Thank you for joining us for our first 5-day monthly writing challenge. And a special thank you to Susie Morice for her writing inspirations, close reading, and genuine encouragement of us as teachers, writers, and human beings. The next challenge begins July 15th through 19th! If you would like to host a future 5-day challenge or partner up to do so, please email me (sarah.j.donovan9@gmail.com). Now, let’s write!
Today’s writing inspiration comes from Susie Morice, writer and editor. She is a consultant with Santa Fe Center for Transformational School Leadership and the Institute for School Partnership at Washington University in St. Louis. Susie is also a Teacher-Consultant with The Gateway Writing Project, a former public school classroom teacher for 30 years, and a poet, who is the winner of Member-at-Large Best Poem, 2014 – Missouri State Poetry Society contest.
Inspiration
OLD CLOTHES. Rummaging through old clothes, the stuff in boxes in the garage or in the backs of your closets, we seem to come up with something that exposes a moment. In the same way that a smell or an old tune can snap you right back to 1989, an item of clothing or a related accessory, such as a hat or gloves or shoes, is a powerful stimulant. Hence, you still have it in the closest for who knows what reason!
Of course, write about whatever moves you.
Process
- Select a particular piece of clothing that seems somehow meaningful to you. Mom’s wedding dress, your old overalls from summer camp, grandpa’s gloves, dad’s referee shirt, your old letter sweater, a never-worn nightgown, that pair of Doc Martens or Jellies … find a piece that seems to matter for some reason.
- Scribble some sensory detail prewriting in a list. Here’s a list I’ve used:
- What colors?
- The colors are like…
- Where has this garment been?
- Who wore it?
- Under what conditions did he/she wear it?
- Was this a first-time wearing or a last-time wearing event?
- What does this garment symbolize? (fairness, evil, goodness, purity, pain, sorrow…)
- Who was watching from a distance?
- Why did this piece get set aside/saved?
- What would’ve stained this piece? (champagne, pain, sweat…)
- What would you find/not find in the pockets (if it had pockets)?
- Is this a day garment or a night garment?
- Where exactly is this garment worn thin or raggedy?
- What smells come with this garment?
- What textures do you feel?
- What sort of weight does this piece have?
- Use these sensory details to give life to this garment.
- Consider finding a word that bears repeating as part of the rhythm and impact of the poem. Layering multiple possible meanings of that word can be an effective poetic device. Have fun with that wordplay!
- NOTE: As always, write what works for you!
Poem by Susie Morice
“Over All”
She hiked up the denim,
tying a knot in the strap and buckling
the clasp over the dented metal button;
overalls
fit her way of looking at things.
Making smiles out of life wasn’t
about tight and tony,
it wasn’t about ironed creases and tucks
over all the flawed spots that might have been better
off kept under wrap.
Putting on a full day
required cotton rubbed so smooth it was
thin against her skin;
she filled those worn stitched, baggy blues
over her all.
Hoisting her frame onto the Farmall,
sputtering gasoline coughs into the Union blue sky,
she yanked hard the shifting stick to gear up her
brush-hog stripes across the fields,
round and round, back and forth, over and over.
Like so many green fingers threaded across the wild field,
her artful design set her wide grin,
knowing it was not about what she mowed down,
not about fleecing the undercoat of her fields,
making so much clean lawn.
She was combing the green,
braiding the brush
into ribbons of mullein and milkweed rising
in plumes and pods
over all that she could see.
Coaxing her old tractor back to the barn
as the sun dipped behind the cedars, casting mirror images over
all the still twilight pond,
she shoved her red, warm hands inside the cool empty pockets,
taking her satisfaction to the deep well for that drink that settled her
all over.
Post your writing any time today. If the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome — any topic, any form. Please be sure to respond to at least three writers, too. Below are some suggestions for commenting with care. Oh, and a note about edits: The comment feature of this blog (and many blogs) does not permit edits. Since we are writing in short bursts, we all are understanding (and even welcome) the typos that remind us we are human.
Once in a while
I find them there
in a little-used closet
the smell of must in the air.
Or tucked safely in the hat box
high on a garage shelf
I’ll probably not wear it again
though it was once part of myself.
These items of clothing
I wore in the ring
When we were together
I felt I could do anything!
You helped build my confidence,
my faith in myself
now my chaps and my Stetson
are in closet and shelf.
What you gave me for life
isn’t something I can wear
You may be gone from the pasture
But in my heart you’re always there.
Hello! Last night I was at my sister’s so I didn’t get to write. But I very much want to complete the challenge, so here goes:
The Wedding Pants
My mother called them the wedding pants.
As she cracked open her hope chest
the smell of cedar announced
tradition.
The pantaloons had been worn by
Great-great-grandma Holt
Great-grandma Bemis
Grandma Carpenter
My mother.
“My mother sewed up the crotch,”
My own mother explained.
“When they were first made
the crotch was left open
because it was too hard to lift
all the the skirts and pull down the pants
to urinate.”
Seriously, I think my mother’s favorite word was “urinate.”
Never pee.
Or take a leak.
We went straight from tinkle
to urinate.
Sheesh.
So tonight, as I write this poem,
I realize the crotch
and my mother’s obsession about
accurate language
is what I remember
about the treasured wedding pants.
Yes, I wore them at my wedding,
under a blue linen dress.
But I wore them because I didn’t know how to tell my mother
the pants didn’t mean that much to me.
My own daughters have chosen
to forego the wedding pants.
The pleated muslin
would have bulged under their
sleek drink-of-water dresses.
I understand that,
and I certainly didn’t push the issue.
But tonight I know
I failed to tell the story
of the wedding pants with my mother’s pride and fervor.
And this is how tradition
dies.
Allison – When I finished reading your poem, the first thing that came to mind was “Ya got to know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em” as I chuckled. The contrast and humor here, trying to honor tradition of wearing the wedding pants while allowing some leeway for change by not requiring your daughters to honor tradition for good reason, seems to be a good call. Loved this reading! Thanks for sharing.
Allison — I’m glad you got back to the poem, as this is not one I would’ve wanted to miss. The whole idea of passing tradition is loaded with so much expectation, guilt, love, irritation, tenderness, and humor — and sometimes almost all at once. The lines where you march down the identities of each of the fine ladies of your family reads like strong tradition, and it feels impressive that anything could march that line. The humor at the conflicting passing of times lightens this march-the-line kind of edge. I love the “sheesh” (like an emoji eyeball), and even the term “crotch” is a sort of funny word and likely much different from those used by some of the proper grand ladies, who likely may have paled at the term. This contrasted to the “drink of water dresses,” that are so modern, against even the feel of muslin (the same fabric that is stretched across the stiles of a stage flat — I remember this fabric so well from my high school days of painting flats for the plays and musicals that we brought to the stage. ) My very favorite lines were the initial tone setting of nostalgia: “As she cracked open her hope chest/the smell of cedar announced/tradition.” Giving “tradition” its own line was very effective in taking us to the centraI idea. I have some, perhaps useful, thoughts about the tradition dying — maybe the tradition shifts a bit so that instead of the actual wearing of the wedding pants, maybe it’s even more important that the wedding pants prompt the story and the treasuring of how those pants reinforce a close family tie as that story (and, indeed, the artifact itself) continues to pass from generation to generation. So, maybe you might think of it not as a death, but a transformation into story or poem. You’ve passed the poem, and maybe that is even a deference more precious to your girls and the girls to come. Thank you so much for coming back to share this lovely poem. Look forward to reading your poems in July! Susie
Allison — I read this one so slowly. From the cedar announcing tradition to the last line of “how a tradition dies” had me reflecting on the traditions that bind and choke. It sure seems like the pantaloons bound the women for a few generations, and I find it fascinating that you all must have/have had similar body types in order to fit into this crotch-sewn piece. But there is something about that line “I failed to tell the story” that is pulling at my heart. And here is where I make YOUR poem about ME — I think I failed to listen to the stories my grandmother and mother were trying to tell me about raviolis and lasagna, prayer chains, running the household. I was deaf to the traditions and wonder how life would be different had I listened. Still, think the drink-of-water dresses sans pantaloons was a good call.
Candace, Susie, and Sarah,
Thank you for reading my poems–and others this week. This week I kept discovering things I had to say that I didn’t realize were in me. In this case, I planned to write about the special pantaloons and then while writing realized I wasn’t being honest: that I was trying to force on them a value I, and subsequently my children, had lost. I thought my poem was much more interesting to write when I discovered my complicity in a tradition’s demise.
This has been such fun playing with poetry this week! I look forward to writing with all of you in July!
With words,
Allison
Allison, your tradition of the wedding pants is a great story! I’m sure your mother is so proud that you wore them, but I’m equally sure that you in turn are proud of your own daughters for not wearing them. Certainly there was no reason – they do not determine the future or have an impact on the success of the marriage, so it was time! Neat story!
I love your combination of humor with a dollop of sadness. That mention of words your mother uses(or doesn’t) is familiar to me. Maybe our Moms were friends?
This really strikes me because my Mom and I were looking through some old, old photos from the 1920’s this weekend that her mother had put in an old handkerchief box. We had the same conversation about things that mean so much to one generation, then how they lose value to subsequent generations for a variety of reasons. As the 3rd of 4th generation of our family to see these pictures, many didn’t have any sentimental value for me. The best part of the conversation was that my Mom and I both expressed how we honored the photos because they were important to Grandma Ruby, but as objects we were okay letting most of them go. It was an amazing conversation. Thanks for sharing yours.
Lavender, My Friend
My lavender skirt, matching tank top, and sandals are a girl’s best friend.
Accompanying me here and there,
this soft, light cotton heirloom
frolics in the wind.
The lavender tank accompanies her
everywhere she goes;
complements this royal girl
in ways very few will know.
My lavender skirt, matching tank top, and sandals are a girl’s best friend.
the tan leather slip-ons keeping stride
with the cotton one frolicking in the wind.
From summer to summer when we meet up,
we are excited to the max
to have another season to sport our lavender,
in other words the the balm to relax.
My lavender skirt, matching tank top, and sandals are a girl’s best friend.
I can’t imagine showing up at family events and casual outings
without this royal court checking in.
Candace – You gave us a playful poem! I enjoyed the wordplay with rhyming and repetitions that carry the youthful sense of this outfit. That youthfulness is highlighted with “frolics/frolicking,” “to the max,” those girlie sensations of loving that go-to lavender statement that feels “royal.” You sparked a memory of a lavender pencil skirt with a matching lavender sweater I bought with my long-saved allowance when I was in 9th grade– I lusted after that outfit for a weeks, did extra duties to earn some allowance bonuses, and was bonkers excited to wear this to school back in the ’60s. I felt sooooo special in that getup. Your poem made me smile. Great way to wake up this morning! Thank you for posting this late last night (you night owl!). Susie
I love this carefree spirit of traveling lightly in this skirt – lightweight, tank top, liberating sandals. The lighter shade still keeps it in the royal family of purples. I also love the repeating line at the beginning of your stanzas. Makes me feel like changing out of these shorts and into a frolicking skirt.
I’m with my sister tonight so I will write (and post) my poem tomorrow! Write on!
Allison — We’ll be here! Write On, Sista! Susie
George
A sweater.
Worn by you, maybe just days before.
Simple, roomy, shapeless.
grey woven cotton threads.
An old man’s cardigan, really.
Yet you were young,
living life fully.
A motorcycle.
on a country road.
Your son, driving to the scene
wanting to believe
in God, in you,
that it was not true.
You left behind a wife,
grown children making their way in life.
The sweater.
stored in the back of the son’s closet.
Saved for it’s smell, maybe
to comfort the son
lacking your presence.
What memory did it draw from him?
Peaceful, angry, hard-working.
Memories of you worth saving.
The sweater.
Discovered in the closet
covered the belly of a daughter-in-law
you never got to meet.
Just the right texture worn
to keep her warm
waiting for the baby to be born.
The sweater
returned again to the back of the closet,
To be drawn out one day.
Maybe it will spark
a story to be told
to the grandson
you never got to hold.
Hi Julie! Your poem is like a collection of snapshots, of images that surround a deeper story. I love the word choice and phrases: “saved for its smell,” “just the right texture worn to keep her warm,” “to be drawn out one day.” Parents may not always realize the power of their absence or presence! Thanks for writing this.
Thank you for sharing this story of a sweater with us. The opening stanza…
Simple, roomy, shapeless.
grey woven cotton threads.
An old man’s cardigan, really.
I wanted to climb into that sweater, into the comfort of the cotton threads.
I am so saddened to read the accident that took George — a son’s father, a grandson’s grandather. I wonder who he was to you — did I miss that part, or did you rest it in the white spaces between stanzas.
Also, I appreciate how you used his name as the title of the poem. So many times students skip the title or don’ t think of it as “part” of the the text. George.
Peace,
Sarah
George was my husband’s father who died in a motorcycle accident well before we married. I wore his sweater when I was pregnant because it was big enough to fit around my belly and somehow, it just felt right.
Julie,
Tears! Oh, what a beautiful way to wear a special sweater – and to know that it will spark memories to share stories for future grandchildren about their grandfather. Beautiful!
Oh Julie — This is so tender. You crafted a huge story in so few words, so few lines… this is beautiful. The sweater becoming that connecting thread between generations is a lovely way to convey the power of something that might otherwise have been totally overlooked. New life comes with the daughter-in-law pulling that sweater over her “belly.” One of my favorite lines is the smell — “saved for its smell, maybe…” — I think the power of smell is remarkable in transporting emotion. It brings on nostalgia like a heavy wave of ocean water for me. So, that line nailed it for me. Thank you for sharing something so difficult… a really heartbreaking loss. Susie
Julie,
I love poetry for its condensed power, and your poem is a great example of that. In fewer than 200 words you have said so much about the man, the death, the son, the young wife. Thank you for this lovely, powerful poem.
Julie – As I read this, I sense that the energy in this sweater has transcended three generations of loving family members in that it’s worn and has a worn texture with the your loved one’s “smell.” That it “warms,” and “may spark another story to be told to the grandson…” is evidence to me that energy does not die; it is just transformed as shared by the pastor at services held for a child that I attended some years ago. Thanks so much for sharing.
Leather Jacket
Black as the night
Musky leather smell
Silver zippers zigzagging
Across the lapel
Dress me up with fancy jeans
Stilettos, red lips
And 80’s hoop earrings
Is it a birthday?
Anniversary?
Or maybe a special concert
We’re going to see
Journey, Styx, Van Halen and KISS
Bringing you back
To those times we all miss
80’s Rocker Chick
You’ll always be
With this black leather jacket
I’ll help you feel free!
Judy,
“Black as night/Musky leather smell” brings me right into that jacket, like I am wearing it , too — and I’d love it. The “Stilettos, red lips” line can be describing the speaker (you) and the shoes. And the last line “I’ll help you feel free” just brings alive the life of this jacket and all it symbolizes. Love it.
“Black as the night” opens us up for everything that follows (stilettos, red lips, 80’s accessories) and drops us right into the concerts that we “all miss.” Thanks for letting us wear this along with you!
Judy,
You took me right back to the late 80’s to a concert I attended…. No black leather jacket, but I had the fancy jeans and Stilettos and maybe red lips! Loved how you incorporated rhyme! Thanks for sharing this blast from the past poem.
Julie
Judy — Terrific sass! This is a power woman image for me. I love that look — so “this is who I am tonight — you got trouble with that?” kind of sass. I totally enjoy the “Rocker Chick” in “black leather.” Thank you for reminding me of the concert days! Susie
Hi Judy!
I especially liked the “silver zippers zigzagging
Across the lapel”–so visual–and the way you played with rhyme throughout. The poem shows us why you kept the jacket! Rock on!
Black shawl
Crocheted, finely fringed
Like a lampshade
Wayward, lucid bristles
Poncho-patterned wrap
Thrift store treasure
Matching velvet bowler hat
Edge-flocked faux fur
Accessory pair to turn heads
Found in your closet
After the funeral
I gave them new life
Every Christmas, I wear them
With your favorite color – red
And every Christmas, Dad gets a sparkle
In his one good eye
“Nice shawl. Where’d you get that?”
“It was hers,” I always say.
Then both his eyes glisten,
Like a melting snowman,
remembering
That fateful Christmas Eve
When you spoke your last words.
-Kim Johnson
Oh, this is beautiful! I love that your dad continues to ask about the shawl and that it brings so much good for the both of you. The line, “I gave them new life” works so well. We see the love you have as well as the the loss. The last two lines are especially impactful.
What a wonderful way to remember and honor your mom! I loved the words, “Found in your closet… I gave them new life” – gives it the sense of a rebirth of her spirit through you. Fantastic!
Kim,
The first few lines bring me right alongside her:
Black shawl
Crocheted, finely fringed
Like a lampshade
What a gift that you honor her by draping it over your shoulders and bringing a “glisten” to his eyes, too.
Kim — You have shared a very intimate piece of family. Thank you for that. The shawl takes us to such a meaningful bond between “I” and “Dad” — the reintroduction of the shawl to connect Dad with a kinder time is so loving. Losing words — “spoke your last words” — I can’t tell you, Kim, how critically tragic that feels to me. My whole life is wrapped around words, and having that altered…. this is hard. I still have a shawl that my mom crocheted… you’ve made that even more important to me… made me a “melting snowman.” Thank you for sharing this poem. Susie
Oh Kim, your poem gave me such a vision of how you (and your dad) have both grieved and honored your mother’s memory. I like how “I always say” underscores the ritual of healing you two have crafted. Lovely.
Kim – Whenever I have the luxury of reflecting on thrift store excursions as in your poem here, it always takes me to such happy memories, thrift store shopping with my grandmother. Your line “After the funeral, I gave them new life” is quite a juxtaposition. I like how you contrast the sentimental with the practical. The imagery that comes to mind is powerful. Thank you for sharing.
Susie,
I want to be her. I want to tie up soft cotton overalls and go to work. I realize it was hard work, but you certainly brought the romance out of it. This stanza —
Like so many green fingers threaded across the wild field,
her artful design set her wide grin,
knowing it was not about what she mowed down,
not about fleecing the undercoat of her fields,
making so much clean lawn.
— this is the fabric of her life. You artfully craft the entire poem as clothing with the “fingers threaded” and “fleecing the undercoat.” Just gorgeous!
Susie,
Last night as I visited my sister and told her about this week of writing, we read your “Over All” poem together and had a spontaneous Susie Morice Fan Club meeting (I’m president). I loved how you used the word “over” in so many ways–which is an aspect of your prompt I’m looking forward to sharing with my students.
Tonight as I read it again, I relished the connection I felt to the girl. I was reminded of this poem: “Girl on a Tractor” by Joyce Stuphen:https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2001%252F04%252F26.html
Susie, thank you so much for your wonderful prompts, encouragement, and companionship this week. My front porch is open for 20-minute writing opportunities. I-80 Exit #57. Thanks again! Allison
Allison – How fun to read your kind words and to read “Girl on a Tractor.” That baling field work really is some full-on sensory living! I watched my brother and the neighbor boy do this heavy work. Wish I had been old enough at that time to be in charge of the tractor. My tractor driving didn’t come to me till I was about 40 and the farm was a different one from my childhood days. I LOVED driving the tractor and brush-hogging. One of the last times I drove the tractor, I ditched it in a gigantic sink hole and was neck-high in poison ivy. Oh baby, that was BAD! I was teaching 7th graders and remember being neck-to-toe covered in poison ivy when we had our annual September Open House. Ha! None of my students’ parents wanted to shake hands with me. I was like the Open House Freak Show! LOL!
I’m truly honored by your enthusiastic poetry support! You keep writing! And we’ll hopefully connect in July!! Thanks so much!!
As a little girl,
maybe ten or eleven,
I had a drawer.
One.
And in it,
I would store —
Community socks.
Holes in toes.
Mismatched tubes
striped in red, green, blue.
Mountains of crews
frilled in lace,
frayed elastic cuffs —
I’d snag the best 6
from the dryer each week.
Shared shirts.
Flannels, floral blouses,
buttons hanging on for life.
Band t’s with tears in pits,
choking turtles exposing wrists —
I’d scavenge closet floors
for 3 that covered me.
Passed pants.
Bodies shifting overnight,
zippers resisting new hips,
period bellies popping buttons,
inseams shrinking inch-by-inch.
I’d pray for Gloria V’s
to be tossed to the side
just my size
and scoop them up.
Underwear.
Cotton briefs.
One pink.
One white.
One light blue.
I didn’t have to share
my underwear —
as far as I know.
Your use of language (community socks, choking turtles, buttons hanging on for life) really causes me to pay attention to the words. I love the surprise of them, the images they create, the mood they instill. I can picture the girl you were (new hips, period bellies) and can completely connect to her. I never had a shared drawer but this allows me to peek inside. Thank you!
Sarah — You have created a real sense of snooping into your drawers and finding my own collection of hand-me-downs and mismatched socks, etc. The universality of that “one” drawer as a kid is comforting in its own Americana kind of way. Not only do I learn yet another intimate detail of Sarah, I remember another piece of my own experience. Growing up and right out of my clothes was real. In particular, I’m chuckling at “Gloria V.” I coveted those jeans in a big way when I was younger. You’ve played with word sounds in the alliterative choices: shared shirts, passed pants, closet…covered, frilled…frayed, period…popping… those rhythmic assonance sounds — share, underwear; holes, toes, three…covered me; tube, blue, crews. Each of those conscious choices flow into a rhythm that makes poetry so much more when we hear it spoken, and you’ve done that here. And then at the end, I get a giggle — “as far as I know.” I’ll be curious if others in our group had the “one” drawer. Totally cool poem! Thank you for the glimpse into your space. Susie
Gosh, I love this poem. So many times I’ve looked around at the glut of excess our kids live in and remember back to the two pairs of jeans and two pairs of jeans of my childhood and waver between envy and pity. We had so little bit we had so much. Your poem makes me remember that and realize that.
I shared tube socks with my brothers and my kids would die to ever be seen in them.
The nostalgic feel of your poem with the wonderful detail really hits me in my sentimental feels but then I laughed out loud at the end.
Love it!!!
Ah, the sweet innocence of cotton briefs – I remember those days! Such comfort. I found myself taken to my own sock drawer, where nothing matched. And buttons hanging by threads a you really sparked some memories of my own closet! I love the period bellies and zippers resisting hips – that vowel combo is one that, when said aloud, is what I think my face looked like when my own jeans didn’t want to zip. I also love your tribute to Gloria Vanderbilt who just died this week – what beautiful memories and glorious words and vowel sounds!
Ah the joys of living in a large family. I do believe we have this is common… I’m one of seven children. So many hand me downs! I remember the one trip I got to take to buy new clothes with my mom was when I was about 10 – I was very petite and nothing that was a hand me down from my sisters fit me. I got to buy a “mushroom” dress and we even found matching mushroom shoes! Oh I was so proud wearing that dress – wish I still had it! Love the humor at the end of your poem – not having to share at least your underwear!
Sarah – “I’d pray for Gloria V’s
to be tossed to the side
just my size
and scoop them up” reminds me of a chunk of time I spend thrift shopping and was lucky enough to find a pair of Gloria V’s – and they actually fit me! Wow! Love this poem because of all the possibilities of finding something in your drawer, filled with household community clothing items would be useful to myself or someone else in need. Thanks for sharing.
To the Girl
You remain folded,
a small square
tucked under larger and bulkier items.
Butter yellow.
Soft knit.
Burgundy edging
with small flowers embroidered on the pocket.
You reveal yourself
as I shuffle through the drawer
to find or purge,
straighten or discard.
Memories snag,
unravelling,
taking shape
You remain as fresh
as the day you arrived.
Never worn.
Unstained.
Begging for small arms
to fill your frame
You reappear once or twice a year.
Unearthed.
Rediscovered.
Like an old photograph,
the image faded
so that I can’t quite tell who it captures.
Only I catch a glimpse
of what could have been.
Jennifer,
Okay, so what I love about reading poetry when I have access to the poet is that I am reminded of all the poems we read in school when we don’t have access to the poet. When we don’t know the poet and can’t ask questions, we tend to come to some “right” interpretation or meaning. However, I am reminded right now how much is in the white spaces of our verses and lives that I wonder if we should hesitate in our answers.
As I read your first stanza, the “butter yellow” offered light alongside the “flowers embroidered,” but when I return to that stanza after reading the rest, the word “small” with “flowers” and then later with “begging” tugs at my heart. In the second to last stanza, it feels like the garment and the girl become one: “You remain as fresh/as the day you arrived.”
Thank you for sharing this glimpse.
Peace,
Sarah
Jennifer — I’m feeling a tone of love and melancholy in your poem. I can feel the delicate soft – butter yellow, flowers embroidered. Then, I come to the “snag” and feel that a memory is going to be particularly difficult… not smooth but snagging as I recognize that there is a recurrence of this act (reappear once or twice a year/unearthed). And the tone shifts then to the melancholy of an “image faded,” “only a glimpse of what could have been.” Yet, the poem is beautiful and has strength in the “I” coming back to re-feel what is “folded” and “tucked” away in memory. This is beautiful, touching, and so personal. Thank you for crafting such a loving poem. Susie
I have read and re-read your poem, and I have had a similar experience when I was going to have a child but miscarried and still kept what I wanted him to wear had he grown to term. This is how your poem resonates with me – and brings a sparkle to my eye. Thank you for sharing. I don’t know why you didn’t wear the butter yellow with burgundy edging and flowers, but I know it holds special memories for you – sad, happy, or whatever they may be.
Jennifer – thank you for writing this very beautiful memoir to “the girl.” I was deeply touched by the lines “begging for small arms to fill your frame” and the ending “Only I catch a glimpse of what could have been.” One can never know why certain things happen to us in our lives, but I want to thank you for sharing this moment with us.
-Judy
Jennifer,
Today I happened to take a walk with a friend who, years ago, delivered a still-born baby. She quietly said to me, “Cory would have been 26 today.” I’m not exactly sure if your poem describes the same situation, but I sense the grief at the end of your poem in the line, “Only I catch a glimpse of what could have been.” Your poem connected me to the feelings my friend may have as well. Thank you for sharing this tender poem.
Julie
Jennifer, your second-person “you” addresses the the garment, but also the child. I loved this. Your final lines–catching a glimpse of what could have been–are lovely. I have said this before, but turning the pain of human existence into something beautiful is poetry at its best. Thank you.
Suede Softness
She picked me up from the babysitter’s one evening
wearing a milk-coffee colored suede coat.
Bordered by the softest faux fur, the suede crinkled
when she moved, fighting its own stiffness,
further controlled by a belt tied around her midriff.
Aromas of perfume and tobacco covered me
as I jumped to give her a hug–
She, less eager yet smiling at the sitter saying thanks.
I imagine my mother, glamorous on this evening
may have a tube of lipstick in one of the pockets,
several tissues in the other.
Possibly a few dollars and some change
in case something went wrong.
The satin lining may hold other secrets
I don’t want to know.
All went back to normal on that cold night
once the suede coat returned to its closet home,
along with its tales of the evening.
The softness, the caring hidden in the crinkles.
We gather so much from this one piece of clothing – the complex connection between mother and daughter and the significance of suede. The line “satin lining may hold other secrets” begs for us to know more. You give us the push/pull relationship in “I jumped to give her a hug- She, less eager yet smiling…” and “all went back to normal.” You leave us with curiosity in the “tales of the evening.” But we also see the nurturing as well in “caring hidden in the crinkles.” Thank you!
Thank you, Jennifer, for your lovely response. 🙂
Dixie,
I read this poem alongside the one you wrote about the photograph. I am so grateful for these moments of your life, reflections to get to know you. (and your mom). The “tube of lipstick” resonates with me and stories I have lingering of my mom. She had a tube of lipstick in every bathroom, in her purse, in her pocket. “The satin lining may hold other secrets” is such a perfect line in this memory to wonder into her life but allow it to be in “its closet home” like the suede coat.
Peace,
Sarah
HI Sarah, Until I enter into writing groups as lovely as this, sometimes I forget how writing helps us to make sense of our lives and relationships, many, many years later. Smiles, DK
I too loved the “satin lining may hold other secrets” line!
Dixie — Your sensory details genuinely recreate that hug and the coat from a kid’s point of view — I especially know that mix of perfume and tobacco that a grown-up folded into a hug — almost smothering. The perfume was surely a slice of that “glamorous” factor. And the lipsticks and tissues in the pocket — aah, yes, my mom always, always had a tissue in the pocket (or tucked in her bra strap). The added sense of “secrets” fits the snapshot of this evening and the lining– the interior of your mom’s evening — and “All went back to normal,” telling us how different/special this moment was in your memory. It’s amazing to see how much can pour out of a single piece of clothing! Thank you for sharing this. Susie
Dixie, my favorite line was when all went back to normal on that cold night – you remind us in this poem of the power of clothes to transport us to other roles or places. What a beautiful memory you have shared with us!
Beautiful writing and excellent descriptions! My mom had a similar coat (era 1960’s) and I remember the lipstick as well! She is still with us and just turned 91 last week! I am so looking forward to seeing her next week at our family reunion! Thanks for bringing me back to a memory of my own!
Hi Judy! How lovely! I, too, was reminded how stimulating smells and clothing can be to take us back. I appreciate your comment so much.
Susie, The textures and visual in your third stanza struck home – worn thin cotton, filling the baggy blues over her all. I appreciate the emphasis on the word all – used sparingly but effectively, enough to draw notice without overwhelming or distracting. The verb choices – combing the green, braiding the brush – and the image that follows – ribbons of mullein and milkweed – is beautifully done. I am right in that farm country along with you. Thank you for the daily inspiration. My writing is better because of your prompts, examples, and encouragement.
You’ve done it again. You do it every time. Your poetry is so full of surprises, like little pockets throughout the soul – every time you have us stumbling into a new breathtaking realization of something seemingly simple on the surface, but yet so deep underneath. These overalls, mowing on the old tractor but not mowing – – no, braiding and brushing and caring for the earth and grass like it’s her own hair (on a different day, not an overall day) and the way the overalls are designed to fit her, but yet…..fit her way of thinking about the world. The farm, the tractor, the beauty of nature appeal to senses, and we think along an external line at first and realize that you are targeting her very soul and the fabric of her life – – the overalls do a great job – denim fits her perfectly. You inspire me every. single. time! Thank you for these days of inspiration and great modeling. I’m SO glad we’re back at this – – it is the air I breathe being able to read what this group has written and be challenged by each of you. I’m on the road today, so I’ll try to post later – – it might be late or tomorrow, but I’m looking forward to the writing today.