Our Host
Wendy Everard is a high school English teacher and writer living in central New York. Her role as mother and teacher has given her plenty to write about since she started writing personal narrative and poetry, lifelong hobbies that were reignited when she joined a summer institute with the Seven Valleys branch of the National Writing Project a few years ago and began mentoring student teachers. She teaches in Cazenovia, New York.
The Inspiration
Last summer, my daughters and I visited the home of Emily Dickinson in Amherst, Massachusetts: talk about a place pregnant with poetic spirit! We discovered, too, that you can rent time and space to write in Dickinson’s bedroom, if you so desire (alas, we did not). But being in Dickinson’s bedroom – seeing her writing desk, her bed, and her window on the world – made me think about all of those places that inspire our favorite writers. So today I’d like to ask you to write a poem about one of your favorite writer’s favorite places.
The Process
Take some time to rabbit hole online. Discover some places that were inspirational to your favorite author or poet. You can write about a place you’ve visited or one that you’ve discovered today, through some research. Visiting Dickinson’s home reminded me of our family visit a few years ago to the House of the Seven Gables…to Walden Pond last summer…
Your poem can take any form you wish. My poem – though I am definitely no Emily Dickison – was inspired by a walk around the grounds of her beautiful home.
Happy Writing!
Wendy’s Poem
The Ovenbird builds doméd nest –
And deep within my woodland nests –
To greet the morn –
With mounting song –
And herald the Aurora’d dawn
Early summer hears his notes –
Lush from his striated throat –
Builds his call –
Full-throated squall –
Greets the neighbors, one and all
Midsummer wanes –
He disappears –
With not so much a peep to hear.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
A bit late here, and this prompt really made me think. I chose to write about one of my current favorite authors, Erin Morgenstern. According to her website, “In 2016 we moved to the beautiful woods of Western Massachusetts.” I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a writing room in a house in the woods.
Pattering feet of rain across the window pane,
Steady rustle of leaves against the eaves,
Kitten lounging around at my feet, on the ground,
Cupr of coffee steaming, top layer creaming,
Bookshelves lining the hall, from the windows to the walls,
Blank page on the screen, curson blinking – urging me to intervene.
Saba, this set such a beautiful peaceful mood — loved the internal rhyme, and I just loved the way this captured a truth in a way I’d never seen it before:
“Cupr of coffee steaming, top layer creaming,”
I haven’t yet read The Night Circus, but you reminded me to add it to my reading list with this!
The Night Circus is one book I’ll never stop recommending! Do check it out. And if you like it, you’ll probably also like The Starless Sea by the same author.
Saba,
Tbis is a lovely description of what a writing room should be. Have you been to western Massachusetts? It’s lovely and wooded. Edith Wharton lived there. Your poem evokes her home where she wrote w/ her little dogs by her side.
I’ve never been, but I’d love to visit!
Saba, this was absolutely beautiful!
I love how smooth you integrate your imagery and rhyming scheme.
I think you captured everyone’s idea of what a writing space would look like with a house in the woods!
I know these roads she wrote about
The bends and twisting curves
So many barefoot summers spent
In this real-life make believe world
The booth in that downtown diner
Is where Luke and I shared a first kiss
Just like the characters in her novel
And sometimes I got back to reminisce
I lived that life before she told stories
About love, heartbreak, and loss
Now my hometown is full of ghosts
And dying oaks covered in moss
Oh I know that church, that small town, all those people
I’ve walked that warm, sandy path down to the beach
I can still hear the waves, taste the salt in the air
But those memories she wrote about are just out of reach
This is lovely and enigmatic — which author and whose hometown, I wonder? Great scene setting. Loved, too, the careful quatrains and the rhythm of it — beautiful poem!
This is just beautiful, J Wolfe! The nostalgia and painted yesterday is alluring, somewhat sad, and I love “I lived that life before she told stories.” What a line! Congrats on the beautiful poem.
Wow. Wonderfully written and my heart can relate.
Oh, what a beautiful piece of art! I felt as if I was reading the novel myself. My favorite line, “But those memories she wrote about are just out of reach”.
So beautiful, so relatable, so touching!
Kasey, powerful verse here. I love the alliteration of /p/ but also the /s/ sprinkled in here: “Puffs proudly and peacock-like; perhaps
Pants seductively as the pipe smokes”
I also appreciate: “It is said, usually with…”
“Robert Paul Weston”
The United Kingdom—place of birth;
Canada raised,
Toronto — home and work;
But Zorgamazoo — now there’s a place!
Home to the Zorgles, Robert’s babies.
Zorgamazoo is full of color,
the Zorgles full of imagination.
I LOVE visiting —
Every April.
Zorgamazoo by Weston was published in late 2008, hitting my desk in December or January 2009. I had the book sitting on my nightstand just before my daughter was born, unread. A novel in verse, Zorgamazoo became the very first book I read to my newborn daughter. And we revisit this wonderful adventure every April — we’re on year 16.
Wendy, thank you for this prompt. It was fun, even though the internet did not have the rabbit hole I was hoping for.
Jennifer, how fun is that that you and your daughter have read this book each April? “I LOVE visiting…” Wow. I haven’t even heard of it, but now I’ve just borrowed it from the library. Zorgamazoo is sure a fun word to say.
Hi Denise!
I’m so glad I’ve inspired you to check out Zorgamazoo — this makes my heart happy! I describe Zorgamazoo as a Dr. Seuss/Roald Dahl mash-up. Rhyming couplets and made up words give Seuss vibes while the adventure and mishaps are very Dahl-ish. I hope you enjoy 😊
Jennifer, this went to the top of my “to read next” list after I read the description (online) and your poem! And I love the backstory you provided. Thanks for sharing this and for opening this book to us!
Ambergris
A winter storm warning looms at Mount Greylock,
an unexceptional stump of a mountain
in the grey-green New England Berkshires.
Would I turn there for inspiration?
In the words of Bartelby the Scrivener,
I’d prefer not to.
And yet Melville gazed upon these unexceptional slopes
and imagined the vast oceans of the world
the lush forests of Tahiti
the warped decks of The Pequod
and Queequeg’s redemptive coffin.
Snow covers the gentle slope of Greylcok
evoking a humpback whale where Melville
Imagined an albino sperm whale.
Perhaps the white slope tickled his imagination
which gifted to us “The Whiteness of the Whale”;
maybe the solitude brought back the memories
of the South Pacific Sea.
I will not pretend to know the answer to these questions.
I, too, search for answers–follow my white whale–which
my lead me to the the chamber where Melville penned his classics,
confronted by silence and recollections and a desire to order life
into sensible structures and rooms of meaning.
Instead, I am snowed in,
overwhelmed by nature
gazing out of a window
as Ahab gazed at the endless sea.
Dave, what a great poem. It is amazing that Melville could write all he did with the backdrop of “an unexceptional stump of a mountain.” I was thinking of him writing and all your questions, and then the fun of being surprised by your last stanza. It made your poem all the better.
I love this line, Dave,
I enjoy the “overwhelmed by nature.” I can understand that. It can be breathtaking and over stimulating all at once.
Wendy, you made Emily proud with this one! I love the ovenbird’s tale here, and your use of nature, just like the inspirational place. I read this early this morning and couldn’t shake this image from Prince Edward Island, home of Lucy Maude Montgomery, and her fearless Anne of Green Gables. I was struck by the volume and range of people who loved Anne like I do.
Avonlea
Pounding surf and rusty cliffs
Studded with purple mussels
Can you spot them on the windswept grass?
A whip-smart dreamer with carrot-auburn locks
With her raven-haired bosom friend
Renaming every day delights.
Could they imagine girls of every shape and color
In flat-top straw hats with red yarn braids
Finding so much scope for the imagination?
Yes, dears, you can be fierce and tender
Dye your hair green and cut it all off
And win every scholarship in the province
You can get into scrapes from anger, haste, inattention
And still be worthy of love
and puffed sleeves.
Emily, you’ve captured place and characters in your poem. Loved whip-smart dreamer line and all the color detail. Gorgeous poem!
Wow, I connect with this one, Emily!! I love your third stanza & the thought of all the girls “of every shape and color” finding inspiration from sweet Anne! Your ending is so perfect, too. The puffed sleeves. ❤️
Hi Wendy,
Thank you for a fun prompt that worked well in my late start time. You are such a gifted poet. I read your poem over and over and loved it even though I am not a bird fan😂.
I am disgusted that this week is packed with late nights and I’m not able to take my time with writing/responding. I love Nikki Giovanni and imagine when I’m 80, I’ll be a badass just like her! I went with haiku…my go-to form when time is crunched.
Knoxville, Tennessee Poet Activist
for Nikki
Grandma’s stories steeped
in her soul where poems brewed
A voice of power
Civil Rights moved her
Bearing witness to courage
Words formed as weapons
Justice and freedom
Cries from Black women and men
Nineteen-sixty-three
March on Washington
Activism in her bones
Feminist badass
©Stacey L. Joy, 4/3/24
It’s worth the wait, Stacey, to read these lines about dear Nikki!
Grandma’s stories steeped
in her soul where poems brewed
A voice of power
Thanks for reminding us of the power of words for good! Yes I saw the haiku stanza with words a weapons, but don’t see it as negative in this setting, Sometimes we need to use words to “kill an idea”, not necessarily to person espousing it!
Stacey, you capture Nikki’s spirit so well in your poem. Loved your line words formed weapons. Powerful poem!
Oh, Stacey, I’m so glad you are here, in spite of the late hour and during a busy time! That image you used for your poem, and the last haiku says so much. Yes, I can imagine you at 80–before even with your feminist badass vibes!
Wendy – friend, this one is for you!
Syracuse: An Artist’s Call
Time for new posters
Colorful projections of
Verse and local lore
Syracuse awash
In artistic impressions
Along the bus stops
Haikus aren’t so hard
It takes a little beauty
As well as some form
Each year I see them
A new set of dreamers’ calls
To catch my rapt heart
Will this be the year
I take my chance at writing
To pair with pictures
Maybe this time, yes!
I’ll finally submit one
It’s time to be brave
Sarah, Your poem inspires me to write the section of a chapter I’ve been invited to write relating to visual learning and poetry writing in non ELA classes.
Your fifth stanza particularly encourages me include research and rationales for incorporating graphics in classroom assessment both formative and summative!
Bet you didn’t know that sharing your poem would be impressive and empowering!
Thanks!!!
Sarah, I LOVE this! And, yes, you should! Loved this series of haiku and the way you used them to talk about the Poster Project!
“A new set of dreamers’ calls
To catch my rapt heart”
was my favorite line!
Love that you’ve joined Verse Love!
Sarah, I think you’ve written the application for this! I can picture these bus stops cloaked in haiku and art, and I’m inspired, too! I love your call at the end to be brave – I identify with this… and I hope you submit this (Maybe the middle “haikus aren’t so hard”) Lovely!
Wendy, I love this prompt, and I love the lullaby “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod” by Eugene Field. Thank you for the inspiration.
I want to sail on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew,
Where the little stars are the herring fish,
And I have nets of silver and gold.
Which I throw to the twinkling foam.
O, to see the beautiful things
As I rock in the misty sea.
But I can only set sail asleep,
and that is fine with me.
I love Wynken, Blynken and Nod also and this was a great tribute to that poem. I want to write down your first two lines and put them in my house. “I want to sail on a river of crystal light into a sea of dew” Me too!
Katrina, this brought me back to my childhood and to memories of being read to: it’s where my love of poetry began!
Katrina, your closing lines remind us that visualizing peaceful places often can set us sailing into sleep.
But I can only set sail asleep,
and that is fine with me.
You really evoked the feeling and magic of “Wynken….” Now I will nod off to sleep and see beautiful things on the river.
The tranquility here feels excellent.
This is a fun prompt, and I am so impressed with your Dickinson-like poem! “Lush from his striated throat” I love that!
I strayed a bit from the prompt and started to think about all my favorite poets.
What the Poets Taught Me
Maya heard the caged bird singing
Langston knew to never stop dreaming
Robert took the broken road–
the one whose story was left untold.
Mary watched the birds and flowers
Sang us their song in her darkest hours.
Reminding us to stop and still
To never say just wait until.
So, sing your song
Walk your path
Stop to learn from the flowers.
For not one knows
the years, the months, the weeks
Of our final hours.
Oooh, I really loved this! What a lovely tribute and a beautiful sentiment.
Emily, I just loved the rhythm you created here! Your poem flowed along in the most lovely way with its rhyme and meter — and loved the advice at the end. Truth!
i love this.
I love how you wove these famous lines and folks together, the allusions are clear and they all fit into this dreamscape where they all live in harmony together. So beautiful – thanks for this intro to their world. I particularly like, “So, sing your song
Walk your path
Stop to learn from the flowers.”
I’m reading Walden right now and thinking about the transcendentalists lately. I’m headed to Concord, MA in May. (One of my favorite places!)
Again, I bent the rules a bit. The book The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien came up in poems (and comments on poems) on Monday and Tuesday, which spurred me to explore O’Brien’s hometown of Worthington, MN. I didn’t have time allotted for rabbit-holing this morning, so instead I plugged 600 words of the Worthington Wikipedia entry into AI and asked it to extract keywords. The result was banal, so I next entered the opening paragraphs of the book. AI spat back 18 much more interesting words. I chose 10 of them, then returned to YESTERDAY’s Magic Box prompt. Here are my words, and my short resulting poem!
War delineates loss.
His mildewed rucksack clings like a child.
Each pain is by degree:
a wrinkled, bitter waste,
fetid, guttural fear.
Oh, goose bumps, Allison! Each line of this hits and builds to “a wrinkled, bitter waste, / [this] fetid, guttural fear.” So good! I’m tempted to quote a passage from THE BOOK to mirror/complement your poem. Phew, it’s lucky that I don’t have a much loved, much dog-eared copy nearby. Totally kidding, of course, I do. “We had witnessed something essential, something brand-new and profound, a piece of the world so startling there was not yet a name for it” (O’Brien 76). Your poem reminded me of that passage, so thank you!
…not yet a name for it. Wow. So good.
Allison, I’m so impressed by this! And I think it’s cool that AI helped you to create it! Beautiful and vivid language.
Allison, I like the way you bent the rules and I like what you did here! I was so exhausted I missed it was supposed to be about an author – – I’m running on fumes this week. It’s one of those weeks where the brain fog is real with so much going on. I’m glad someone else changed the rules up a little bit, too. And that format from Bryan works well here for this book – I love The Things They Carried.
I was just thinking of the story of Martha today when my mom was recommending I read Kristin Hannah’s The Women, and then this popped up – might have to revisit old Timmy. Your words are creatively collected, and you selected strong ones for your short powerhouse poem. I love how the senses mix, all pointing toward that ever-present fear.
Ooooh….I think your word choice is striking! I can smell the rucksack and feel the pain of bitter waste. Your first line sets the tone so perfectly! Marvelous poem and I enjoyed reading about your process.
Thanks Wendy. I thought this was going to be really hard–but somehow, if you just trust the magic of the prompts you all bring, inspiration will come!
Rachel Carson is best know as a scientist and environmentalist, but her writing evokes the essence of poetry. An internet search uncovered an article where historian and author Jill Lepore described Carson as a “scientist poet of the sea.” Just what I was looking for.
So I let the sea inspire my poetry today. Today dawned cloudy and cool, yesterday’s sunshine merely a memory. To try to capture both the science aspect and some spare nature poetry, I chose a Haibun as my format.
Sea-spiration
Into the clouds we plunged, shrinking my field of vision. Purple sand dollars waved from the wet low-tide sand, many sporting a barnacle rider or two. As they lighten, becoming delicate skeletons, a charcoal-traced design appears. Like the sand dollars, I tunnel in, finding quiet in the symphony of wave and wind. Beauty emerges in the smallness.
Electric purple
Carrying tiny travelers
Brighten gray spring days
https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2024/04/03/sea-spiration-npm24-day-3/
Your first line! “Into the clouds we plunged” I love that especially given that its at the sea and I love plunging into the sea! I also love the image of tunneling in like the sand dollars.
Kim,
I love your imagery.
These lines are so peaceful:
Thank you for sharing.
Kim, your poem was “electric”! That imagery: “electric purple”! And loved this:
“Like the sand dollars, I tunnel in, finding quiet in the symphony of wave and wind. “
I love Rachel Carson — we often read her first chapter from Silent Spring in my AP Lang class — love that she was your poetic inspiration!
I had to come read your haibun after seeing your comment on mine! Beautiful word choices & imagery, and your haiku at the end is perfect. I also love the line “Beauty emerges in the smallness.”
I am so jealous of the places you have traveled Wendy, but I’m glad they led to such great poetry and this invitation. I struggled with this, but perhaps I made it more of a challenge than it had to be. I wanted to mimic your style and write in a poetic form similar to my poet of inspiration.
For better or worse that was Shakespeare…and so I had the daunting task of writing a sonnet! But I liked the opportunity to discover something about him that I wasn’t familiar with and have now added a place I want to visit to my list: Charlecote Park!
Folly Leads to Fortune by Erica J
Rebellious youth full of wit and no sense
slips inside the walls of Carlecote Park
Four miles from his own familiar fence,
With teenage disdain – ‘tis only a lark .
If only he had been born of such wealth,
He thinks, upon slipping beneath the trees,
To not alert the Lord he uses stealth –
more like a cat than a mouse after cheese.
How can he know the path that lies ahead?
Because in moments he will poach a deer
And then flee his home town or wind up dead
A turn of fortune, but not one to fear:
For though this story’s truth we do debate
It’s towards that greater fame for one Will Shakes!
You are such a talented writer. Love this Sonnet.
Impressive. I’m so afraid of writing sonnets and yours is beautiful. The lines “And then flle his home town or wind up dead A turn of fortune, but not one to fear:” are wonderful! And the ending! “for one Will Shakes” SO clever!
Erica,
You make the Shakespearean sonnet look easy. I love the humor in the final couplet.
Erica — I loved your sonnet! And thanks for introducing me to Charlecote — I’d never heard the story of it. These lines made me chuckle, thinking of Will as a teenager — it’s so hard to picture!
“Four miles from his own familiar fence,
With teenage disdain – ‘tis only a lark .
If only he had been born of such wealth,
He thinks, upon slipping beneath the trees,…”
I’m from Dayton, OH, home of Paul Laurence Dunbar. My poem contains fragments of lines from his poem, Madrigal.
Dream day
from the heart
The sun
haunts the skies
Fond
delight
of Passion flowers
This bare heart
that spurs my soul
So surely on
Night
hours
eclipse
Beautiful minimalist poem that still packs so much meaning! I love the lines “The sun/haunts the skies”!
Donnetta, this is very inspirational. I love these two lines especially, “This bare heart
that spurs my soul”
I love how you repurposed Dunbar’s own words. Doubly powerful!
Donnetta, loved your beautiful and imagistic poem, and the stanza breaks made me read it more than once to absorb the meaning more fully. Loved, especially:
“Fond
delight
of Passion flowers”
…where I first read “flowers” as a noun and part of the phrase “passion flowers,” and then as a verb. This was atmospheric and lovely!
Hi Donnetta! Your poem says, “Paint me!” I can visualize it in an art museum on canvas and your verse is the exhibit’s label! Gorgeous!
Unfortunately, I did not have time to go too far down the rabbit hole. I looked up two poets that I love, and they both said their favorite spot was their writing chair. I decided to write about my favorite spot. I love to sit on the deck above the pool with a view of the woods and watch and listen to the world. I wrote two nonets.
A
box seat
in nature,
where the wild things
grow and roam, a bee
buzzes in and out of
flowers and baby birds tweet
below my feet in the rafters
of the deck. The breeze ruffles paper,
snapping me out of my reverie
in time to spot a deer poking
its head through bushy branches
and a woodchuck scurry
away. There is a
poem waiting
eagerly
in my
head.
Oh, Heather, it sounds like you have a lovely sitting place and a nice day besides. Yes, the deer and woodchuck would surely inspire a poem. Nice format.
Heather,
I love how you chose a form that worked so well with your content.
Sounds like the perfect spot to write; I love how a breeze was the break between the two stanzas, and I imagine wind stirring up the creativity. Also love the idea of a “poem waiting” in your head.
Heather,
Impressive example of using a form to create meaning!
Love the nature imagery and how that leads to
The last line is such a nice invitation to us all, to recognize that beauty within us!
Heather,
This was great! The form so nicely complemented the meaning. Loved that last thought, and I loved the internal rhyme here:
“flowers and baby birds tweet
below my feet in the rafters
of the deck.”
I, too, love to write on my deck in the summer! Here’s to warmer weather soon!
Just lovely. The form definitely supports this rich writing description.
What a lovely spot for inspiration! I like the bee that buzzes in and out in front of you because you are so still. So many things in nature around to bring out the next poem. Liked your poem’s form.
My inspirational author is Amanda Gorman.
I decided to try a golden shovel using key words from her poem, Resolute, in her novel, Call Us What We Carry.
Memories
The water I spilled dribbles off the table and runs
onto the floor, pooling in a solitary spot
The water reminds me of poetry
the way it careens and sways into places that are hollow
Seeing it reminds me of my childhood swimming pool, the water I swallowed
not intentionally, just accidentally with joy
All those pool parties that
my family hosted, splashing water that often entered
the house, meandering into the back hallway.
Sometimes we ran inside because
the cement felt like hot stones.
Sometimes we came in because
my mother yelled” ice cream!”
April 3, 2024
Our pool always brings back so many memories of my children growing up. Your poem made me smile as I read your memories and thought about our own.
Seana, sweet memories of your childhood here. I especially like the first lines as they show how you were reminded of the pool, the parties, the flooding in the house, the hot cement and ice cream. Nice!
This line about water is so dreamy, “the way it careens and sways into places that are hollow”…from water to poetry, how beautiful!
Seana, I love the associations you make between water and poetry and memories. And to think that poetry fills a hollow is just beautiful.
I love every bit of this work! Poetry does indeed fill in the hollow places with joy, and that may be what keeps those of us who have been intimidated by writers and critics and those who think they are, writing. Just gorgeous!!
Seana,
What a sweet poem. Love the contrast in the last four lines.
I found these lines especially powerful and will be thinking about them for a while:
What an amazing description of poetry!
Thank you for sharing.
I’m new to this, so I wasn’t familiar with a golden shovel form, but I looked it up and it’s really cool – and I loved the visceral cement like hot stones, I can feel it!
Seana, loved this. It evoked memories of my own childhood. And your comparison of poetry to the pooled water! Your choice of the verbs “careens” and “sways” to describe both water and poetry was an inspired choice! And that last stanza made me see you all, post-pool, as poetry. This was great!
Hi Seana,
I adore this:
And what a sweet ending! 🍦
Wendy, thanks for the inspiration! I wrote “Denver” about Kali Fajardo-Anstine.
Denver
Kali’s home
Full of stories
Waiting to be told
by indigenous voices
Mighty like mountains
Vital, vibrant, vulnerable
She writes of colorful Colorado
I like the formatting of your poem! The lines expand as the stories “Waiting to be told.” The alliteration is “Vital, vibrant, vulnerable” plays well. Placing vital and vulnerable in one line makes me think that anything/anyone vital is vulnerable at some point. Thank you for writing and sharing!
I love the alliteration and the “voices mighty like mountains.”
I just lost my comment as I went off reading about Kali Fajardo-Anstine. Your poem captured my attention. Thank you for sharing about her “home / full of stories / waiting to be told” Beautiful.
Love the formatting of this, the beautiful alliteration, and the way it builds to a nature-filled crescendo. Great poem!
This prompt was fun! I chose F. Scott Fitzgerald. I’ve always been enamored with The Great Gatsby, and also his real life tumultuous relationship with his wife, Zelda. I never knew he wrote the story in France in the sweltering heat of the summer.
Fitzgerald’s Footsteps
brought him here
Red-roofed and sunny
a town by the sea
this temporary home was called Villa Marie
Staying in his room to write,
left alone his wife
“A seductive place” wrote Zelda,
I picture her on the beach
wearing a swimsuit, sweltering under the heat
And at the same time I see Fitzgerald, working away at a desk
sun pouring in on his skin,
he writes of love and loss
money and greed
and of course that green light,
While Zelda is left to idle on the beach,
maybe also attempting to reach
for a green light of her own,
or maybe red,
maybe blue,
Back at Fitzgerald’s desk,
a soft clink
of a pen or more than likely a drink
Peering out the window,
he sees her and begins to think
that the color in his book,
wasn’t the only thing
turning a rotting shade of green
I love the way you brought color into your poem and shifted back and forth from Zelda to Fitzgerald!
Oh, wow, you have captured a story here! I love how you used rhyme, but it is not conspicuous, just right.
“Back at Fitzgerald’s desk,
a soft clink
of a pen or more than likely a drink”
And that ending of the rotting of their relationship. Wow.
Wow–you’re last stanza really packs a punch, Sierra.
Peering out the window,
he sees her and begins to think
that the color in his book,
wasn’t the only thing
Hi Sierra,
This is a great poem!
The color imagery is so visceral and present in your narrative. The tension between the writing of Fitzgerald and the pull of Zelda is really palpable.
Wendy, thank you so much for sending us on a journey to explore the favorite writers’ favorite writing places. I love Emily Dickinson, and while I haven’t been in her house, I knew a little about her writing habits. I had to look up ovenbird, but it seems I know the little guy. I love your poem inspired by Dickinson’s house, and all the dashes—I am fond of them as well.
You sent me down that rabbit hole—I got lost reading about one of my favorite writers. I have learned an interesting thing about her and want to share it with you. It’s a fun story to tell to students too, I think.
Apples, Bathtub, and Agatha Christie’s Genius
“The loveliest place in the world,”
The Greenway Estate—
Walled gardens, breathtaking views
Down the river, a winery, and peach house—
Inspired quite a few of her stories.
It wasn’t a place where she wrote though.
Christie could write anywhere:
Whether it was a marble-topped
Washstand in her bedroom
Or the dining-room table
Between the family meals,
She didn’t really care.
Journalists were frustrated—
Such a genius writer,
And no photographs at her desk.
All she needed was a typewriter,
Her devoted portable friend,
Remington Victor T.
“I got my plots in the tub,”
Agatha Christie told once.
And not just any tub either.
Modern baths, she noticed,
Weren’t built with authors in mind.
“Too slippery,” she said
“With no nice ledge.”
It had to be the old-fashioned
Victorian kind, with a rim—
To rest pencils and paper,
But more so “I want a big bath,
And I need a ledge
Because I like to eat apples.”
So goes the tale of Agatha Christie, who plotted all her stories
While relaxing in a bathtub and eating apples.
Isn’t this just great! The bath tub . . . what a great place to be inspired!
Oh, thank you for sharing her story, Leilya. So fun to know that detail. I like how the photographers just wanted a standard at the typewriter photo, and they had to settle for a story. Much more interesting.
This is a wonderful story! Yes, yes, to sharing it with students. Imagine, being able to write anywhere. I love the image of her writing at the washstand, plus the need for a ledge on her tub. How fun it would be to write in the bathtub – this I have never done!
Leilya,
This is a hoot! I LOL’d at
“Journalists were frustrated—
Such a genius writer,
And no photographs at her desk.” 🤣
Can you imagine if there were a photo of Christie in the tub! That would be scandalous! Really fun poem, my friend.
Fantastic story telling in verse! The imagery is beautiful throughout, and the detail about needing a ledge for the apples, what a surprise!
Leilya,
Love how you paint a vivid portrait of her estate and then deflect that with
I’m utterly charmed by your portrait of her writing in the bath and eating apples. What a picture of ease.
Thank you for teaching us about Christie’s habits.
I do my best thinking in the shower, so this shouldn’t seem so funny but “I get my plots in the tub” has a ring of laughter to it. And having to have a big ledge to eat apples in the tub is just random and real. I mean, I’d probably choose grapes for convenience, but maybe apples fuel the writing of mystery. What an eye-opener!
Leilya, what a character! She would make a fascinating biography. I just read somewhere that she disappeared for awhile with no one having a clue where she’d gone, causing a womanhunt I love your title – it reads like the clues to a mystery.
Yes, she did disappear for two weeks and then resurfaced. I also read about it today. An adventurous lady she was!
Leilya, I love learning this delightful quirk of Agatha Christie. What a wonderful way to devise such clever plots!
Angel’s Tavern
a small bar in Fells Point
WD and me listened to Lucille
with ladies whose whole
lives fit in a shopping cart
and men inhaling her verse
with their whiskey neat
we gathered for a Sunday series
Inner Harbor waves stir
as we live an hour in margins
hushed smoker-coughs
clicks of shaken ice cubes
all silence as she opens
the mic to her gratis breaths
of hips homage baby lost
wishes for sons song sorrow
Sundays at Angel’s
I’m there with Lucille
Lucille Clifton’s writing places:https://savingplaces.org/stories/a-place-to-grow-lucille-cliftons-life-in-baltimore
Sarah,
Im reading your poem as a compliment to Maureen’s and my heart is in that tavern w/ you, mesmerized by Clifton’s masterful verse. “we live an hour in margins.” That line speaks to me about how, where, and why we write when we gather in this metaphorical tavern.
I love thinking about this space as a metaphorical tavern. (Especially because I am wanting a glass of wine about now.)
Oh, Sarah, I love Lucille Clifton! This “Angel’s Tavern” sounds like a great place to listen and create. I am drawn to these lines: “with ladies whose whole / lives fit in a shopping cart.” Somehow it reminds me about a time when I came to this country with one suitcase and a whole life left behind. The alliteration in “for sons song sorrow Sundays” works perfectly speeding up the rhythm, almost like in a tongue twister. Thank you!
Sadly, I am not very familiar with Lucille Clifton’s work, but now I am inspired to dig in thanks to this poem. I am enthralled by Angel’s Tavern and what that must have been like with such a diverse gathering.
Living these three lines, Sarah
My daughter lived in Baltimore for a few years. I was always so envious of the night life she had access to. And I am even MORE envious of you, at Angel’s, with Lucille.
You have captured great images of life in Baltimore – “ladies whose whole/lives fit in a shopping cart,” “as we live an hour in margins”…Sundays at Angel’s! I, too, chose Lucille Clifton; I love how you wove in words from her poetry, including “hips homage” and “sons song sorrow” – your poem echoes Lucille’s way of writing. So great!
The detail in your descriptions is mesmerizing! Ladies whose whole lives fit in a shopping cart and men inhaling her verse—so magical I am drawn to keep reading, and put myself in the bar, listening as well.
I love the line “as we live our lives in margins.” That is where the characters you describe live, but I like to think of the margins as the transcendent and magical places we rarely step into.
Sarah, thank you for a number of things! Your poem: brilliant. I love the vividness (and quick, crispness, conciseness, if I’m explaining that well enough (?) ) of lines like “with ladies whose whole / lives fit in a shopping cart” and “we live an hour in margins.” And thank you, thank you for “the mic to her gratis breaths / of hips homage baby lost / wishes for sons song sorrow.” I was familiar with three of those and enjoyed the rereading of them, but one was new! (“Wishes for Sons” is sooo good, so clever, so layered, and so so terrible in its truth, and that ending!! My wife has told me stories of her first male gynecologist! Yikes is all I can say (quickly followed by, I’m so sorry you had to endure that!)
Sarah,
There’s such great musicality in this poem. You do it through alliteration and near rhyme, but the effect is a walllop!
A broad point of view–
tall chimney
wide windows aplenty
steep gables front and back it may have been
added on—
the side office double storied space along the skyline
resemble a slide and staircase.
Perhaps out back is a red wheelbarrow
with chickens beside it.
Oh, what a lovely nod in the final stanza to William Carlos Willliams. Made me smile. The phrase “may have been” offers such a gentle imagining.
Jeania,
You have details in this poem I did not know about William Carlos Williams’s life. The “wide vie” suggests more than meets the eye in poetry and in place. The first few lines are very formal, almost technical, but then you offer the familiarity of the “red wheelbarrow/ with white chickens beside it,” and the poem feels like home.
Jeania, your poem immediately reminded me of W. Williams with his famous “red wheelbarrow.” I like how you imagine the space where he created the poem. I think you found your inspiration today. Love the brevity of descriptions that create a clear picture of that “broad point of view” that the speaker experiences. I especially like the concluding lines: “Perhaps out back is a red wheelbarrow / with chickens beside it.” Thank you for joining us today and sharing your beautiful words!
Jeania, I just love this! I feel the vibe of Williams in the imagery you create through the simplicity of the wording and at the same time am drawn to the way this slowly allows the reveal to occur, almost a backing up to Williams’ work.
I like the phrase “double storied” and “aplenty” as these are words/phrases I wouldn’t have thought to use. I loved reading this and having the ah-hah at the end to realize it was William Carlos Williams!
Jenia, from the first stanza to the last, I can see this house and know it’s the kind of place I love best – – the hope of chickens, of rural living. I think the first stanza is my favorite
A broad point of view–
tall chimney
wide windows aplenty
the broad view is tall and wide, and that feels like a meadow view of a countryside. Lovely!
Oh, Jeania, I love how this WCW place was a mystery until we got to the end. I love how you trusted us with knowing.
Hi Jeania,
I love the opening and the intrigue! I didn’t know where you were taking me. My first thought was a fairytale but you hit the home run with…
Perfect choice! 👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽
WCW is one of my favorites. Love how you reveal his identity at the end of your poem.
Hi Wendy! Thanks for this prompt. Because I know more about art history than I do about poets, I took thought this to Monet’s Garden.
Giverny
To me, sitting among the thousands of color
would send my spirit to heaven
To me, strolling over a Japanese bridge
under the wisteria would transport me to another land
To me, walking down the slope to the house
puts my vision in perspective and symmetry
To me, the climbing roses rise
overhead and remind me of freedom
To me, as I dangle my feet in the water gardens
I feel the curves and assymetry
To me, I am inspired by your vision
of colorful nature planned and painted
To me, the mists and transparencies
reflect an inverted world.
Susan, I so appreciate seeing how our poets here extend or shape the day’s inspiration. Your word wisteria reminds me of Margaret’s poem on Monday and bridge Louisiana and Giverny in my cross poetic readings. And the repetition of “to me” is an intimate invitation to witness the speaker’s place in these scenes (dangle my feet). Lovely.
Susan, so many great words in your poem beginning with “sitting among the thousands of color” and then “strolling over a Japanese bridge / under the wisteria.” I can see you/the speaker in this space inspired by the artist. I am going to hold onto the final two lines which made me pause and think: “To me, the mists and transparencies / reflect an inverted world.” Thank you!
Susan, I love how you address Monet in the sixth stanza. I feel like I was there with you in the garden. Monet was my mom’s favorite, and so I remembered going to a Monet’s Garden exhibit with her once while I read your poem.
Thanks for this great prompt. I had so much fun with it that I was almost late for school.
Neither Thoreau Nor I
have climbed Mt. Katahdin
my cousins and I made a plan
to climb it the second summer after
Ellie died
we texted about training
one cousin stood all day at work
another chased her toddling daughter
how would that be enough
to keep us hiking nine miles of trails
over the boulders of Cathedral,
avoiding sliding on the Knife’s Edge,
bracing for each step
of the knee-pounding descent?
bad weather left us only admiring
Katahdin from the I-95 overlook,
checking the weather
on our phones each day
from my aunt and uncle’s log cabin
three and a half hours drive to the north
Thoreau traveled to Katahdin
by horse-drawn buggy and canoe
guided by the poetically named Louis Neptune
as he hiked,
the naturalist cursed the scratchy pines
and broken boulders of “the most
treacherous and porous country
I ever traveled”
Thoreau, his companions and his guide
became lost in the fog,
never making it to place his bottle of rum
at the summit
none of us
not Thoreau
not my cousins
not me
are as tough
as my Great Uncle Joe Nadeau
who worked in the woods
well into his seventies,
Uncle Joe woke hours before dawn
to drive his grandsons and the Boy Scouts
for their annual trip to Katahdin
he climbed up and down the mountain
and then drove the scouts back
the same day
never needing to text about training
nor write about “that Earth
we have heard of,
made out of Chaos and Old Night”
So many stories in so few words. I was fascinated by your tale, the connections, and by the wry ending…
I love it. So cleverly written. Your Uncle Joe sounds like a legend!
The contrast of the modern and the old are so beautiful in this verse.
I too, love the story aspect.
Sharon, what a story, and you told it so well! I love narrative poetry. I admire your Uncle Joe along with you. Skillfully done! Thank you.
I love how the narrative of this poem unfolds and the twist that comes with the revelation of your uncle who did manage to climb the mountain despite the best efforts of you, your cousins, and Thoreau! What a fun and clever poem.
I love the team spirit your poem conveys, the team effort you and your cousins and Thoreau put into the climb. I am glad your avoided sliding on the knife’s edge, as that would be painful.
I’ve been reading and researching about Anne Frank lately, so she jumped to my mind with this prompt. And I’ve been wanted to experiment more with the haibun form. So here you have it!
“April is glorious, not too hot and not too cold, with occasional light showers. Our chestnut tree is in leaf, and here and there you can already see a few small blossoms.” – Anne Frank, April 18, 1944
I write in the open April air, beneath a blossoming Maple. I feel the breeze on my skin, hear the whisper of leaf buds in the wind, the distant chirp from a bird. I am free. She wrote in a dark attic, with fear all around. She felt the stale, musty air, heard the creaks of footsteps (from friend and foe) below. But she, too, wrote beneath a tree: a white horse chestnut, over 170 years old. The tree stood outside her hiding place. She admired it, tracking its phases as the seasons changed, through one small, unblackened window in the attic. The chestnut tree was her longing, her hope, when she “felt like a bird in the cage.”
The tree has now died
but like Anne, its footprint spread
saplings taking root
Love this so much, Rachel! We are in the heart of our unit on The Diary of Anne Frank, so this beautiful poem captures so much in so few words. So poignant!
Rachel,
I am not sure which part is the poem because every section of your response has poetic qualities. Reading on my phone, the spacing makes your explanation of Anne tracking phases of the tree read like a prose poem. And then the final trio of the “saplings take root” make your poem an invitation to all of us to witness and remember. Thank you.
Rachel, I’m so glad you took us to Anne Frank today. The chestnut tree, and the description of her window and longing and hope. Oh, my. I love how you began with the Maple tree you were free to sit under and write today. So many beautiful words, but these stuck out to me, “hear the whisper of leaf buds in the wind.” And I love the idea of Anne’s footprint spreading.
I, too, tried on a haibun today! I love your poem that spotlights the tree and its legacy. “The chestnut tree was her longing, her hope…”
Mary Oliver is the poet I selected. Blackwater Woods and Pond were places of inspiration for her. Both of these are part of Cape Cod National Seashore which I was able to visit with my family a few years ago. I selected Tanka as my poetry form.
Pine, oak, maple, beech
mingle in this holy space
Sacred steps orbit
pond finding inspiration
love, loss, joy, wonder.
First of all Cathy, thank you for sharing the Tanka. Your last line reveals, Mary’s inspiration which could be ours for the next few weeks; “love, loss, joy, wonder.”
This makes me want to write a tanka again too! I love your 3rd line, “sacred steps orbit / pond”. Places like this do seem sacred – and I like your take that we become sacred there, too.
Cathy,
I thought about Mary Oliver this morning. If I’d ever visited her writing places I would have chosen her, too. I love the cataloguing of emotions in your last line. Very fitting.
I love tanka poems. I love the mixture of the tangible with the abstract.
Thanks for sharing! I didn’t know about Tanka until I read your poem and looked it up. Your poem reminds me of one of my favorite places.
I love how the first line and the last line are parallels or mirrors of each other and how the natural world leads so clearly into these moments of inspiration!
I envy simplicity married with beauty. You sure pulled off both.
Thank you Wendy for the prompt. Most of my favorite poet, Ama Ata Aidoo’s stories and poems were set locally, in rural Ghana. I chose to create a poem that introduces the setting.
A Village Scene
Heat hits the bright burnt orange sand
Makes a spray of dust that colors everything
In its path, feet colored like make believe socks
Huts wear thatched hats, protects from heat and rain
Clean mud covered walls call to attention
The space you’re in…
A lone child runs from hut to hut
Calling out until they all appear and
Settle under the sole mango tree
Whose shade houses them all
Planks of wood, as seats
Call them to gather and dodge the sun’s rays
On days like this, community unites
To hear the news of the day
Chants, voices, laughter, shouts all swell and tell
Juliette—what an image you paint here!
“Heat hits the bright burnt orange sand
Makes a spray of dust that colors everything
In its path, feet colored like make believe socks”
I can feel the heat and I love those sandy feet!
Your descriptions make it so easy to visualize this setting. The words you choose to talk about bright orange sand stood out to me “Makes a spray of dust that colors everything
In its path, feet colored like make believe socks”
What a neat setting! I’m going to have to look up Ama Ata Aidoo. My favorite image from your poem is the community gathering under the shady mango tree, “all swell and tell”. Beautiful!
Community unites to hear the news of the day
chants, voices, laughter, shouts all swell and tell great word choice here which makes the village have life here a the end.
Makes me miss the days when people gathered on front porches to visit with neighbors, or when cities had small town festivals to collect people together for a common cause.
Jeania,
What a great opening phrase to perk up my ears like a call to action. Love the language of swell and tell. Expansive is sound and meaning.
Sarah
Thank you for painting this beautiful setting. I felt like I was a part of the “community unites to hear the news of the day.”
Juliette, wow, what a setting you have given us today. So beautiful. I love this image: “In its path, feet colored like make believe socks” I’m sensing a setting in a verse novel here.
Wendy, thank you for hosting today. I love how you capture Emily’s style in your poem today, and your final line is stunning.
Ode to William S.
Early riser quietly composes
lines depicting ordinary life
like traveling in the dark,
bomb testing sites,
Nebraska roads,
grass joining hands
Your final poem
written on your death day
captures your Mother’s voice
You don’t have to
Prove anything
Just be ready
For what God sends
William,
I hear your voice,
feel your words
delight in the beauty you create
I hope you can hear me too,
whispering, Peace be with you
Barb Edler
3 April 2024
Barb—so quiet, so still. Just be ready. Peace be with you. Can you feel my deep sigh?
Barb, thanks for taking us down this road and sharing some of William S’s works. His final poem and the message it shares is so significant;
“You don’t have to
Prove anything
Just be ready
For what God sends.”
Barb,
I thought about choosing William Stafford but knew I’d never be able to honor him as skillfully as you, my friend. I am so glad you wrote this poem. I see those allusions to “Traveling Through the Dark,” and others. Sometimes this poetry writing thing feels like a trip into the night. I love the passage you quote and try to remember that when I write. I also love the way the poem honors W.S.’s writing process. Your poem today is perfection in so many ways.
Such a lovely turn in that final stanza to direct address. Intimate. Tender. My heart feels this.
This is so touching, Barb! How brave a mother should be to say to her child “Just be ready.” It makes me so sad. The final stanza is tender and heartfelt. Beautiful!
Love these lines, Barbara,
This is lovely! Serene and hopeful, “delight in the beauty you create.”
Barb, Like many of us here, I too am a Stafford fan. I have shared his “Way of Writing” with many students and carry phrases of it in my writer’s heart. I did not know about the poem he wrote on the day of his death. This was beautiful. Really lovely.
Barb, that ending is so touching – – the hope that someone hears us from the other side as we whisper messages – – I often talk to my mother and just hope she hears it all.
I hope you can hear me too,
whispering, Peace be with you
Barb, what a gentle and beautiful poem about our friend William S. I learned some new things about him today–his last poem, for instance. I just read the whole thing, and because he wrote every single day, he would have a poem from the day he died. Wow. Your last stanza is so beautiful and peaceful. I hope he can hear you too.
Barb – There’s so much tenderness here. The “mother’s voice” and the power to hear William’s voice… so much love is there. “Peace” be with you too, Barb. This is beautiful. Love, Susie
Wendy—this took me through so many of my favorite books of poetry. And then I realized that I will always come back to Maggie Smith, with her cynical hopes for the world. This rabbit hole was so fulfilling this afternoon. Thank you!
Maggie’s House
A visit with Maggie Smith
The yard, though unpopulated,
is filled with children.
A side-tipped tricycle,
three rubber ducks
floating in a bright blue wading pool,
a bat, a ball.
Leftovers of laughter.
The door opens and she invites me in.
The rooms echo with children’s voices and mothers’ lists,
sunlight and shadows fighting for our attention.
The house is full of mothering,
of joy and love and worry.
It is, as she says, a house full of
“Jerry-rigged parts, MacGuyvered with twine and chewing gum.” (1)
She offers me a cup full of her fears
and I offer her mine, brought
in case she misplaced hers.
We spoon honey into our worry tea,
sharing our myriad misgivings for the world and for our children
and decide that we are right, that our fear is justified.
But that is not what we will tell the children when they jumble in the front door,
full of sky and clouds and future.
We will sell them this house with shadowed corners
and point out only the sunlight streaming in through the windows,
“Because a lie is not a lie if the teller
believes it, the way beautiful things
Reassure us of the world’s wholeness,
of our wholeness, is not quite a lie.” (2)
We will offer them a future, their empty cup, yet to be filled.
We will give them our beautiful lie and hope that it becomes mostly true.
“Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: this place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful” (3)
Maggie Smith’s poems, referenced from “Good Bones”, 2017
GJ Sands
04/03/25
Gayle, wow your poem is packed full of rich images. I love how you are with Maggie sharing your worry tea. Wonderful job of weaving Maggie’s poetry into this incredible tribute to her craft. Truly gorgeous poem!
Gayle,
Looks like I have a new poet to read! I’m completely curious. I love the idea of you being invited into her home. It sure sounds like an interesting place . . .
Marvelous, Gayle! How I love, “She offers me a cup full of her fears/
and I offer her mine, brought/ in case she misplaced hers.”
Gayle,
As I was reading about all the things scattered around by children and the living that happens in a house to make it a home, I had “Good Bones” in the back of my mind. You honor Maggie Smith with your words. I’m glad you included the quotes.
Gayle, what a gentle poem about your friend Maggie Smith. I love how you visit with her here, and the story of the children and their future. So poignant. Some of my favorite lines “Leftovers of laughter.” and “…they jumble in the front door, / full of sky and clouds and future.” and “We will give them our beautiful lie and hope that it becomes mostly true.” Wow!
In her lodge, with French windows, Virginia found peace,
The place, a mess, but welcoming in her mind
Her desk, a beauty of wooden grace, a haven
To write
To find space
Among scattered papers, her mind took flight
Mrs. Dalloway’s world, Between the Acts’
Each word a testament to her mastery
Her sanctuary
Where narratives unfolded. Virginia Woolf
In her own chaotic world.
Beutiful poem, Rachel. I like how you capture specific details about where Virginia Woolf composed her words and how you captured some of her titles in your poem. I like the dichotomy between sanctuary and chaotic world. A writer finding space is such a precious commodity.
Rachel, you’ve shared a true writer’s space. I’m off to find out more about Virgini, to experience her, “mastery.”
Rachel, thank you for sharing Virginia Woolf’s work place. I feel like I was there with her in her welcoming messy spot.
Thank you for today’s prompt, Wendy! How lovely it would be to write in a place such as that! I wasn’t sure where to go from here, but then I remembered my Honors English 11 students just finished Fahrenheit 451 and we talked about Bradbury’s inspiration, how he wrote it, and we read Gaiman’s introduction to the 60th anniversary edition.
On the Side of Libraries
Did you know
Visions of firemen
Wreathed in flames
Were born from a
Coin-fed typewriter
Stationed in the basement
Of a library?
Imagine
Being encased
Within winding stacks,
The scent of faded printed
Ink pervading the air,
Each clack of a key
It’s own kind of music.
Imagine
Writing the greatest
Love letter to books,
To words, to pores and faces,
While envisioning all
Four hundred and fifty-one degrees
Of their destruction.
This is terrific, Jordan. When I was considering this prompt, I went immediately to nature. I so appreciate you pointing that not all inspiration is natured based. A library of all places! How wonderful!
Jordan, wow, your poem is a perfect introduction to Fareheit 451. I love how you pull us into the place where Bradbury was inspired. The progress of your poem is powerful, and I really adore how you tied in the title at the end along with that striking final line. Fantastic poem!
Jordan—a beautiful poem, and a wonderful background to an amazing book. It truly is a love letter to the written word…
This brings to mind a book I have just read “The Keeper of Hidden Books.” Your words about being encased the the scent of faded printed ink is accurate. How delicious!
Jordan,
I think this poem needs to be in the introduction for the 70th anniversary edition. Your poem takes me right into the library.
Jordan, what a fascinating story. I didn’t know how Fahrenheit 451 was written. I love how you put us there with the “Imagine…” stanzas. “Writing the greatest / love letter to books” Wow! What a a great image.
Thank you for this prompt, Wendy. I love the dashes, the birds, and the quiet in your Emily poem. It creates such a hopeful mood. I am fortunate to live in a place with lots of public gardens, parks, and natural places nearby. This poems is a memory of a hike I’ve takes many times with my husband.
Ascent
This morning, if I hadn’t decided
To hike around Lake Minnewaska,
If I didn’t choose the yellow trail
Up the mountain, past Gertrude’s Nose,
If I didn’t stop along the ridge
To watch the hawks circle above the pines,
If I hadn’t bent to tie my boot on the rocky path,
I would not have seen that single moth
With wings folded upright, carefully clasped
Almost the color of birch bark or sunlit limestone
She would not have startled me
With her out-spread, periwinkle wings –
I would not have witnessed
Her ascent into the April air.
Joanne, all those ifs are perfect! You’ve captured a very simple moment in time and made it so beautiful and dramatic for us. Your alliteration is awesome!
Such a serendipitous moment caught and then captured so eloquently here! Lovely moment
Joanne, I really admire your craft here. I love the straight-forward voice in the opening to establish your setting, and how you capture the beauty of the ridge and trail. Absolutely adore “perwinkle wings” and the final ascent. Truly stunning poem!
I wish I had been there for this moment, Joanne, to see her out-spread periwinkle wings. A beautiful moment, captured by your poem.
Your repetition of “if I hadn’t” and “if I didn’t” really brought home for me how even small choices during our day like tying our boot can bring moments of joy, if we are open to seeing them.
Joanne – This is beautiful. The repetition of “if[s]” is so effective. Each step on the trail was another great reason for the gorgeous discovery at the end. A beautiful poem. Susie
Joanne,
Excellent job capturing such a beautiful moment.
I love how the repetition of “if I hadn’t” and “if I didn’t” build up to emphasize how precious the moment was to you.
This line especially resonated with me:
Thank you for bringing us along on your hike and treating us to the spectacle of nature.
Love this moment…and the way the If I… takes me right there! “out-spread, periwinkle wings…” I can see her!
Wendy,
You gave us quite the literary challenge today. I do love Emily Dickinson, and your poem honors her style in lovely ways.
Last September we visited the Lake District in Great Britain and stopped briefly in Grasmere where William Wordsworth is buried. I purchased a scent called Poetry. Of course, the name hooked me.
Lines Composed After a Mad Dash through Grasmere
There was a time
when cloud poet
penned odes to
nature’s wandering
when daffodils burst
through poet’s pen
in yellow-hued suns
along paths onlookers tread
to glimpse his grave
resting place immortalized
in green veiled valley
crowded on St. Oswald’s lawn
scents of Poetry still linger
spritzed from souvenir cologne
Glenda Funk
4-3-24
*The photo in my Canva is of the path leading to Wordsworth’s grave.
This is so lovely, Glenda! Even your chosen form evokes poems from long ago. Not only your images, but your sounds create such a beautiful ode.
Fantastic poem, Glenda. I love the way you capture Wordworth through your daffodils and yellow hued suns. I can imagine the delight of finding a perfume called Poetry. How fun! I love how you spritzed it within the poem. Marvelous creativity here!
Glenda— the yellows and greens glow through your words. Amazing! I would have bought that scent, as well!
Glenda, the spirit of Wordsworth breathes throughout your verses. I soon as I read cloud poet, I knew daffodils were to follow, and I love that they burst from the poet’s pen. How beautiful! We visited there in the late 90’s and it’s a special spot. You took me immediately back.
Glenda — You made Wordsworth proud today. The daffodils through the pen… gorgeous. You made me miss my time in England. Spritz that scent my way!! Hugs, Susie
Glenda, what an ode! I used to teach this poem by Wordsworth in my Intro to Literary Analysis course, so your reference to the “cloud poet” made me smile. I like how you use pictures from your trips as backdrops to your poems. It adds to the atmosphere.
I loved when I got to visit this same spot and I loved the homage to his poetry in your own poem. However, my favorite part was the ending lines: “scents of Poetry still linger/spritzed from souvenir cologne.” It has that fun duality of being in awe of Wordsworth but also being a little amused at bottling something like poetry.
What a restful image, “penned odes to /nature’s wandering” – I felt stillness and quiet. How fun to have a scent called Poetry!
So interesting that I read your poem before and after reading the introduction. “scents of Poetry still linger” was lovely to read in two ways. I love the green in the image and in your poem “green veiled valley”
Such a beautiful ode to Wordsworth.
Oh Glenda! You have outdone yourself! I love the luscious repetition of g,s, and l. The last two lines make a perfect ending!
Dang it, Wendy . . . all you had to do was mention rabbit hole and down, down, down I went. First, I couldn’t decide what writer to focus on. I love John Green and he does a lot of his writing just up the road. Then, I thought about novelist Adriana Trigiani who writes in the heart of Greenwich Village and I would love to dig deep on that. But, I finally settled on the incredible Taylor Swift (please, no Taylor haters!). Watching the documentary on the crafting of the songs on the album folklore during the pandemic shutdown left me in awe. So, down the TayTay rabbit hole I went. My creation departs quite a bit, but here it is . . .
Penmanship
The writing tool matches the “feel”
the genre, the flow.
A quill . . . flowy and grand
old-fashioned and romantic
A fountain pen . . . precise and detailed
vivid and honest (with a twist)
A glitter gel pen . . . flashy and bold
colorful and carefree
If you’re like me,
there are times you want
to don your peasant shirt
and flex your romantic side
and go all Christina Rossetti
letting emotions rule
so you pick up
the quill.
Then, there are other times,
I want to tap into my inner
Carrie Bradshaw
and be detailed and vivid
while tossing words
on their heads
diving in honest and deep–
maybe too deep–
so I pick up
a fountain pen.
Rarely, I tap into the crazy
impulsive teenager whose
bright and colorful way
projects whimsy
with no care for consequence
so I pick up
the glitter gel pen.
I like to morph,
be a chameleon,
changing
who I am
and what I feel
and what I choose to share.
So, sometimes I grab
a quill,
other times a fountain pen,
and others a glitter gel pen.
The instrument guided
by my two fingers and thumb
becomes the conduit
between paper
and the
me
I want
to be.
~Susan Ahlbrand
3 April 2024
Oh, Susan, what a fun poem. I love how you capture the importance of your writing tool, and your ending lines are fantastic. Love “and the/me/I want/to be”. What a perfect sentiment for writers!
Susan— I started smiling, then smiled all the way through. I love all the “you’s” you give us! The pen motif is so perfect (personally,I love my fountain pens the best…)
What a creative way to talk about the different voices writers have on different days. The 3 writing tools give a clear picture of the distinction of your voices.
Guess I should explain that Taylor identifies her songs by these “pen” genres . . . In Billboard magazine she said . . . The singer-songwriter revealed that her “dorky” writing method would see her categorize songs under three genres, which she dubbed “Quill Lyrics,” “Fountain Pen Lyrics,” and “Glitter Gel Pen Lyrics.” “I came up with these categories based on what writing tool I imagine having in my hand when I scribbled it down — figuratively. I don’t actually have a quill. Anymore. I broke it once when I was mad,” Swift said.
So I ran with those three “pens” as if I wrote similarly.
Susan, this was terrific, and it made me want to watch the documentary! I’m a big T Swift fan, too, and I really hate all of the negativity aimed at her.
I loved how each your stanzas told a different writing story, organized by implements — this was really enjoyable!
Wizarding Worlds
At a corner table
in The Elephant House,
I breathe life
into Harry Potter.
I toss back tea,
scrawl my stories,
and make magic
for the world of muggles.
Nothing can stop me from
spinning magical tales
about magical students
who battle magical forces.
For me, it is compulsion
that propels my imagination.
And the idea of just wandering off
to a cafe with a notebook and
writing and seeing where it takes
me for awhile is just bliss.
Carriann! Have you actually been? If so, jealous!
If not, this poem capture an afternoon there — and I loved the italicized aside at the end. Beautiful poem, thanks for sharing!
I have never been to the Elephant House, but I have been to the Harry Potter parts of Universal Studios. It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen! It was like stepping into the books. Thank you!
You captured the magic so well! It made me feel like I was slinking through Knockturn Alley!
Love the power in the phrase “nothing can stop me from spinning magical tales” and then that italics at the end. Wow. A clever text change that really conjures that bliss.
Carriann, nice. I love “toss back tea” and “scrawl my stories” It shows confidence and how Rowling must have written those long books so fast! Well played.
Frost Farm
Derry, NH
I think I would have loved growing up
on the Frost Farm,
Acres upon acres of peace
with its pastures, fields, orchards and gentle springs
I’d have sat for hours in the kitchen
Directly in front of the wood stove,
Writing endlessly as I glanced up
at the red wallpaper
So chosen because it went well with the green tree at Christmas
Each day I could have walked the
half mile Nature Trail,
Stopping at Hyla Brook to splash my face,
Pick an apple to snack on from
the trees in the orchard,
Meandering along that road not taken
Simply to see where it would lead
I shan’t be gone long
-You come, too.
“I shan’t be gone long” – this is marvelous, Heidi. I love the detail of the red wallpaper. I, too, would love to meander along that road not taken.
Heidi, I just loved your use of language in this poem. That last stanza! The whole poem was an invitation that just pulled us in — I want to come, too!
Heidi – Your poem takes me right along the path. Those beautiful Frost[ie] images. I love the homage and am reminded of the kitchen and wood stove… not unlike my own childhood kitchen. Thank you for the trek! Susie
A perfect closing to a comforting, quieting poem. “You come, too”. Bliss…
Heidi,
The way you bring in that title of the book that helped me fall in love with Frost’s poem is simply brilliant.
Lucille Clifton
she sings truth
small and large
dishing out poetry
with complexity
and depth
from her kitchen table
despite because in the midst of
piles of laundry
sinkful of dirty
tears and squeals
of five children
daily she wrote volumes
powerful lowercase
i so real
feeding us
her four eyes notice
in all directions
her ears overhear
what she’s not listening for
*italics are an excerpt from her poem “the two-headed woman blues”
Maureen, I loved how well the lines from Clifton dovetailed with your own, creating a perfect ending to this. And this series of prepositions and conjunctions was a delight, bring me to a halt with its truth —
“from her kitchen table
despite because in the midst of”
Isn’t writing while mothering and housekeeping and teaching and wifing just like this?
Maureen,
You chose one of my favorite poets. Clifton is appropriate for where you live. I think of hearing what we’re not listening for as a teacher thing. I love the way you highlight Clifton’s attention to the ordinary daily things as poetry.
Maureen- I love Lucille Clifton and that you seated me next to her at the kitchen table amidst the laundry and dishes and kids. Now I love her even more. And am thinking of you sitting across the table writing this beautiful poem/tribute. Thank you, Susie
Maureen, I do adore Lucille Clifton and thought about writing about her today, too. I love how you catalog the truth of her poetry that refelcts her reality. Love your lines “i so real” and separating “feeding us” Fantastic poem and celebration of Lucille!
Maureen, thank you for honoring Lucille Clifton and her busy life full of “tears and squeals / of five children” and all that goes along with that. I love “powerful lowercase / i so real”
I went looking for windows,
a single-sash or a
double-sash or even
a casement window
that involves a hinge,
or better yet, what about
a picture window, see,
which doesn’t open
(that’s ok) but may “be
inset with metal grids”
that “obstruct [the] view
slightly” (which is not ok)
because I need to be able
to look out the window
need to be able to see
to do my work according
to Billy Collins in “Monday”
(but now, as I write this,
I feel that that’s a bit ableist,
a bit wrong somehow,
did Milton need to see to craft,
“Better to reign in Hell than
serve in Heaven”?)
Collins’s point is taken, though,
I need to observe, to comment,
to bear witness, to “see” the
world “out there,” and since my
internal landscape is not as vast
as Milton’s, I’m in the market
for some windows.
Maybe bay windows or
awning windows?
Just now, these days, mine
are feeling a bit of the
bathroom glass variety
where “textures vary
from rain to frosted,
offering different
levels of opacity.”
__________________________________________________________
Thanks, Wendy, for your poem and your prompt! You’ve been around the literary block! – from Dickinson’s house to the House of the Seven Gables to Walden pond – What’s next?! I love the idea of these literary trips! For my offering today, I revisited the poem “Monday” by Billy Collins (Here’s a video of him reciting it:
) and then briefly researched windows. And here are the websites if any one is “in the market” for them or interested in the original sources for my quoted lines in stanza two (https://tinyurl.com/ycyze3bu) and the last stanza (https://tinyurl.com/4rb6jnmm).
Um, I didn’t realize that the YouTube link would actually pull in the video, lol. Awkward. Sorry. (Way to “upstage” my poem, Mr. Collins, lol.)
Scott, your poem is a wonderful tribute to Billy Collins; I love that you included his full video and let me see how your poem plays with his so fabulously. I know well that feeling of writing with a view of “bathroom glass variety” – but I think you sell yourself short. You are seeing through a big picture window, indeed.
I LOVE Billy Collins and loved listening to his poem after reading yours.
Working in Milton was brilliant…
I enjoyed your references to various types of windows (single sash, double sash, bay, picture).
I do believe the true windows, to poets, is the window to the soul.
Thank you for all of it!
Scott, this was really wonderful. I loved the myriad ways I read:
“Just now, these days, mine
are feeling a bit of the
bathroom glass variety
where “textures vary
from rain to frosted,
offering different
levels of opacity.”
I could use some clarity about now.
Scott – Even before your poem and Billy Collins’ “Monday,” I was thinking about Collins. I love your windows. And certainly know those “bathroom glass” panes. Welcome to my house. But the whole business of windows affording us vantage points for observing is poetic and spot on. And the close drawing me to consider “opacity”… that’s rich stuff. Your poem is an open window today. I find myself flying in and out. 😊 Hugs, Susie
Gosh, Scott, your genius just flat pisses me off. 🙂
What could at a glance appear like randomness is so wisely crafted and it glibly shows us so much about Collins. And poets. And windows.
I loved reading yours and hearing Billy Collins read “Monday” as a perfect pairing. So clever, Scott.
Wendy, your Emilyesque poem is gorgeous. The vocabulary, rhyme and rhythm, and the dashes all conjure up her work. Thank you. I love “And herald the aurora’d dawn.” I know next to nothing about Jack Gilbert, but I just started Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert (not related). She tells a bit of his story in the introduction. Having spent a few days in his hometown, I chose to write about him.
Pittsburgh’s in Jack Gilbert
As we rode Duquesne Incline,
he already was old and in Berkeley. Steel City
watches over the growing of knowing,
for heirlooms of progeny. But this
morning, the three rivers backdrop
for thunderstorms, Andy Warhol and
the bridges of a city bring light to our
dark, pathways of connections.
To this city we came just to
give our kids a taste of Primati Bros.
(way too much cole slaw),
and the Pirates, and Randyland, a
show of hue saturation and celebration.
His hometown was the
landfall of his view from Paris,
the eye of his childhood, always
new. As each of us have our own past, in city or
country, we are products of our nurturing.
His lifetime weaving carried the thread of his
native city, coloring the world, his poetry with
land-roots of comfort and claiming.
_________________________________________
Golden shovel striking line is “As he watches for morning, for the dark to give way and show his landfall, the new country, his native land.” By Jack Gilbert in “Looking at Pittsburgh from Paris”
Brilliant idea to use a golden shovel poem – such an immediate tribute to Jack Gilbert. He is new to me; I need to look into his writing. I am marveling at your lines, “the bridges of a city bring light to our/
dark, pathways of connections.” What a fascinating take on bridges, how they carry us from and to. Wonderful poem, Denise!
Denise–I absolutely love that I felt like I was reading two poems at the same time. Reading through just the first word and then the whole poem–I appreciate the idea of the poet always trying to “thread his native city” in his poetry. The idea of a hometown makes me think about the importance of this concept in our sense of “comfort and claiming” as you noted. Thank you!
Denise,
I really don’t know Jack Gilbert’s poetry and haven’t been to Pittsburgh. I have been to Paris and know Pittsburgh has a strong literary influence, particularly in the August Wilson plays. So the lines that stand out to me are “As each of us have our own past, in city or / country, we are products of our nurturing.” We see this in your poem, too. I’ll definitely learn more about and read more Gilbert.
Denise, you’ve introduced me to a new poet and I want to read more. Hue saturation and celebration is a beauty of a line. You’ve given us movement throughout in the lifetime weaving, coloring the world, both serene and soothing.
Denise, what a wonderful format to show so much about Gilbert. I love the action in your poem and your line “ products of our nurturing.”
Love your Golden Shovel, Denise, especially the last three lines,
day of the orchid
Barefoot on Lilly shoots,
whisperings brooks,
chilled water in the crooks.
Humming bird flutters,
dragonfly dreams,
Swirled with mourning dove beams.
yellow, red, and purple dance,
upon a mahogany’s hand
twirling toes in sparkle in creek sand.
chipmunks and frogs,
join me on hollow logs,
Orchids sparkle in the bog.
Songs of thrashers high in the pine,
echo melodies,
of a forgotten time.
When a day was mine,
forever did it last,
only in my mind.
Clayton–I appreciate the imagery and it transported me to this Spring-like time with the fluttering birds, “whispering brooks” and especially the notion of a “forgotten time”. It makes me want to go take a walk and actually experience what you shared in real life! Hopefully, if the weather permits, I will. Thank you for sharing and reminding me of nature’s melody.
Boxer… Clayton Moon — I was immediately caught in the rhythmics and wordplay. As the images wend through each stanza, I found that mind-space to be all the richer and delightful at the end. Love this. Susie
What a lovely springtime day you have described. I can picture you in the southeast, so much natural beauty in your poem. And this…”When a day was mine, / forever did it last, / only in my mind.” And in your poetry. So lovely.
Vonnegut
two stories tall
and hundreds of stories deep
stands over Mass Ave
in Indy.
He had a warm spot for
folks from his home town:
“But wherever you go
there is always a Hoosier
doing something
very important there.”
Even though
he could often be
cynical,
disappointed with humanity,
he could
let go
of
hope.
Eric, “two stories tall and hundreds of stories deep” is such a great image. I appreciate that he held a warm spot for Hoosiers. Great quote from him. I find I want to read the word not in that last clause.
Thanks. And yeah, there should be a “not” after “could.” Good catch
Your poem shows Vonnegut’s feelings of connection with place well. I really adore your opening and closing lines.
Uninspired
By Mo Daley 4/3/24
When the foot can’t foot
and the stairs dismiss stairs
and April refuses to April
and the laundry doesn’t laundry
and the poems won’t poem
and the brain is unwilling to brain
maybe it’s time to book a book
I love your “verbing,” Mo! And I would love to “book a book” right now! I think your poem encapsulates this time of year (at least for me)!
Oh, Mo, so sorry about your foot! April will April soon. Right now is the time to book! Very clever word use here. Fun poem. Hope you are back on your feet soon.
Mo, this was a giggle! That last line really gave me a chuckle. Sorry you were feeling “uninspired,” but it spawned a sweet poem!
This is fun & funny & gives me permission to not poem when I can’t poem – but maybe poem a little anyway. The verbs here are obviously the heart of the poem, but I also notice all the different ways to say “won’t”. Basically, I love this.
Oh, that is dandy wordplay, Mo! I love it. I especially felt a “brain …unwilling to brain.” Making verbs…. let’s call it verbing for now is just perfect. You’ve made it legal! Thank you! Susie
Mo,
Momma told me there would be days like this. I do hear echoes of T.S. Eliot here: “April is the cruelest month.” Love the repetition of “when” throughout.
–Glenda
Oh, Mo. I love your poem and how you’ve created this poem to reflect your feelings.
Mo, I feel all the emotions within your verse today and am sending you warm hugs. I love the noun-verbing that land as action and direct object. I’ve found it hard to not book books this week (spring break). Rest up and get that foot footing again!
I love the wit in your poem! This also matches my current feeling this time of year.
Thanks, Wendy…I was intrigued by the prompt and tried to think of a favorite author and their location, but fell upon a favorite location where I was helped to author my own story. I enjoyed the rhyme of your poem, and now have a new addition to my aviary knowledge: Ovenbird. How’d I miss that one? Thanks for leading us today.
Tintagel
I tried to be a king that night,
authoring a heard of sea-horses
to bring us back to sea.
I knew it was the wine (no it was me),
who taunted us both towards the waves,
while leaving footprints in the sand
only to disappear.
I found your hand in the foggy mist,
another cornball in Cornwall,
and somehow
we both managed
to keep our clothes on.
Shrews aren’t meant to be tamed, you whispered,
and made me dance for you, hypnotically,
under the same fertile moon
you used to protect your labor.
We turned the night into day
with laughter and your overpowering mind.
But I was just one of your historical myths –
a mythological history
of Merlin drama and mermaids –
the kind stolen
by Hans Christian Anderson
from the east coast of Africa.
But there you were, helping me
to critically question
rugged footbridges & caves
as we stepped and paddled onto steep slopes,
slipping and dropping together with sheer…
,,,only to surface
the unevenness
between a Goddess
& her monster.
Bryan, your poem is a magical adventure! I can feel the struggle to create and question. Your ending is particularly satisfying!
Such a magical and romantic poem, Bryan. Even though it started with the seahorses, I wanted more to read when I got to finding a hand in the foggy mist. Love the ending with a Goddess and her monster.
Bryan,
This is masterful from beginning to end. From “authoring” as a play on Arthur in my mind, to playing king in those opening lines, to your Merlin allusion woven into allusions to Shakespeare’s “The Taming of the Shrew,” I love everything about this poem. I feel as though I’m on a scavenger hunt trying to decipher clues. Jay Hali has a theory about Katherine. He says she wasn’t tamed but tamed Petruchio. And yet you have left me thinking about Guinevere and her taming of all those men in her orbit. Love it.
Appreciate this, Glenda. I fused several authors who have an English sea-side connection (and cheated with Hans Christian Anderson, but he made sense). As for the moment…priceless. A night in my life I will never forget in a location by the water that has always left me perplexed.
Bryan, this stanza caught and held me
I found your hand in the foggy mist,
another cornball in Cornwall,
and somehow
we both managed
to keep our clothes on.
Another cornball in Cornwall – – -I love this!
And of course the very idea that clothes might
have come off means that there is the edge of love,
so I closed one eye and kept right on reading!
Love your witty fun!
Wendy, I chose a line from Robert Frost who wrote the poem, “Once by the Pacific”
“Once by the Pacific”
I experienced something horrific
At least horrific to me, standing there by the sea
Kids seemed to find joy as they watched a boy
Sink into the water and stay under much too long
But alas, he surfaced and shook his head
Encircled in a snorkeling device. Whew! How nice.
Then I, too, began to breathe and even to sing a song
“Once by the Pacific”
I observed something specific
Standing just above the cove
Shared by snorkelers, swimmers, and scuba divers.
I saw double–crested cormorants circling up above
Then heard a blue-grey loon, singing a croon, and soon
Seeing fluffy seagulls float atop the booming waves
Swimming in and perusing the grey-brown sea lion caves
“Once by the Pacific”
I witnessed theft so prolific
Sitting in the La Jolla Cove
I watched as sneaky birds dove
To swoop and snatch up the fragrant food
From those picnic tables made of wood
“Once by the Pacific”
I wandered with someone terrific
We were celebrating a belated honeymoon
And though we had to return home soon
We enjoyed the shade of the towering palms
And were reminded of Biblical Psalms
Viewing the ocean with someone so special
Really was quite a boon.
Yes, what a wonderful spot! I enjoyed it daily as I walked during my “prep” periods.
Thought you’d recognize it!
Anna, what a sweet poem, “Once by the Pacific.” I smiled at the thieving birds. I’ve seen that before from those prolific thieves. How scary that you had to worry about that boy going under water too long.
WRITING WITH SUSIE
A forgiving chair,
a few sacred tools,
a space
out of earshot
of the detritus
of the day’s constitutionals:
walking the dog,
making coffee,
finding socks that match —
this space lets me
push back the door
to my thoughts
where roiling images,
memories, itches
are on tap
for a long draught of words.
At first, a swilling
of water from a hose,
metaphors spill
to a muddy puddle,
cut into channels,
carry silt thru deltas
to a lake that offers false peace,
pauses,
lets me stare across the shimmer
notice ripples that whisper
near the mirrored surface.
I see myself,
my mullings
staring back;
more lies sleeping
below, steeping
until
my mind flips the bail,
letting the line run,
reels in,
eases up,
wrangles through rushes,
tangled pondweed.
A deft hold on the filament,
the line cuts my finger
in the tussle;
licking the blood away,
I hoist the scaly poem
from the phragmites.
by Susie Morice, April 3, 2024
Oh, Susie! If this doesn’t encapsulate the entirety of the struggle (and joy) with writing that I grapple with on the daily! I have hoisted man scaly poems (rarely a beauty or record breaker; though you have done it here). If it weren’t for that swilling of hose water, I’m not sure I’d continue the tussle. By the by, It’s been awhile since I’ve heard of a daily constitutional (but I think of this every time I get the 7th graders to walk with me, despite the cold (oh, that frigid, friggin cold they constantly complain about). This is a beauty. And a record breaker.
Holy Mackerel, Susie, I love this extended metaphor! Your “mind flips the bail, / letting the line run, / reels in, / eases up, / wrangles through rushes, / tangled pondweed” to, finally, after some bloodletting — such is the life of a creative, blood, sweat, and tears — “[you] hoist the scaly poem / from the phragmites”! This is so good! [Side note: this may be, I think, the first time that I’ve used the “fish as expletive” expletive. And I must say: It felt pretty good. 🙂 ]
Susie, your imagery and craft is exquisite.Those final lines are striking. I can feel the sharp cut, the weight of the line, and feel the tussle and scales. Wow, what a fantastic metaphor! You completely pulled me into your space and actions. Kudos!
Susie,
I want your chair! It is a magical place, and I adore imaging you it it as your imagination takes you to those watery places and leads you to the lake/river/ocean where you reel in the big catch: “I hoist the scaly poem
from the phragmites.” Yes! We are fishers of poems serving up the catch of the day, and it ain’t those bottom feeders. You’ve delivered sea bass. 😋 Brilliant poem.
Susie, I don’t know where to start. muddy puddles, tangled pondweeds, wrangles through rushes – – the way the words play and sound are absolutely the pinnacle of poetry – – the love of the lilt of the language here is superb!
This resonates:
walking the dog,
making coffee,
finding socks that match —
I was taking care of trying to clothe family members for my brother’s wedding this weekend, and of course I’m exhausted. There I was in my Birkenstocks, a pair of denim capris, and a dressy shirt today, the kind you’d wear to work, no makeup, and hair a first class mess, just trying to get the things done that must be done…..and when I read this, I so fell into the knowing comfort of your poem…..yes, yes, someone else understands that some days the socks or clothes match, and some days they don’t.
Thank you, Wendy–another fellow Central New Yorker–for this inspiration. I have always wanted to visit Rowan Oak, Faulkner’s estate in Oxford, Mississippi. Despite all of his faults, I have always been a huge fan of his craft and the apocryphal stories that come with his life.
This poem (which Faulkner would likely have hated) is inspired by a few of those anecdotes.
a sonnet for bill
the reporter didn’t have a chance
despite his best intentions
he was in no way ready
for what was about to take place
it’s the pun of the place
the unnecessary vowels
the pompous prayer
of a mad genius
there’s a path that will take you
to ole miss museum
and into oxford
where a statue sits in repose
the only thing missing
is the martini–dry as the bone.
Keith, I loved your sonnet which is going to send me down an unfortunate Faulkner-inspired rabbit hole when I should be doing report card comments. Loved the statue — indeed, he looks martini-ready! Favorite lines from your poem:
“it’s the pun of the place
the unnecessary vowels
the pompous prayer
of a mad genius”
Thanks for playing today! <3
A sonnet is great. I love that you think he would have hated your poem. “pun of the place” and “pompous prayer / of a mad genius” are powerful.
Faulkner may not have enjoyed it, but I certainly did. I had a good chuckle at the word play and especially at the ending line about the martini.
Our so goes to Ole Miss, so I always stop by the bench and say hi to Mr. Faulkner.
Love the alliteration in the second stanza!
Wendy, I am fortunate to live in Massachusetts, home to so many literary giants. Your words encourage me to visit more of these places – now I have a few ideas for summer!
And I love your ovenbird greeting neighbors!
Your inspiration today reminded me of a hike I took on Monument Mountain in western Massachusetts inspiration point for Moby Dick.
Inspiring Walks
Hiking on a path
deep in the forest amidst the Berkshire hills
there marks the place
when thundered in
Hawthorne and Melville
seek shelter under a rock
far from the Atlantic waters
with only views of the rocky
gray peak of My. Greylock
Melville peered
across the valley
to spot the craggy view
resembling a cresting whale
giving birth to
Moby Dick
Leading me to believe
that great works of literary value
begin with walking
deep in the woods
where minds can
freely wander
and wonder
Christine, what fun to learn and read and discover. These lines, your words, land beautifully – “Melville peered across the valley to spot the craggy view resembling a. cresting whale giving birth to Moby Dick.” I can just imagine the whole of it. I am a firm believer in wandering to find words and in wording to find wonder, as you have done for us today.
Christine, I love your poem and learned something new about the origin of Moby Dick. “…where minds can freely wander and wonder” is an important line, encouraging creatives to open their eyes, take long walks and let thoughts roam.
Christine, this was just beautiful. Your imagery puts me right there. I had no idea of this story and followed up — fascinating!! Thanks for this.
Christina, yes! This right here:
that great works of literary value
begin with walking
deep in the woods
This resonates with me – the solace of the woods is the place where minds are most free!
Wendy, your poem echoes dear Emily’s fierce attention to word choice. (domed, striated, Aurora’d)
I am a dedicated fan of Mary Oliver and decided to make a golden shovel with one of her lines from “Fall”: What is spring all that tender/ green stuff”
I’m not sure what
heaven is
but amazement like spring
when all
green that
was hiding in tender
seed fills green
bridal bouquets blossoming beautiful stuff.
This short poem is long on meaning, Margaret. I love the way you weave in bridal bouquets-an unexpected twist.
Love the image that this gave, Margaret! Those last alliterative lines:
“…seed fills green
bridal bouquets blossoming beautiful stuff.”
They spill over with joy, like the bouquet you’re writing about, and the length of the line underscores that feeling. <3
I imagine heaven is spring and your words help me to visualize that in a new way! Plus you make me want to write a golden shovel poem
Anyone who is a dedicated fan of Mary Oliver is a friend of mine. I’ve never heard of a golden shovel poem-but it is amazing!
I love the image of hidden green in tender seeds blooming into such beautiful things for bridal bouquets, Margaret. It is amazing, spring. A foreshadowing of the inconceivable heaven…beautiful layering of meanings, here.
Bravo, Margaret! The golden shovel works perfectly here.
“all green that was hiding in tender seed…” Love that line–and the way the shovel works to inspire your poem!
One of my new favorite authors is Claire Keegan. I found a little gem about her writing space during my internet sleuthing.
Jeweled fire in the corner
Unfocused eyes look
Through to see
Its warmth drifts
Lazily through the
Cool morning
Ginger cat eyes
Keep their secret watch
From one side of the
Battered wooden desk
Out the window, the waves
Pulse urgently
Against wide rocks below
Julie, thank you so much for introducing us to Claire Keegan! I just loved this atmospheric poem that placed me so beautifully in her space!
Julie, I love your opening line and the emotional pull of the space, its warmth and Ginger cat eyes. Beautiful poem! I’ll have to check out this author’s work.
Julie, this is an author I have not read, but I will explore! Thanks for the nod to her work! I love all of this, but especially
Ginger cat eyes
Keep their secret watch
Ooh, the watching of eyes gets me every time….a little eerie, a little comforting all at once.
Wendy, oh to write in Emily Dickinson’s home –
I can envision birds landing –
on bare branches just outside the window –
Thank you for allowing us to dwell in the worlds of our favorite writers today. What better way to journey than to travel in titles and quotes.
Bradbury Landing
There are tales
of dark carnivals
and graveyards for lunatics
kaleidoscoping the October country
in yestermorrows
long after midnight
(You’re lying, you don’t remember)
yet we are alive
circling upon the black ferris
waiting for the wicked something
(George, I wish you’d look at the nursery)
until the April witch arrives
amidst the sound of thunder
on this last night of the world
(Come into my cellar)
the fog horn flashes
in frost and fire
long after midnight
soft rains will come
embroidering both
hail and farewell
(How does it feel to be young forever)
They have not seen the stars
that I have seen
nor the shape of things to come,
have not lurked in moon landings,
descended into time,
peered through decades like
celestial navigators,
worn words like pendants,
heard them whispered
in ear seashells
nor loved while rewilding the world
(It always had to end)
Jennifer,
Your use of quotes throughout your poem are nestled so neatly into your other lines. This reads like an introduction to Bradbury’s biography!
I love the way you wove in Bradbury throughout the poem – the ear seashells I’ve always thought of as the forerunner of earbuds…..so prophetic, Bradbury and Orwell and those authors all were. I’m always blown away by Asimov’s short Story “The Fun They Had” and wonder what oracles they had back in their day. Wearing words, I guess, will truly beckon the spirits to show divine and futuristic truths, and you capture all of that right here, especially in these lines
They have not seen the stars
that I have seen
nor the shape of things to come,
Wow!
Jennifer,
Wow! I love Bradbury’s short stories but have not read enough of his novels. Your poem was just lovely and inspired me to read more of him; I loved the interspersed and parenthetical quotations within. Favorite lines:
“celestial navigators,
worn words like pendants,
heard them whispered
in ear seashells”
“soft rains will come
embroidering both
hail and farewell”
“of dark carnivals
and graveyards for lunatics
kaleidoscoping the October country
in yestermorrows”
Haunting poem!
Jennifer – Holy cow! You wished me back into Ray Bradbury’s world. Some of the quotes so vivid still after all these years. Ones that rattled my sci-fi bones … “graveyards for lunatics” (so ancient and creepy) and “waiting for the wicked something” and “peered through decades” (amazing how Bradbury and so many of his sci-go compatriots did just that) and “soft rains” (still a magical and deadly sense) … all these, taking us to the task of “rewilding the world.” Wow! You made me want to read Bradbury and a I-go again. I just finished Prophet Song (quite dystopian) and think I need more Bradbury! Keep at this killa wordsmithing… you are a force!! Hugs, Susie
Jennifer,
You have chosen the perfect title for this cornucopia of Bradbury tales. Years ago I taught “The Martian Chronicles” as part of a unit I called “Reading the Skies” (not my title idea), but I still recall when I first encountered “And There Will Come Soft Rains.” It is still one of my favorite short stories. Now I need to list all your allusions.
Jennifer, what a good idea. A great way to travel today. I saw a few familiar titles. I love the title and the way you have stitched together the quotes and titles.
Wendy, thank you for hosting us today! I think one of my favorite topics of all is writing about place. And you have an ovenbird! Oh, what a joy of a bird to have in your woods. In the south, for me, it’s the Wood Thrush I love hearing so much. Birds herald season, and they season the places and spaces so dear. Your rhyme scheme is lovely and something I have been working on trying to do better. Thank you for a fun prompt and for inspiring us as writers today!
The Funny Farm
give me outdoors
on a bright, cloudy farm
one that’s just a slant off
from the normal farm’s charm
where the dogs think they’re people
and there’s no chimney-steeple
where the roosters don’t stop –
they crow ’round the clock
and the cats are all blind
(confused mice think them kind)
where the pigs all stay clean
but the John Deere stays green
and the fig-pickin’s plenty
and the fence posts are denty
and we grow winter corn
once the goats’ wool is shorn
and the rabbits stay single
’cause they don’t like to…..mingle…..
and the cows oom
(not moo, like all other cows do)
and the deer never scare
they just stand there and stare
and the farmer wears oil rags
returns new clothes with price tags
wears his straw hat with holes
’cause he’s got backwoods goals
and he can’t eat no sausage
but it’s really no loss-age
they just go out for dinner
(and for her, that’s a winner!)
on this farm that’s quite funny,
sipping coffee with honey
give me outdoors
on a bright, cloudy farm
one that’s just a slant off
from the normal farm’s charm
Oh, Kim! Your poem is such a treasure trove of “punny” lines….what fun! I love your rhyme scheme with invented words…my favorites are “the fence posts are denty” and “but it’s really no loss-age.” Kudos on a fun read!
Kim, there is such charm in these words. You have me wondering about cows that oom instead of moo!!
Kim, this was just gold! Gave me more than one chuckle (I’m reading it in Study Hall…I keep snorting, and the kids keep giving me funny looks…). The internal rhyme in your first and last line — loved it. Loved “Just a slant off”…”and the fence posts are denty…” your line about the rabbits, lol…this felt like it was written with love and knowledge of that which you speak. <3
P.S. Loved this — a line of poetry in itself:
“Birds herald season, and they season the places and spaces so dear.”
Gloriously written, Kim – every single set of rhyming set lines works like an absolute charm! The rabbits not liking to…mingle, the backwards cows that oom, no sausage, no loss-age – I dearly love these gems. Of course they’re not “normal” (what is that, anyway?) – because it’s all priceless.
What a gift is your “Funny Farm,” Kim! It is playful, funny, and so…did they say charming? I loved this place “where the dogs think they’re people.” I enjoyed every rhyme and funny references. This was such a joyful read! Thank you.
Kim — Your “funny farm” is more than funny; it’s a stitch! The humor… every darned line …had me just gobbling this up. What a gem of a poem! The “sausage…loss-age” is a riot! And your cows “oom[ing]! GIRL, this is priceless! I loved every line! Encore!! Write a whole book of these reverse spaces! It’d make a great book! I’d buy it! Hugs, Susie
Kim, what a delightful poem! I love how wonderful you were able to pull this all together while maintaining the rhyme scheme. You’ve definitely captured a charming and magical farm!
Well, you certainly worked on your rhyme is this poem. It is a fantastic, funny verse and I could see it becoming a song. I love how you brought us full circle, Kim. Great job!
For me, Kim, it’s these lines (I love my animals),
What a fun prompt, Wendy! I LOVE this Dickinsonian poem. and that you were inspired to write it by walking the grounds of her home. I am enchanted by the birdsong heralding “the Aurora’d dawn” – it is all so lovely and lyrical.
Here’s what I have so far…I suspect many of you will instantly know my chosen author and some of the references…here goes:
Remember the Signs
Sometimes
there is
a magic
that
chases you
from one
world
to another
such as when
you visit
a Tex-Mex restaurant
in North Carolina
dedicated to Elvis
and as
the hostess
leads my party
to our table
I happen
to notice
high on the wall
above all the
hodgepodge
framed photos
that aren’t even
of Elvis at all
but instead are
of food
and dogs
and cars
(the ceiling
is a mass
of actual
gleaming chrome
hubcaps)
…that high
on the wall
above these
eccentric displays
is a wooden sign
and that
is when
I know
I know
I know
magic is
afoot
the air is now
tingling with it
and I know
if I can somehow
explore this wall
without being noticed
by anyone else
that I might
very probably
find, if conditions
are right,
a hidden door…
It is here,
somewhere,
I am sure
and someday,
so help me,
I shall find it
I shall get in
to find myself
I suspect
in the Rabbit Room
of an Oxford pub
where a group of men
light their pipes and order
another beer as they
debate the manuscript
on magic chasing you
from one world
to another
by mysteriously
connected rooms
and secret portals…
I stand staring
at this sign
(later, I
will have trouble
remembering
exactly what it was)
—with more than
a pretty strong
inkling
Wow! A story poem that’s a mystery. Love it. And, your use of repetition is fantastic. Bravo!
Fran, the secret door and the Rabbit room were the best clues – – and Oxford. I’ll admit – not the celebrated author one would expect to find in an Elvis-loving Tex Mex restaurant in NC, but yet that magical place is everywhere. Everywhere. I love the scene with the pipe smoking beer drinking men debating a manuscript on magic. Oh, what a place to be!
Fran, thank you so much for introducing us the Rabbit Room! I totally rabbit-holed into the website (da dum tssss) and learned so much! I appreciated how the structure of your poem made me feel like Alice, faaaallllling down that rabbit hold into another world. Memorable poem!
Wendy, my own rabbit-hole process for composing was too fun, and at this point I will share, for clarity (in case…): The Rabbit Room was a private lounge in the back of the Oxford pub The Eagle and the Child (nicknamed The Bird and the Baby) where C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and others (“The Inklings”) met regularly to share their working drafts. My poem’s title, the tingling magic, the door leading to another world = Narnia/Lewis references. Even “I shall get in” is taken from Lewis, whom I’ve loved since age 10. The manuscript being debated in the poem is The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe – Tolkien didn’t like it and basically told Lewis it would never work. Also, for the record: There’s actually a door in the wall of that Tex-Mex Elvis restaurant and the sign above it reads “NARNIA” in big red letters – I actually forgot what it said! I thought it was more obscure!- but even my forgetting ties directly into the plot of one of The Chronicles of Narnia books.
-Mystery revealed:)
Fran, I love this poem and where you took it. Don’t feel it is necessary to highlight the entire poem, but these lines are the ones sitting with me as I prepare for bed,
This is great, Fran. This would be a fun challenge for students . . .for them to weave in details about a famous person assuming/hoping that the reader can put together the puzzle pieces.
Ray Bradbury is one of my favorite authors, and I loved teaching Fahrenheit 451. According to his website, he met his wife Marguerite at Fowler Brothers Bookstore. She worked as a clerk at the store, and she thought he was a thief. This story sets the stage for my poem.
Downtown Los Angeles
A concrete jungle’s haven
Fowler Brothers Bookstore
Embraces me, transports me
My eyes wander
Fill with wonder
An intimate gaze
Just myself, a page
Shelves lined ready
An idiopathic fever
Settles into tunnel vision
With rimmed glass boundaries
Suddenly I am torn
Ripped from my cocoon
I’m Ray
Marguerite.
Ashely, I loved this story! Especially loved:
“An intimate gaze
Just myself, a page”
(I loved the double meaning I perceived there)
and
“An idiopathic fever
Settles into tunnel vision
With rimmed glass boundaries”
Loved all of the bookish imagery and word choice in this. <3. Cozy scene!
Wow! Love that this poem is a short story too…what a hat tip to Mr. Bradbury.
I had no idea Ray Bradbury’s wife first thought he was a thief. I guess in the end he really was if he stole her heart. This is lovely, and I love that you go back to a moment to see them meet. Bookstores’ll do that.
I did not either, but I explored his website, and it has a “13 things” article about him.
Ashley, Bradbury is my absolute favorite too (and my inspiration as well today). These lines drew me in: “with rimmed glass boundaries” (there’s a nod to his scifi world) and “just myself, a page” (the meanings of page here extend layers). I’m reminded that Fowler Brothers might just be the perfect name for a bookstore (if ever I were to open one).
Thank you, Jennifer. Apparently, Fowler Brothers closed in 1994. I tried to find a picture of it to draw from, but I could not find one.
My favorite lines:
“An idiopathic fever” and the simple yet stunning:
I’m Ray
Marguerite.
Reminds me of 451’s opening line. Perfect.
Ooooo, Ashley – this is wonderful! The backstory of the Bradburys’ first meeting is hilarious. Especially in light of the stolen book in Fahrenheit 451. And I love this stanza, leading to the moment of their encounter:
Shelves lined ready
An idiopathic fever
Settles into tunnel vision
With rimmed glass boundaries
I learned about a new bookstore I wish I knew about before it was closed! Ah, the setting for true love…well, after being deemed a thief of course.
I love the lines
My eyes wander
Fill with wonder
as well as your last lines…
an intro to love.
oooooh! I drove through Amherst a few years ago and wanted to stop at that house! I’ll bet it was amazing to be there. Your poem has the weight and feel of Dickinson. Those dashes, the personification of the ovenbirds. Wonderful and fresh.
Carl Sandburg’s Chicago 1914
As far as eyes
can see
in every direction,
this tower of babel
knocked on it’s side
brick upon brick
rising from dust and dirt,
as cement mixers churn.
Lake to stockyard
bustling, bursting
babbling tongues
of all the world
murmuring a chorus–
Faster, higher, more
more
more
The energy in your poem – I feel like I’m walking briskly down a city street “bustling, bursting” with quick line breaks.
Linda, this had such a tactile feel to it — I could see the dust settling, hear those cement mixers. Love all of the alliteration, the repetition…this did such a great job of evoking Sandburg’s Chicago and honoring the spirit of his poem.
The babbling tongues of all the world bring a world of people together in the building of the city, the scraping of the sky. The alliteration of bustling, bursting, babbling begs my B word to the builders…..but…..but what about the birds?
Ooo, Linda —- You have such a strong sense of big city in growth pains and the harshness of that! Really effective! The hard scrabble of “dust” and “dirt” and “bricks” and “bursting”… I can hear it, see it, taste it. Well done! Susie
Wendy,
Not far from the Emily D House is the Robert Frost Trail, which I write about here.
Kevin
Pensive thoughts
on the Frost Trail,
near where the
named one taught,
but what?
My journal remains
vacant this morning,
thinking of walls,
and farms, and plots
of land
and squabbles within,
the metaphors of plow,
until a raft of sunlight
hits the rock, and then
I write
a poem of something
lost, inspired by a quiet
moment on the trail
named for the poet,
Robert Frost
Kevin,
The imagery you used transports me to a trail I have never walked. As your poem continues, the walk down the trail and the thought process of a writer seem to settle into one spot.
Kevin, I just loved the gentleness of this poem — so reminiscent of Frost in its gentle rhythms and sound that throws your meaning into relief. Beautiful scene captured eloquently — thanks for kicking off our morning!
The Frost Trail…just that phrase is a whole poem and it really does bring to mind all the “things” in yours…walls, plow, sunlight. I’ve now added this trail to my bucket list.
Kevin, the pensive thoughts and the feeling of quiet permeate your verse this morning. I, too, would be so awestruck that quiet and silence would consume me as I tried to imagine what it would be like if I could time travel for an afternoon, back to the life of those squabbles and plowing and writing and sunlight steeped in the annals of time. Lovely, friend!
I, too, wrote about the Frost Farm…
I love your lines
thinking of walls,
and farms, and plots
of land
and squabbles within,
Ah, the peace of a trail….
You just needed that moment when “a raft of sunlight / hits the rock,” Kevin! I like it–the walk on a trail can be so inspirational.