Welcome to Day 2 of the June Open Write. If you have written with us before, welcome back. If you are joining us for the first time, you are in the kind, capable hands of today’s host, so just read prompt below and then, when you are ready, write in the comment section below. We do ask that if you write that, in the spirit of reciprocity, you respond to three or more writers. To learn more about the Open Write, click here.
Our Host
Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. Margaret has been an elementary school teacher for 36 years, most recently teaching gifted students in Iberia Parish. Her first book of children’s poetry was published in 2018 by UL Press, Bayou Song: Creative Explorations of the South Louisiana Landscape. Margaret’s poems have appeared in anthologies including The Poetry of US by National Geographic and Rhyme & Rhythm: Poems for Student Athletes. Margaret writes a blog regularly at http://reflectionsontheteche.com.
Inspiration
From Poets.org Poem-a-Day series, Kay Ulanday Barrett’s poem Duplex for the Sick & Tired was written after Jericho Brown who created the form.
A poem can spasm, stretch, but it can let salve in.
There aren’t enough pages for the longing.
There aren’t enough pages for the longing
drenched in medicine bottles and ice packs.
Drenched in medicine bottles and ice packs,
our aches sing beyond joints and stethoscopes in denial.
Those who sing beyond joints and stethoscopes in
denial, how do the symptoms stack your days?
Jericho Brown drew inspiration from the tradition of jazz music as well as the sonnet form to create a new modern form called a duplex. The form, like a sonnet, is 14 lines. The first line is echoed in the last line. The second line of the first stanza repeats in the first line of the second stanza. Each stanza follows this pattern. The echo of the line can change perspective. Look at Jericho Brown’s masterful poem Duplex from Tradition, a Pulitzer Prize winning collection in 2019.
Process
A duplex poem is 14 lines, 7 couplets, 9-11 syllables per line.
The second line from each stanza repeats as a first line for the next stanza.
The first line is echoed back in the last line.
I like to think of this form as a double helix that twists and turns upon itself, dragging us along its path. If you don’t feel comfortable using the form, take some elements from it. Work with repetition to focus on your topic.
On the Saturday before Mother’s Day, my husband was out on a run. He’s a runner who loves to go for a long run on Saturdays. While passing a corner miles from home, a German Shepherd came out from its fence and attacked him. He suffered severe injuries to both his legs. Since his attack, people want to know the details. They ask for the details, and they are angry on his behalf. My husband will be okay, but he is still undergoing wound care and will be for a while.
Margaret’s Poem
I Ask
(Duplex after Jericho Brown after Kay Ulanday Barrett)
the poem what it wants me to hear today.
What thread runs through the details?
Everyone wants to know the details.
What happened at the corner lot?
What happened at the corner
turned his life, his legs inside out.
Turned his life, his legs inside out,
details that thread the woven story
They tell details to thread the woven story.
Shout for justice for the finish line.
Say justice is truth; shatters the plan,
pulls the thread on the whole thing.
Pull a thread, the whole thing changes
to what the poem wants me to know.
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.
Happy Father’s Day dad
15 years without you
15 years without you
and mom does not mention your name
Mom does not remember the end
and this is probably for the best
It is probably for the best
that your cancer and her denial are lost to her
Every relative’s cancer is lost to her
My mom as I knew her is a distant memory
My mom as I knew her is gone
Two losses so difficult
Two losses so different
One in Heaven, one here but not
This is so touching, Heidi. You’ve expressing your grief so lovingly. It’s clear how different and yet similar the two types of grief are for you.Hugs.
Thank you, Margaret, for this prompt/form. I like pushing against forms because it forces me to hone my idea as I rework it to meet the form’s constraints (corrals?). Thank you also for turning to poetry to process your husband’s experience, which was horrific. Still, you turned the happening into a poem, a thing of beauty. That might be why the world needs poets.
Duplex to Mental Illness
Mind controls the man, or man controls the mind.
When control escapes stalwart fences, we find
A race to rebuild stalwart fences, we find
Our family galloping to corral
Our family madly galloping to corral
The precious mustang crazed with restless regret
His beautiful mind crazed with restless regret
Grinding hoofbeats galloping without fences
A corral we once knew, now without fences
A mustang gone wild, eyes frightened and lost
Our child gone wild, eyes haunted and lost
But fences were shadow the mind vaulted over
The fences were shadows his mind vaults over
The mind controls the the man, controls the man.
THis is hayntingly beautiful, Allison. Your extended metaphor feels so natural to me. I’m not sure if it’s the form or your talent that makes this work so well, but it seems so effortless, although technically it’s perfect.
Thank you
Wretched melodies 🎶
String the lyrics,
Bleed my heart,
Bring me near it,
Speed its’ start.
Drum my verse,
Play melodies
Strum till I burst,
Say memories.
Sing it slow,
Until I’m breathless,
Fling its flow,
Thrill to connect us.
Oh please string, strum,sing!
Say the memories, forever,
your the only connection
to never!
And want you play your song, again?
Until I bleed out,
And don’t stop,
Until I fall out!
Because it’s the only,
My only way out.
So, please want you please,
String, strum, sing,
Louder, louder until my ears ring.
‘Cause today I need to connect,
With the one,
the one I wrecked.
Gone O’ gone,
I’ve been left all alone
String, strum, sing,
Sing your song!!
Lyric the strings,
Heart my bleed,
Near me it brings,
Start its’ speed.
Verse my drum,
Melodies play,
Burst I strum,
Memories say.
Slow it sings,
Breathless I am until,
Flow it flings,
Connects us to thrill.
But I wake to hear your voice,
But you’re not there,
And I have no choice,
So,
String, strum, sing,
For me once again,
Save me from my
Wreckful sin….
Again…
Again….
String, strum, sing 🎶
String, strum, sing 🎶
There,
There,
Never begins.
– Boxer
Clayton, I don’t think I’ve seen you here before (but I miss a lot!). I love how your poem uses repeated lines/words to move me forward (and reflecting backward). Your poem elevates the power of music.
I am tuckered out and have not had the chance to read and comment. I will tomorrow. Check back!
Patience was a problem for me today. I’ll need to come back to this form another day 😃
The end of my rope
Is suddenly near- I need
The madness to stop
Hang in there, Mo. Wishing you the best and a recovery of energy.
I’m glad you showed up anyway. Hope you find some quiet-me-time soon.
Oh Mo,
Thank you for showing up. I want you to know that if the rope is frayed, and you drop, you have a community of poets ready to soften your fall. Be (as) well (as you can). xo
We are here for you whenever you need us, Mo. 🤗
Hi, Margaret! I am so very sorry to hear about your husband. Sounds like he has a long road ahead of him, and I’ll thinking of him — and praying for his swift recovery!
Thanks for this opportunity to wrap my brain around this wonderful new place that I’m in: Cincy, Ohio! I absolutely love it! We are grading AP Lang exams. Last year, we were in Tampa. Anyhoo, here is my duplex for today!
A brand new adventure begins –
Different from the year before, but same
Different from the year before, but same –
Tampa behind us, Cincy waves coy fingers
Cincy waves coy fingers: ooo, she’s a charmer!
Like a farm girl dressed up for the big city –
And, me, johnny-come-lately country girl in the big city
(Not so big – just the right size, with some junk in her trunk)
With some funk in her trunk, Fountain Square romps and
Rolls on the river, freedom calls with lusty throat,
Calls with lusty throat, announcing her arrival on the steps of City Hall
In the streets of City Hall, City tall with skyscrapers
In the city streets, strangers amble, shamble, go their way –
I go mine, and a brand new adventure begins.
Wendy, I love Cincy, OH. My daughter lives there, and I go to visit a couple of times each year. It is a beautiful city with a gorgeous views from the bridges. Your poem attracts me by anticipation of a new adventure and your excitement. I can just imagine you on the steps of City Hall.
Wendy,
I love how you personify the cities you visit! Your poem is full of wanderlust and joy.
Wendy, I love your sassy fun voice in this poem. I hear you calling, ready to embrace the change of your surroundings.The Johnny come lately is especially delightful and the way you show that even though you’re a country girl, you’re ready to roll in the big city!
I love your anticipation of adventure and exploring a beautiful city. You will love it and I love your poem.
This poem invites us into the hubbub of the city: “funk in her trunk” and a “lusty throat”. Thanks for joining in the duplex dance today.
Margaret,
Im so sorry to hear about your husband’s tragic mauling. I hope he’s able to find joy in running once again when he heals. Thank you for hosting and for the excellent mentor text.
Missing My Father on Father’s Day [Duplex]
today is father’s day and i miss you.
i count the years since your last father’s day.
i counted forty-nine father’s days you’ve been gone.
there’s an empty space in photos & celebrations
i search for you in photos stored in boxes
watching others celebrate fathers magnifies the loss.
our consumer culture magnifies the loss as
father’s day offers multiply on social media
on social media we’re told to spend to honor fathers but
our father’s day buying is a token way to celebrate fatherhood.
i celebrate your liminal fatherhood with stories
like the time you drove uncle Tony’s tractor
you drove the tractor to taste freedom after going blind
i miss you on father’s day & count the memories since you passed.
Glenda Funk
6-16-24
Canva photo: My blind father on my uncle’s tractor in Minnesota, 1972, I think.
Glenda, I am deeply moved by your poem today. The duplex form works well to emphasize your loss and the years you’ve spent missing your father. I was particularly moved by your reference to the empty spot during celebrations. Special occasions can truly be difficult when you’ve lost someone so important in your life. Those if only he could be here thoughts are impossible to escape. I like how you pull in the memory of your dad driving the tractor even though he was blind. The photo enhances your message well. Thanks for sharing your special father with us today.
Glenda, this was just gorgeous. That bit about your father at the end! What a detail that is so revealing of his tenacity. Happy Father’s Day to him; though he’s not physically present, clearly his memory shines on in you!
Glenda, this is beautiful! I love the well-crafted image (and accompanying picture!) of your father “tast[ing] freedom” as he “drove the tractor.” And the lowercase “i” throughout really helps convey the melancholy. Thank you for sharing this!
Glenda, your poem resonates with those of us who can’t hug their fathers today. I like that you search for memories in photos and boxes; there are always treasured moments saved in those boxes. I agree our commercialized media world persistently forces us to spend money on our lived ones as if the material gifts can quantify love. Your choice to celebrate fatherhood with stories is much more valuable.The photo of your father is priceless. Thank you for sharing!
Wonderful Father’s Day tribute. WoW it must be hard to have those many Father’s Days without him. What a strong man he must have been to want to drive a tractor while blind. Bless him!
There is such a longing in your poem, missing your father for so many years, and that image of him on the tractor (priceless).
What a moving tribute to your father and comfort to us who feel the same as you. I love that he drove a tractor to “taste freedom” and imagined what a feeling that must have been for him.
Hugs, my friend!
Margaret, thank you for your vulnerability with this post. I pray that your husband recovers: mind, body, and soul. But this is a perfect way to share the pain and grief with others. I thought this would be challenging to write, but I went with a topic I love: reading and something so random: piano playing (which my daughter disdains, lol).
A Musical Composition Well Written
Surrounded by a cloud of brilliant talk,
whispers from pages as anxious hands stalk.
Whispers from pages as anxious hands stalk
each character developing a story.
Each character develops a story
that plays on the emotional piano.
That plays on the emotional piano,
Striking chords, sharp keys, and flat ivories,
Striking chords, sharp keys, and flat ivories
playing a musical melody.
Playing a musical melody:
drama, harmony, thriller, discord.
Drama, harmony, thriller, discord
is the melodic music that completes my heart.
Jessica,
This is a wonderful marriage of music and sing. I particularly drawn to these lines:
“Each character develops a story
that plays on the emotional piano.”
Thank you Glenda. I just went where my mind lead me.
Jessica, I loved how you linked music and story in this stanza, and I love the personification of the “whispers from pages”!
Thank you Wendy. I feel like music is a lost art, along with poetry. It’s time for a vow renewal!
Jessica, your poem skillfully reflects the idea that a great music always tells a story, and a great story is music to our eyes and ears. You passion to both is well expressed in the poem, and especially in the final couplet. Thank you for sharing!
Thank you so much Leilya. Storytelling is something so special and it helps hold on to the memories of our past and present.
Margaret, thank you for sharing this form. It had me doing research in Ancestry.com. I love the rhythm the repetition creates too.
Father’s Day
We celebrate fathers on this day,
Though I never knew my own father.
Though I never knew my own father,
I loved his father, a true raconteur.
I loved his father, a true raconteur.
Did my grandfather know his grandfather?
Did my grandfather know his grandfather,
Who was born in Ruurlo, Gelderland?
Who was born in Ruurlo, Gelderland,
An ocean removed from our Civil War here.
An ocean removed from our Civil War here,
Did grandpa love him? Did he tell stories too?
Did grandpa love him? Did he tell stories too?
We celebrate fathers on this day.
Katrina, it was genius how you layered this — the wonderings that pulled you back in time were underscored in the echoes of your lines — a delicious effect!
Katrina, so many questions about fathers. I love how you mixed in your searches from Ancestry.com. It brings to light the how history shapes our experiences or lack there of. A line that filled me with joy was “Though I never knew my own father,
I loved his father, a true raconteur.” Even though you didn’t know your own father, you still knew a piece of him. Thank you for sharing.
Grouch
I feel perplexed
at myself because I‘m such a grouch
I’m such a grouch when I haven’t slept
from the frightening movie I watched earlier
That earlier watched movie
portrayed a life of confusion
A life of confusion and wondering
“Am I here now or in a field of dreams?”
A field of dreams – paths with many directions
only one leading to a world of harmony and peace
a world of harmony and peace
that would bring clarity and happiness to a grouch.
OOPS!! Forget the one above. I didn’t get the last lines in.
Here it is again. Thanks, for this prompt. New to me and inspiring.
Grouch
I feel perplexed
at myself because I‘m such a grouch
I’m such a grouch when I haven’t slept
from the frightening movie I watched earlier
That earlier watched movie
portrayed a life of confusion
A life of confusion and wondering
“Am I here now or in a field of dreams?”
A field of dreams – paths with many directions
only one leading to a world of harmony and peace
a world of harmony and peace
when people agree to the decent way
a way that would bring clarity and happiness
to a grouch that feels perplexed.
Susan,
I really get the feel of the poem coming around full circle pretty fluidly with the way you have it formatted. In reading it a second time I liked that the one path is the way, and would bring peace to the grouch, but it may never be attainable, which is perplexing.
Susan, I am sorry for your loss of sleep, but I love the poem that emerged from it. I long for all of the ways “that would bring clarity and happiness” especially “to a grouch that feels perplexed.”
Susan, I get this 100%:
“a world of harmony and peace
when people agree to the decent way”
Don’t know if my interpretation matches your intention, but I, too, feel a bit grouchy — and envious — when I see the world so neatly wrapped up on the screen. I think, though, that’s why I return to places like Cabot Cove, ME, so often with Jessica Fletcher — she’s, as the kids say, my “comfort character”!
Susan, I think it’s okay to feel like a grouch at times. We need more sleep. I resonated with your last two couplets: harmony, peace, clarity, happiness-hoping this would change the grouch’s feeling of being perplexed to a feeling of hope. Thank you for sharing.
Margaret, thank you for hosting today and providing wonderful mentor poems. I am so sorry to hear about your husband’s trauma. I imagine having people question you about this event can be unsettling, especially when your husband has been so terribly harmed.
Taking Flight
my father wanted me to do better
leave my good-for-nothing boyfriend behind
leave my going nowhere boyfriend behind
a blue-eyed devil driving a white van
a blue-eyed divorcee in a white van
cruising down backroads and into movie shows
cruising with speed and me into picture shows
we whispered promises we couldn’t keep
he whispered promises he couldn’t keep
he was a free bird, and free birds fly high
he was free to fly, a blue bird flying high
leaving me behind to navigate alone
leaving me just fine to fly all alone
my father wanted me to better
Barb Edler
16 June 2024
Barb, it’s so hard when we fall in love to really see what is or isn’t good for us. This form shows the back and forth of choices and decisions. Thanks for writing today.
Barb, you repeated the double lines with such added or changed details, like the promises whispered from “we” to “he” and adding the fact that he sped into picture shows with you, And “devil” to “divorcee”–each time just added meaningful additions to the truth of the narrative. The Duplex form suited your topic so well today. “Taking Flight” is a great and sad title with those last lines about being left alone.
Barb,
I like the way you capture the progression of relationships souring, with the slight change to the whispered promises lines…I kept having the Freebird song poking into my head while reading it, thinking of the ne’er do well Matthew McConaughey tshirted stud type guy driving around breaking hearts. Very evocative of songs I’ve loved over the years.
Loved the double meaning of flight in this as well!
Barb,
This is masterful! I love the way you hook into preceding lines and change the meaning by changing one word. I’d say you dodged a bullet. I feel inspired to write about some of the losers I dated and the one I married, the practice husband. The flying images are particularly effective in your poem, and it reminds me of Tracey Chapman’s “Fast Car.”
Barb, LOVED this! What a story, and what a telling of it! Loved the subtle changes in your lines.
Barb, when I read the first two lines, I thought that all parents think their children deserve better, and I was prepared for a story justifying your choice. Unexpectedly, your duplex told another story, also familiar, but with the less attractive progression. So “a blue-eyed devil driving a white van” loses his charm as he turns into a divorcee who can’t keep promises. I love your word choices that allow us to visualize “a free bird” which flies high. I love the slight changes to repeating lines, especially in the final couplet “leaving me just fine to fly all alone” – it lets me know you are better without him. Thank you for another great poem!
Barb, in lines like “leaving me just fine to fly all alone” this double-lined poem reveals how you did better and how your father’s wish came true.
Wow Barb. Such a life lesson told in a few lines. These lines are dangerous signs which we all have fallen victim to in one way or another: “ he whispered promises he couldn’t keep
he was a free bird, and free birds fly high”. I also love your repetition of the first and last lines. It truly rings true of the phrase: “Father knows best.” Thank you for sharing.
This poem is beautiful in its description of a relationship broken, especially in the free bird taking flight. We can’t change those free birds. Fathers always know best, it seems.
Wow, you nailed the duplex form for your topic. I believe your father must have been a brilliant man because you didn’t waste the majority of your adulthood with that “blue-eyed devil” the way I did with my brown-eyed devil. 🤣
And thank goodness for being:
💜
Thank you, Margaret, for introducing us to this form and giving us three powerful mentor texts.
I like your use of the metaphor of the thread and the idea of letting poetry tell us what we need to know.
I’d like to revise this some more, but I’m out of time…
Lion’s Head
I wasn’t sure if I should back out
knowing that I would be much slower
Knowing that I would slow down our friends
I wondered if should skip the hike
I wondered if I was up for the climb
Take it easy; shop at the farmer’s market?
Take it easy with our sore-kneed and heights-wary friends
but I would miss the views of Cape Town
But I would miss the views of Cape Town
I knew my patient husband would wait for me
My patient husband always waits with me
Together we made our way up the rocks
Together we viewed Table Mountain and harbor
Next time I won’t even think of missing out
Sharon, I could completely relate to your poem. I am so glad you were able to make the climb and have a patient husband. Your poem celebrates the opportunity to witness the wonder of nature although sometimes it requires great lengths to enjoy it.
I’m glad you took us through the process of thought and ended with a positive outcome. Did you take pictures?
Oh, Sharon, I love the hike and your hesitation, but success. The “My patient husband” lines tell a lot about your dear hubby. And I love the twist on the first line at the end–from not being sure to “I won’t even think of missing out” And hiking in Cape Town! Wow!
Daughter’s Dilemma
Sweet charming boyfriend resides in Europe
dating app finally has a positive outcome
Dating app finally has a positive outcome
who will uproot their existence and comfort?
who will uproot their existence and comfort
and move here to become an American?
and move here to become an American,
a boyfriend, then husband, then father maybe?
time, energy, prayers, and expert legalese
will reduce the stress of plans, green cards
plans, immigration docs and citizenship, whew !
expectations aside, just breathe and let love in.
Seana, I love how your poem flows to show your daughter’s dilemma. Your poem shows the various difficulties of a long-distanced relationship times ten. I love the positive way you end.
Such difficult choices that love can overcome. My best to your daughter as they navigate the distance.
Hi Seana,
How precious but also challenging to navigate that long distance love. I’m sure it’ll all work out because what’s meant to be will be. You used the duplex well here.
Enjoy your summer!
Seana,
I like that there seems to be a positive ending with the duplex. There are so many hurdles, and unknowns in the process of the poem, and still ending with take a deep breath and take a leap of faith.
Thank you for hosting and introducing me to a duplex poem today, Margaret! I am sorry to hear about your husband and hope he;s recovering well. When I read your prompt, the poem came to me right away, but I am not ready to post it here yet. So I wrote a couple of others, and they didn’t seem right. Finally, I just made myself to write something, and while I am not satisfied with it, I at least found some comfort.
Countryside Peace
In the quiet peace of the morning walk,
The words are silent—nature speaks
The words are silent—nature speaks
Deciphering furtive rustle of the leaves
Deciphering furtive rustle of the leaves
Into a comforting meditation of my mind
Into a comforting meditation of my mind
Birdsong bequeaths a soothing melody
Birdsong bequeaths a soothing melody
Witnessing life in its modest form
Witnessing life in its modest form
Each moment heals my lingering scars
Each moment heals my lingering scars—
Serenity found in this countryside place
Serenity found in this countryside place
In the quiet peace of the morning walk.
Leilya, this is such a beautiful poem. I love the way it flows and the way your poem shows the benefits of taking a peaceful walk in the countryside. Your language translates the power of listening to nature, writing about the experience, and letting yourself reflect on your experiences to heal. Serenity is an especially powerful word and I love the focus on sound, listening to the rustle of leaves and birdsong. Powerful and gorgeous poem!
Ah, I love the peaceful walk and meditation you shared with us. I appreciate your dedication to getting something you want to post. Some days I struggle with that. This is such a warm and welcoming community. Thank you for sharing such serenity.
Leilya, you’ve written several poems today. I do hope that they have / are bringing you even more peace and comfort as you sit with them. The careful repetition in your duplex is comforting to me. I appreciated the predictability of the sounds repeated just so. Such beautiful word choice–lingering scars, soothing melody, birdsong bequeaths…
Leilya,
Gorgeous poem. I love the layering of imagery here, as though each step deeper into nature adds additional beauty and comfort. I recently finished “The Anxious Generation” by Jonathan Haidt, and he talks about this need for nature away from devices. Your poem reminds me of how poetry expresses essential truths.
Margaret,
I am so sorry to hear your husband! Dog attacks are so scary! Your duplex reflects the chaos well.
With it being Father’s Day, I have not had a chance to give time to this like I want. This is a challenging form that I want to give more time to. The concept of the double helix really resonates.
I’ve been reading a few books by chance that have addiction as an element and last night a dear family friend stopped by who is in recovery. I worked a few details in from that convo.
wherever you go, that’s where you are
clear recognition of what and who we really are
adding layer upon layer to the deep deep scar
the deep deep scar formed by letting others down
instability driving me from town to town
town to town I travel being known by none
I’ve grown to like this life on the run
this life on the run allows bad choices to be made
with no loved ones there to come to my aid
no one to come to my aid when I crash and burn
and no real way to make mistakes and then learn
mistakes are a real attempt to become what we could be
from our bindings and addictions we fight to break free
we fight to break free and try to raise our own bar
clear recognition of what and who we really are
~Susan Ahlbrand
16 June 2024
Susan, I can’t imagine how hard living with addiction might be for the person who has it and those who surround and love that person.I was lucky not to know anyone close in a similar situation, but heard many stories. I like how thoughtful your poem’s title is: “wherever you go, that’s where you are.” It makes me think about the current situation; who we are at a certain time in a certain place. Your concluding couplet reflects the struggle and desire to break free from instability, mistakes, and addictions. I also think about “clear recognition” as a first step to recovery. Rhyming each couplet adds strength to the message as well as to the poem’s sound progression. Thank you!
Susan, your poem’s topic today pulls on my heartstrings. I feel the repetition of an addict’s circle of despair, making bad choices with nowhere to break free. I so appreciate your title because we cannot escape who we are or our problems. Your opening and ending line truly resonate. Thank you for sharing this today.
The tug back and forth from scars through addiction and then back to freedom to raise our own bar. Thanks for sharing this struggle through your poem. Addiction is such a tough thing.
Hi Margaret,
My heart broke reading about your husband being attacked! That is a nightmare and I’m deeply sorry. I pray that he heals completely. It instantly reminded me of when a neighbor’s German Shepherd chased me down the street when I was a little girl. 😞 Those incidences are hard to forget.
I love Jericho Brown’s poetry and really enjoyed writing a Duplex today! Thank you for such an inviting prompt and form.
Summer Tug-o-War
Summer is a game of tug-o-war
Rest, relax, read — redo, reorg, renovate
Rest and read prior to redo and reorg
Dust brushed off stacked books, hold them and take a ride
Take a ride into an author’s world
Travel back in time through the Great Migration
Time travel, Great Migration, Great Depression
Afro-futurism might launch a new love
A new love for renovation, future plans
Creating space for possibilities
Space to rest as long as possible
Before it’s time to redo the classroom
Classroom time comes before I’m ready
Summer is a game of tug-o-war
©Stacey L. Joy, June 16, 2024
Stacey,
The Duplex is a perfect form for the cyclical nature of teacher summer. I want to know what you’re reading! And even though I’m retired, I’m doing my best to gobble lots of books right now. Perfect metaphor: “summer is a game of tug-of-war.” Wonderful poem.
Glenda, I am almost afraid to type the title because I’m sure I’ve said I was reading it years ago…bookmark is still lodged between pages 58-59 of 388 pages in total🥹. I am guilty of starting and stopping with summer reading but I really want to finish this one because it will help me with some things I am planning for my next class.
Isabel Wilkerson’s Caste. There, I said it. I’ll let you know if I complete it before August hustle/bustle kick in.
Stacey, I am with Glenda, about the duplex form fitting so well into the teacher’s summer cycle. I am glad to see that it is time for you to “rest, relax, and read.” We always have that reading list that keeps growing, but helps us recharge and restore. It also gives you (and us) ideas that might result in “[a] new love for renovation, future plans / Creating space for possibilities.” I love the Canva image with a branch, which to me symbolizes rebirth, renovation, and restoration.
Summer is a game of tug-o-war. So many things I want to accomplish and then too soon it’s time to prepare the classroom again. Good luck getting it all done.
Stacey, summer breaks are truly not long enough. Balancing our need to self-care and the duty of our job is definitely a tug-of-war. I loved your line “Creating space for possibilities” and how you shifted that line to say “Space to rest as long as possible”…wow, that is a huge undertaking. Love your Canva rendition, too. May your summer break be especially blessed!
Margaret–thank you for this new form (which, naturally, I disobeyed…). I am so sorry to hear about your husband. I understand the damage to both his legs and his being. So much to cope with. I hope things go well for you.
Bedtimes
Bedtimes for us are a bit of a bother
There are too many beings and not enough space.
There are too many beings and not enough space
Three cats, two dogs, two humans, one bed.
Three cats, two dogs, two humans, one bed.
Dogs hijack the center, twirling and grumbling
Dogs hijack the center, twirling and grumbling–
They are blanket burritos in search of their sweet spot.
They are blanket burritos in search of their sweet spot.
Then we humans join the jumble, wedged between the furry queens.
Then we humans join the jumble, wedged between the furry queens.
We reclaim covers as we unwind their burritos. Bedtimes for us are a bit of a bother.
(And the cats are still downstairs…)
GJSands
6/16/24
Gayle, hilarious! I am picturing all of these beings and wondering who actually got any sleep???
When the cats come, I can only imagine it’s over for everyone. I love this so much but I also feel for your likely loss of rest.
Gayle, thank you for this poem! I love this lively image:
“Dogs hijack the center, twirling and grumbling–
They are blanket burritos in search of their sweet spot. “
It made me smile. Something tells me that you wouldn’t have it any other way though ))
And the cats are still downstairs! I’m enjoying the light heartedness yet reality of the bedtime routine! Thanks for this bit of laughter and joy
Hilarious image of all those beings twisting and turning through the night. I think you did a great job of playing with this form.
Gayle,
I like your lines being busy, with the listings and the commas. The alliteration makes it fun, and adds a different flavor to the mix.
I really liked the end, though. It captures the catness of cats!
Margaret,
I have been looking forward to the prompts, but somehow missed out on yesterday. Thanks for your duplex suggestion. I ran with today being a special day, and hopefully didn’t overload it with father. I didn’t realize just how much the repeats really change the sound to the ear. I hope it doesn’t become too cliche.
CATS IN THE CRADLE
In the creaking routine of my mornings
my father looks back from my mirror
my father looks back from my mirror,
and I think on things I owe my father
I think on things I owe my father,
my aging hands are of my father wrought
my aging hands are of my father wrought,
my aspiring heart strives to be like his
my aspiring heart strives to be like his
and I pray on things, nudges from my father
I pray on things, nudges from my father
and in my faith, I share my father’s faults
In my faith I share my father’s faults,
and in my stepping, fall toward sanctity.
Rex,
This duplex is perfect with the reflection of mirror. You have me thinking about teaching poetry writing and how to help me/students think about the topics that lend themselves to a form and the form that reveals something about a topic otherwise hidden in free verse, for example. I think this mirror moment might be lost in another form. This mirroring of ourselves in the reflections of our parents. Our children in the reflections of us. Or maybe students in our reflections.
Love this line “I pray on things, nudges from my father.” yes.
Sarah
Rex, this is magical in its repetition. My brother is looking at my father in the mirror these days. We are both thinking about the things our father left us. I love your last line “fall toward sanctity”, how you can be his living legacy.
Good one!! Rex, this poem speaks to me but I would change it all to reflect my mom. Isn’t it incredible how much our parents show up in us as we age? Sometimes, it’s gratifying and other times, I scream NOOOO! 🤣
My favorite lines:
Your poem warmed my heart, Rex! It brought memories of my father and things I learned from him. I also thought about my mother and seeing her in my mirror more often these days. Thank you for your poem!
Rex, first of all, I think your title is perfect. I love the way you repeated the lines but changed your opening and final line. Today is a day to reflect about our fathers and I love how you open with the mirrored image and then carry the connections you share from your father throughout the rest of the poem. I think your last few words, “fall toward sanctity” are especially provocative. This poetry form worked perfectly to craft your message. Aspire on!
Rex— your title is perfect, and I especially love the phrase “nudges from my father”. I can think of some nudges in my life…
I don’t have a problem with most English words.
I’ve used moist in a sentence without remorse,
used phlegm in a sentence without compunction
even though both of these words are somehow “banned”
though there’s a whole list of words “not to use.”
I have no problems with pus or clogged
no problems with mucus or fester,
but there is one thing I will not say.
I say, there is one thing I will not say.
I will not place this order at A&W;
I also will not place this order at Wendy’s.
Why should a grown man say, “Spicy Papa Sauce”?
I say, why do I have to say, “saucy nuggs”?
You see, I don’t have a problem with most English words.
_____________________________________________________________
Thank you, Margaret, for your mentor poem (“turned his life, his legs inside out”!!) and the introduction to this new form (new to me, at least). I’m sorry your husband was attacked, and I’m glad he’s on the mend. For my offering, I fell upon logomisia or Word Aversion when thinking about the fact that yesterday at the drive-thru, I had to say, in a clear and confident voice, “Yes, I’d like an order of Honey BBQ Saucy Nuggs, please.” I’m not proud of this, but they were, in fact, delicious.
This is pure joy, Scott.
The duplex form works so well here to create echoes of these phrases and to offer the musical whimsy of what “I will not say.” Gosh, you have me thinking of phrases I will not say — of course a few come to mind right away for more serious reasons, but then there is this sense of being a grown women and also that I can imagine the scene of refusing to say “it” will create lots of humor at the moment of ordering.
Sarah
Scott, I am so drawn in to this argument about what you can say or not say. What a funny turn of things with your encounter at Wendy’s. I love how real life this poem is.
I sure appreciate the laughs you’ve given me! I have not eaten at Wendy’s a long time and now I am wondering why on earth there would be a “Spicy Papa Sauce” for ANY FOOD! And what the heck and where do you find “saucy nuggs” on this planet??? What on earth!??
Hilarious!
Scott, this poem has me laughing over the “banned” words you use so freely, then cringing at the Spicy Papa Sauce and “nuggs” – how perfectly you built up to these phrases! Eeesh. I have a friend who seriously cannot tolerate the word “moist.” It gets tricky, sometimes, like when describing a delightfully “not dry “cake. Fester…I am suddenly plunged back to my childhood: The Addams Family… Uncle Fester appears before me, and I am suddenly nostalgic for the dismembered but very mobile hand called Thing. Alas. See where poetry leads us-! Thank you for yet another verse delight. Truly.
Scott,
There is a fine line between what will gross us out, and what we will say when we are hungry. Thanks for exploring it. I just recently learned about the saucy nuggs at Wendy’s just recently…it is awkward.
Spicy Papa Sauce. Really??? Love this tirade. thank you!
The wind is a nosy drifter.
It gusts the resting Hickory to wave at me.
The resting Hickory waves at me.
My breath snarls as Poison Ivy wraps.
Wrapping her vines around Hickory,
Her reach is nudged by a breeze.
Her reach is nudged by a breeze
Like a welcomed push on a swing.
Like a welcomed push on a swing,
My secrets puff at the peak then flutter.
Secrets puff just like that, fluttering
Beyond my grasp: a tempest’s breath.
None of the shame remains, just whisks
In the wind the nosy drifter carries away.
I love how your lines twist starting about the tree and vine, then about secrets and tempests and the whisk in the wind. The poems today are so brilliantly played. Thanks for your offering.
Sarah,
Your poem gives me all the feels! It’s like a walk in nature. My favorite lines:
Soothing to my soul.
Sarah,
I feel that Oklahoma wind come sweeping down the plain in your poem. I read somewhere a few months ago that our days are windier now than in past years. One of the books I received for my poetry committee is called “Great Gusts.” It names various winds and their geographic locations. It’s poetry for poets and scientists. Love the personification in the hickory waving. The ending is so hopeful w/ the wind whisking away secrets.
Sarah, your first line made me pause right a way. “A nosy drifter” is a great metaphor for a wind in literal and connotative meaning. It made me think about all the things that drifter might oversee or overhear. I also love the image of “the resting Hickory” that “waves at you.” It seems you (or the speaker) are surrounded by familiar things that know you and your secrets.
Sarah, your poem is rich tactile sensations. I can feel that poison ivy wrapping its fines and feel the breeze nudging the swing. I love how you opened and ended this poem. Brilliant execution of this poetry form and bringing wind to life. I truly think the wind seems more present than ever before, and I can just see that Hickory waving to you. “None of the shame remains” is such an interesting line, making me contemplate about how we want some things blown away externally and internally.
Sarah, beautiful transition from the wind, the literal “nosy drifter”, (such a great image) and then the power of the wind at the end to carry away the shame. Wow. This is a poem poem, as Bryan calls them.
Your last stanza— I felt the relief in it. What a beautiful, twisting poem.
Such a fun form! This one was a collaboration, as I traveled with my family to the Colorado Renaissance Festival for Father’s Day!
Off-Brand Royal Family
Nissan Armada turns horse-drawn carriage
The travelers’ garb in plastic tubs and backpacks
The travelers’ garb in plastic tubs and backpacks
Traveling the asphalt way, dodging Mack-truck dragons
Traveling the asphalt way, dodging Mack-truck dragons
Clad in silk and steel, Hydroflasks Un hand
Clad in silk and steel, Hydroflasks in hand,
Toasting royal lineage, not forgotten
Toasting royal lineage, not forgotten
Lords, ladies, knights, wenches, and jesters
Lords, ladies, knights, wenches, and jesters too
Carousel together in Larkspurshire
Carousing together in Larkspurshire, huzzah!
Then, horse-drawn carriage morphs back to Nissan.
Julie,
That first line had me rereading it for the cleverness of it all. Nissan Armanda turned horse-drawn carriage. Ha. Perfect.
Sarah
Julie, this was fun! I really enjoyed “the asphalt way” and the “Mack-truck dragons.” And I love that this was a collaborative endeavor for the “Off-Brand Royal Family”! Enjoy your adventures today!
Your poem took us on a journey. I love the word play with carousel and carousing. I’ve never noticed this connection before. I hope your Father’s Day event is all you are wishing it to be.
Tough Day
Father’s Day is tough for me
Memories of our dad are mixed
Memories of our dad are mixed
Things got rough but we always had enough
We always had enough food to eat and a place to stay
We got new shoes for school and sneakers to play
Though we got new shoes for school and sneakers to play
To tell the truth, I’d have to say,
Our dad was hardly ever there
In our early or in our later years
Yes, for our physical needs he did provide
But he was seldom by our side or along for the ride.
Because he was hardly ever there back then
Father’s Day is tough for me today, yet I must send
Thanks to Our Father for what he did do.
Provided back then so today I should, too.
Oof, Anna, this is a tough one. It shows that providing for a family is not enough. A father is called to be there, present to his children with loving guidance. I’m sorry you missed out on that as a child.
Beautifully written for Father’s Day. Those with our Father’s gone pay tribute to their memories, good and bad. I like your positive ending that gives thanks to your earthly father as well as your heavenly one.
Anna,
Thank you for this poem. I have mixed feelings about Father’s Day, too, and have to stay off social media.
Your poem offers me such comfort in your knowing words. Maybe this was difficult for you to write and share — if so, please know it has helped me. Maybe this was cathartic, I hope you feel comforted in the words in “for what he did do.”
And, wow, the image you chose to be alongside your words offers another layer of complexity.
Peace,
Sarah
Hi Anna,
Same here. My father was barely present in any sense of the word. My stepfather is still alive and chooses to NOT be present. My ex is the worst example of fatherhood. Not good at all. But I appreciate your poem’s truth and acceptance of what he was able to do: provide.
Sending hugs!
So many feels in your words. You e captured the depth of so many on this day dedicated to Fathers. There was an emptiness with the echoing of words “hardly ever there” that hangs heavy yet profound.
Anna, your words, “memories of our dad are mixed” speak to so many of us. “Thanks to Our Father for what he did do” provides comfort and hope.
Margaret, wow! What a form. And so sorry to hear about your husband’s dog bite. That happened to me as a child and I recall the scars and connect with “turned his life and his leg inside out!”
My verse is quite the draft as I tried to fit an idea into a form. I’m sure I’ll need to go back this form and this draft again.
A tiny lifeless seed falls to the ground
becoming one with the warm earth
Caressed by the warmth of the earth
tears fall gently softening the seed
The softened seed is transformed and enlivened
revealing tender shoots that stretch and seek
Stretching and seeking higher ground
green new life sprout full of hope and promise
New life of hope and promise sprout forth
as a tender blossom reaches out
The tender blossom perfumes the air with joy
As petals fall around the stem
Beneath the falling petals a heavy seed pod
Bursting forth a tiny seed that falls to the ground
I love the close observation of nature in this poem. “stretching and seeking” “new life of hope” Thanks for writing this morning.
I’m sorry you were bitten as a child. We keep saying how grateful we are that this dog did not attack a child. It’s horrifying enough.
Christine,
The phrase “tender blossom perfumes the air with joy” is lovely.
Sarah
Christine, I love the circularity here: the “tiny lifeless seed” at the start that does so much through your poem to ultimately produce “a heavy seed pod / Bursting forth a tiny seed that falls to the ground” in your last stanza! I really enjoyed witnessing this journey. Thank you!
Margaret, that thread you weave into the story with justice and truth is intriguing and heartfelt. I like what you did with the title “I Ask” and leading into…”the poem what it wants…”
Duplex for the Coyote Howling Nearby
What has hurt you so this evening
That you shout so raucously?
You shout so raucously
Is your baby safe?
Your coyote pup–is it okay?
You had been quiet lately
You had been so quiet lately,
But tonight your mournful bark
Tonight, your mournful bark
Makes me sad and lonely too.
Sad and lonely is passed on to me
As you scream your yip yapping elegy.
Is it a yip yapping elegy you scream?
This evening hurts with you.
I love how you twist back and forth from statement to question and lead us to relating to the coyote’s mourning. I like the subtle changes in the repeated lines, how there is a turn toward the coyote and how we can relate.
That yip yapping elegy has a ring to it, Denise! And the last line drives this all home. I detest coyotes with a fearful vengeance. There is an abandoned baby deer that has been all over our farm for the past two weeks, and we fear its mother has been hit by a car. My greatest fear for it is the coyotes. I have walked up on it once, my husband once also, and it is so sweet and cute. I want to bring Bambi right inside with us, and if I hear those blasted coyotes nearby, I will trek outdoors in full pajamas to rescue it. Thank you for turning me to the coyote’s thinking, though. I know they have to live and feed their pups too…..I’m so glad I don’t have to see all of nature’s cruel ways. Maybe I should look to the pups as you do to soften my heart a little.
Denise,
Such a sense of place in this poem. You, the listener, situated in a place to witness the “shout so raucously” in sound but not know the story of the hurt. The poem is a lovely wondering of concern and curiosity with a knowing of the life patterns of Coyote. What line “As you scream your hip yapping elegy.”
Sarah
Denise,
The empathetic, elegiac tone of your poem is beautiful. I love the questions you pose as they add to the empathy and remind nd u.s. to listen to nature.
Denise,
what a beautiful example of curiosity giving way to empathy.
i like how in your last line the pain transcends and fills time:
Denise, your poem is piercing, as that yapping must also be. I find myself hoping the baby is okay, that the mother isn’t experiencing loss. Oh, these lines make me ache…and yet I am deeply grateful for every one, for their beautiful placement and even their echoing sadness. It is a poem I need at present.
Denise, I am so moved by the beauty of your poem. I love how you directly address the coyote, and I love how you share that his bark moves you to feel sad and lonely. I also adored “yip yapping elegy”…what a wonderful way to describe the scream. Your ending line is phenomenal! Gorgeous poem, Denise!
Denise— I feel like I am sitting in your yard listening to the “yip yapping elegy” with you. A true sensory gift here…
Denise, the title of your poem caught my attention right away. As I read, I sensed your generous empathy and desire to find out the reason for coyote’s howling. I like how skillfully you drew connection between the “mournful bark” and your mood revealing your deep care for nature. As mothers, we often wonder if the kids are okay, so your question “Is your baby safe?” sounds so fitting here. Beautiful poem full of care, concern, and compassion! The last line makes my heart ache too.
“Mama, get up” followed by a nuzzle
The little princess is awake and ready
The little princess is awake and ready
While the princes slumber deeply unaffected
The princes slumber deeply unaffected
By the traits of zealous morning people
The traits of zealous morning people
Have me crawling towards my coffee pot
Me crawling towards my coffee pot
An ally who opens a gate and reloads
An ally who opens a gate and reloads
Coffee grounds cascade down, bathe in water
Coffee grounds cascade down, bathe in water
“Mama, get up” followed by a nuzzle
I love how the repetition works here to drag us from slumber to awake. I’m an early riser but I like to take my mornings slow with the ritual of making coffee first on the list. “Coffee grounds cascade down, bathe in water” is my favorite line.
This one I, totally, got the message! I lived the message for so many years! I loved the repeated lines that ties each stanza leading to ultimate goal, coffee!😊
The “nuzzle” got me.
🙂
Kevin
Ashley,
What a lovely fairytale scene situated in a queendom on an early morning. I am imagining the princes and the princess with a queen “crawling toward” the coffee pot like it is the thrown. Makes me smile, this scene.
Sarah
Whoa, Margaret – what a form, and what a poem. I am so sorry about your husband’s injuries. That line about his life and legs being turned inside out is searing. Prayers for continued healing of body and spirit to him – I am sure both are hurting. Your observation in the intro, about the duplex form being akin to “a double helix that twists and turns upon itself, dragging us along its path” seized me and would not let go. It is exactly what I needed to write about today. Syllable counts are off a bit but here goes – and thank you.
The Cycle
Baby, you can’t deny your DNA
whatever you may say
Whatever you may say
your double helix is at play
Your double helix is at play
twisting and turning upon itself
Twisting and turning upon itself
dragging you down its path each day
Dragging you down its path each day
you can’t get out of your own way
You can’t get out of your own way
even when there’s hell to pay
Even when there’s hell to pay
Baby, you gotta disrupt your DNA
I love where you took my comment! Your direct address of Baby fits so well with the tone of your poem. And makes me almost sing it, like a jazz song. Thanks for your kind words. Jeff is now wearing a wound vac (I’d never known there was such a thing). The healing process has been slow, but we feel it is on the right track.
Ha
I loved the forward rhythm of your poem, and then the last line! Bingo!
Kevin
What a message! It was weaved so well; ending in a twist, ” can’t deny”- “gotta disrupt”. I was snapping my fingers to the rhythm as the words told the story of how one needs to fight against what is embedded in them through heredity. Powerful!
Ah, Fran, the nature/nurture of DNA and how we navigate the quirks of who we are – – the twisting and turning in your poem, what is dragging us down so much that we sometimes can’t get out of our own way……friend, that’s my mouth. My daddy says I “have a tendency to tell the truth,” when what he means is I need to tell it in a tactful way. Trouble is, I’m a woman over fifty and we don’t mince our words. Even when there’s hell to pay. Please, please, I need that last line. I need to disrupt this truthful tongue that annoys him so much. I love your poem – – it simply speaks to all of us in those ways that we can hear, but no one else really knows. That’s the beauty of the universal fit, where we’re all nodding and all knowing. This is us.
Fran, this DNA poem, “exactly what [you] needed to write about today” is perfect. I so love the “can’t deny” in the first line, changing to “gotta disrupt” your DNA in the ending line. I wonder if you have captured the essence of nurture vs. nature. All the /ay/ sounds make your poem so much fun to read.
Fran, I love your poem beginning with the title. The play on a double helix and Margaret’s lines is brilliant and effectively moves the toward the message of disrupting the DNA, which is weaved in so masterfully, but before disruption, the “Baby” has to accept it (the DNA). The form works so well in your execution as if strengthening your motherly talk. The final couplet offers hope and the way out of “own way.” Thank you!
Margaret, thank you for hosting us today and investing in us as writers with this fabulous form. I’m so sorry about your husband’s attack – – I had no idea this had happened! Your poem captures the feeling everyone has in the aftermath – the questions, the tragic nature of such an event. Your line about turning his life and legs inside out is haunting. I hope he is healing. Dogs may not be the choice topic for today, but my daughter’s new dappled Dachshund puppy inspired my poem today – – he is named Jackson Pollock for the painter because of his spots. I had fun with the duplex!
Catastrophic Chicken Tacos
catastrophic chicken tacos happen
always at lunch on taco Tuesdays
always at lunch on taco Tuesdays
shells break, insides spill onto the plate
shells break, insides spill on to the plate
revealing shredded lettuce, tomatoes, chicken
revealing shredded lettuce, tomatoes, chicken
all my cheese splatters broken taco art
all my cheese splatters broken taco art
like a Jackson Pollock painting: Convergence
like a Jackson Pollock painting: Convergence
a speckled canvas of confetti’ed food
a speckled canvas of confetti’ed food
catastrophic chicken tacos happen
Kim, trust you to find the artistic and aesthetically pleasing in catastrophe-! I laughed aloud at the Pollock analogy. I can see it – and I am glad I’m not the only one whose brain spirals in such ways. And as for the tacos…I adore Mexican food, for all the “speckled canvas of confetti’ed food” – I say bring it, it’s absolutely worth it!
This is a fun poem. All the c-words crack me up!
You must have been peeking through my window! You make this style look so easy and fun. Thanks 😊
shells break, insides spill onto the plate
I love all the varied words you used — with a dash of Pollock — but the “shells break” line stood out for me.
Kevin
Kim,
I like how you elevate a “a catastrophic chicken taco” to a “Jackson Pollock painting.”
There is beauty everywhere, isn’t there?
Kim, I love your poem’s title and how the sounds of your poem come alive with the shells breaking, the cheese splattering, and the “speckled canvas of confetti’ed food”. Such a fun poem and lively as I imagine the Dachshund puppy is. Very fun poem!
How cute! Kim, I am in love with the title but don’t you think it’s what is meant to be? Shouldn’t our chicken tacos create such a delectable catastrophe?
Fun poem and I hope you post pics of your daughter’s new pup!
Kim,
This is a fun poem. I was thinking about Jackson Pollock as I read your descriptions, and then you mentioned him. I now have images of toddler food transformed into modern art via some innovative artist like Basquiat. Think of those broken tacos as taco salad!
Oh, I love “broken taco art” especially how they taste. The comparison to Pollock is perfect. Like Margaret, I love the /k/ sounds in the descriptions. 🙂
I get this!! especially “all my cheese splatters broken taco art”. How are you supposed to eat them without an explosion??!! This made me chuckle!
Good Morning,
All the connections to the stitches: thread, connection, woven, pulls, shine in this duplex. I really like the metaphor of a double helix. I gave myself a small window of time to come up with some elements of a duplex that the events in your poem reminded me of.
I knew a girl attacked by a German Shepard
Her ear, almost torn off, required dozens of stitches
Her ear, almost torn off, took so many stitches
the scar, hidden by her hair, faded to pink to white
Pink and white scars are super glue of the universe
Piecing us all back together at some point
At some point, we have all been stitched together
Linda, yes! I have that same scar running across my hand from running with a glass of milk when I was little. Super glue of the universe – – I love your creative thinking!
“Pink and white scars are the super glue of the universe/piecing us back together at some point” – truth, truth, truth. This speaks to the commonality of our pain, our brokenness, and whether this has been ushered by our own selves or by others, we are still here to help each other heal. #Poetry 🙂 Much to say on that but I will rest on the great comfort of this thought. As always, your observations and your craft stir the heart, Linda.
Linda,
Your last line makes me think of the physical and emotional aspects of the past requiring being stitched together.”
Your poem gives us a visual image “pink and white scar” of how healing comes but we are forever changed.
At some point, we have all been stitched together
perfect ending!
Kevin
Linda,
Yes, scars are badges of our adventures—and misadventures.
Love the reassurance of your last line:
Linda,
Super glue! What a brilliant metaphor! I can’t imagine that poor girl’s suffering but grateful for the “super glue of the universe/Piecing us all back together” and allowing us to see the commonalities that we all share.
❤️
Linda, your poem reminds me of two things. Really one saying and one art form. Saying: Your tests become your testimony. You often can assist others because you’ve had a similar experience. And the art form, Japanese Kintsuki. Broken ceramics reassembled with gold, making the broken n piece more valuable.
Neat form, Margaret. There is a musical riffing that comes from the lines tumbling into each other.
Kevin
In the moment when music is made,
all lights get dimmed down low
the lights are dimmed so low,
all eyes are tuned to the sound
their eyes are on the sound
but mine are on the mouth
my mind is on her mouth;
lips, curved; tongue shadows; white teeth
lips, tongue, teeth — and words
I think this is something I’ve once heard
I’ve only heard echoes before
drawn by the breath of her voice
it’s her voice – falling, tumbling, turning –
in that moment, when music is made
Your last line, “it’s her voice…when the music is made” is such a nice ending. I love the journey in this poem. It’s a mental journey, a study in a moment. Beautiful.
Kevin, the sensory feels are all here – the anticipation of the music, the mood, the dim lights. Then the sound. I can see the microphone, hear the notes.
The musical riff is what I love about this form. “lips, curved; tongue shadows; white teeth” is a clear image of your singer. I want to hear her voice. Thanks for playing along today.
Kevin,
This is a sensual and harmonious poem! I love the images that you’ve evoked as well as the hints of sounds through it all.
Kevin, your poem reminds of the dichotomy of live vocal performances. Is is the music or the musicians(s)? The voice or the visual?
Ah, your closing tells what you think! But will the experience have been as memorable if you’d only heard the music. Hmmm. 🙂