SOCIETY.
©Susie Morice
Susie, I love, love, love your choice. Oh my, it did get your sass on, my friend! I love it all, but my favorite lines are the last 3 because of the message that you know to “rise up, let loose, and slap down ugly.” That’s just victorious imagery right there, under the covers or out of bed. I love your title, too. Cisneros is one of my favorites – – and so are you (especially in any poem where you show us the transformation from ass-draggin’ to ass-kickin’)!
Susie, what a phenomenal line to spark inspiration. Girl, you better be a danger to the society we live in because we women must spark danger among those who want to fence us into the old patriarchal order.
Your poem echos Maya Angelou’s “Phenomenal Woman.” Love “I am not the sum of my parts. / Am maybe just one woman but more.” Amen to that! There’s something liberating about growing older as a woman. It brings a kind of freedom we don’t experience in youth. Love this poem and you.
Glenda — Oh my, this was hard for me. But after messing around with finding a line, I settled on a Sandra Cisneros sassy poem, and it got my sass on. Ha! Oh well, I tried. Your poem is so eloquent and the sense of “flicker” got me thinking. While sometimes it seems like things are settling into a flicker, I think maybe not. I can’t even begin to think of your petering out to a flicker, Girl! You are still on fire! That flicker is a long way off. 🙂 I really enjoyed the sense of reverie with your incredible career…you changed lives. Of that I am certain. Glad to join you again this month. Susie
Glenda, what a fun form for our first December challenge! I love this.
I can’t wait to see what everyone writes today. Your last line of your
poem is particularly inspirational to all of us who are looking forward
to retirement – – so we can spend more time writing – like you!
“An Incident in Bethlehem”
From “Incident” by Natasha Trethewey
(Taken From Native Guard, winner of the Pulitzer Prize)
Line: At the cross, trussed like a Christmas tree, a few men gathered
In a lowly stable in Bethlehem, Mary gazes with pride at
her sweet little baby, sent to save the
souls of sinners; in the 33-year shadow of the cross,
the shepherds and sheep admire Jesus in a trussed
manger, crib legs that would someday stand like
intersecting compass points needling Heaven and Earth, a
lasting symbol of the reason we celebrate Christmas.
The hope held in these trees – the manger, the cross, the Christmas tree –
offers both the blessings of this life and the promise of a
more glorious one in heaven, where more than a few
will reflect on the Nativity sets we once admired, with wise men
and angels, and pray this is where we will all be eternally gathered.
– Kim Johnson
Kim, I love the line you chose as inspiration. It’s so fitting for the season. This is my favorite part:
“the shepherds and sheep admire Jesus in a trussed
manger, crib legs that would someday stand like
intersecting compass points needling Heaven and Earth, a
lasting symbol of the reason we celebrate Christmas.”
I’ve never thought about the juxtaposition of the manger and cross like this before. You’ve stretched my thinking. Thank you.
Kim — The poem by Trethewey is powerful — the retold story of “white men in their gowns.” Oh man. The line you selected is so loaded…the word “trussed” is so fitting … such an act of human endeavor (to truss), as if to contain that which perhaps is better left untrussed.. it holds up, binds up, and also closes. My favorite line is “intersecting compass points needling Heaven and Earth” — that “needling” word.. you took us on a swing back to Bethlehem. Mmm-mmm. This “incident” really hits… as if an argument with whether an event is significant or maybe not. A prayer works sort of like a compass… it points in a hopeful direction and is meaningful when not uttered casually. You really got me thinking about hope when I first put myself in Trethewey’s shoes with the “we” at the window, peeking and pulling down the shades. You changed that “darkened” room to a strong sense of your hope and promise in your lines — fitting for the season! You shared a lot of faith here, my friend. Thank you, Susie
“The hope held in these trees” is beautiful. The season, for me, is all about hope and new beginnings and possibility. I enjoyed finding that in your poem.
Here is my contribution! I read another blog about this form. It is intriguing…
“Staircase” by Tammy Breitweiser https://link.medium.com/Ii98Bl8Dp2
Tammy, you’ve got me thinking deep on the staircase poem – – wow! It’s reminding me of a lighthouse with the beams of light and the climb to the top.
Tammy, Glad you’re here!
I hear echoes of Langston Hughes’s “Mother to Son” in your descriptions of half and uneven stairs leading in myriad directions. What poem is your inspiration line from?
As w/ Kim, your poem gives me much to think about. Love the photo accompanying it, too.
I had the original line – it was from a poem from The Paris Review – I get their daily emails but I forgot to keep it after I wrote the poem! I think it was from Dec 11th but I cannot find the poem in my email black hole!
Thanks for the wonderful echo comment!
Glenda, I’ve admired this form for a while, but have never tried it. I’m looking forward to the opportunity!
I’m excited to read your poem, Mo, and hope you enjoy writing Golden Shovel poems.