Our Host: James Coats
James is a guitarist, writer, and 4-star cheesecake baker (according to his wife). He was recently published in the Poet’s Choice collection of supernatural poetry, Paranormal, and will be featured in an upcoming edition of the zine Black Stone/White Stone. This is James’s first year as an English educator after having spent the past 10 years working in graphic design and printing. He lives and teaches in Chicago.
Inspiration
My students maintain a journal, and I give them prompts to respond to once or twice a week. As of this writing, several of my students have destabilized this process by using the journal to create their own short stories or poetry. So far, I have loved every word. Their journal “anarchy” made me think about my own anti-authority, “rebel sans cause” days. So, use this poem as a moment to examine the deviant, the delinquent, or the dissident deep down inside. I hope to see a bit of poetic rebellion take shape today.
Process
- Free Verse – An open flow of ideas and thoughts seemed appropriate for this poem.
- This is ultimately a reflective piece – a moment to examine who we were, who we are, and who we might want to be.
- …or use this time to write about anything your heart desires in any style you prefer. My students have certainly taught me that sometimes the best prompts are the ones we make for ourselves.
- So please, flex your inner anarchist and ignore everything you’ve just read!
James’s Poem
An Anarchist Looks at 40
I am no longer a paragon
of anarchy.
That is a game meant
for the young and restless.
That person you seek
is no longer me.
I’m older now by a
decade or two,
simply a shadow of
who I was before
age and agony stole my
ability and desire to
destabilize, disrupt, destroy.
Well, let’s forget all that.
There is still a scorching scream
swelling in the back of my throat,
unfairly mired in the fight between
who I was, am, want to be.
My arthritis and tired eyes say no, but
this can full of gas and hand full of matches say yes.
Let’s go tour the town.
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.
Why must a week in
meditative paradise
end in a flat tire?
by Mo Daley
3/16/24
Mo, I’m so sorry! Maybe the universe figured you were up to the challenge after all the meditation? 😉
James,
This prompt was a lot of fun!
I found a form from Billy Collins that was described as a “silly and/or psycho form from Billy Collins” called the paradelle. It was a wild ride! Here it comes:
Loved your poem by the way, especially the imagery in the last stanza. 🙂
Merlins
Of all the gin joints in all the world,
Of all the gin joints in all the world,
I still walk into that one,
I still walk into that one.
Joints walk, all of gin, still,
into all the world.
In my mind, the place lives
In my mind, the place lives
Silverfish crawl in corners
Silverfish crawl in corners
Lives silver in corners
In my fish mind, the place
Still reeks of beer and sweat
Still reeks of beer and sweat
Microphones smell silver
Microphones smell silver
Microphone sweat reeks
Of beer still –
The place lives, still:
Beer. Gin. Sweat.
Corners reek into all my world.
Still, my joints microphone,
walk, silver, in my fish mind.
I’m going to check out the paradelle . . . what fun! I love the word play and how surprising some of the uses are.
Me too! The meanings pleasantly surprised me when I put them together!
Wendy, I too want to try a paradelle. This seems like the perfect form for your gin, beer and sweat poem! And with microphones too!
You’ve motivated me, too, Wendy! This is terrific! I love the imagery.
James,
Thank you for this really cool prompt and your poem. Love the alliteration these lines:
“There is still a scorching scream
swelling in the back of my throat…”
A Profanity Laced Rant
Something about midlife
Blooming late into rebellion
Into a loud confidence
Unfiltered
Profanity spewing from my tongue
where before I swallowed my words
muffled my outrage — the quiet one who never rocked the boat.
Now,
A waterfall of truth gushes out.
Now, I say it like I see it.
Sometimes, I even take myself by surprise,
find myself thinking, Did I just say that?
A simple question,
WTAF is wrong with our world?
Like, let the kids use the frickin bathroom for Fuck’s sake!
Why are we so hung up on where people piss?
Like,
why do you care if a guy wears a dress?
How the Fuck- does it affect you?
Because — news flash —
it
doesn’t
affect
you
one
i o t a!
I promise, your child won’t be struck blind,
won’t suddenly convulse into gayness,
if they see a queer person on TV,
on the street, in the library…
The child won’t suddenly wake up
queer if they read a book that,
wait for it, has a queer person in it or
is written by a queer person
or is written by a friend of a queer person …
There is no radical agenda!
Queer people, queer teens
Just
Want
To
Live
Their
Lives!
Before you let your hatred spill forth,
consider this:
You might know someone who is queer,
might love someone who is queer.
They are probably afraid to tell you.
News flash, queer, isn’t a bad word.
Now, Fuck, that’s a bad word!
Unfiltered in my 50’s.
Your profanity is perfectly acceptable here, yes, indeed. This: “Like, let the kids use the frickin bathroom for Fuck’s sake!”
It’s crazy, isn’t it? I hear you, and fifties are a great decade to become more and more unfiltered. The me of twenty years ago would have never said and done some of the things I do now, so finding yourself shocked at what you say has me over here agreeing and laughing – – me too!!!
Tammi, I love, love, loved the emotional power of this poem! Indeed, unfiltered, and the profanity just served to underscore your tone. Loved it.
Tammi, you go! I love the arguments, especially
This prompt is a perfect one to pull this fun poem out of you! Here’s to “midlife blooming late into rebellion.”
Yes, Tammi! I absolutely love the fire in your poem! Everyone deserves to be loved and no one deserves to be judged. Your students are fortunate to have a teacher like you. I bet they get some giggles when your passion and fire come out.
This resonates with me.
Thank you, James, for a prompt that made me think about my rebellious nature. I realize that I wasn’t openly disruptive and challenging authorities most of the times, although there certainly were the moments when a shy, quiet 17-year-old Leilya told the chair of the university admission exam committee to walk outside the classroom and carefully reread the poster in the hallway.)) I love your poem and especially the final lines that tell me that you still got it:
My arthritis and tired eyes say no, but
this can full of gas and hand full of matches say yes.
Let’s go tour the town.
Here is my poem for today:
Growing into Anarchist, Maybe?
At twenty-two, full of zeal and passion,
I was resolute
To reshape the world,
Simply by stepping into the classroom,
Aspiring to teach
With avant-garde ideas, soaring
Beyond the towering school edifice,
And broader than the bustling city streets.
But it remained elusive.
The entrenched system,
Encasing us all in uniformity,
With its regulations, constraints,
(Textbooks, exams, prescribed curricula),
Often stifling innovation.
Even the slightest dissent
Was deemed heretical.
In that “mighty nation”
Under Soviet sway,
Prospered the elite,
While the masses blurred into sameness—
Individually distinct in conversation,
Yet collectively a gray, uniformed mass.
Breaking free meant exile
Or defiance.
Two decades on,
And over eleven thousand miles away,
I find myself faced with another wall
Named “system,”
Less rigid, more flexible,
But still guarded by gatekeepers,
Guiding the discourse
In predetermined paths.
Thankfully, now older,
Wiser,
More assured,
And granted the liberty
(Thank you, freedom of expression!)
I can call things by their true names.
It leaves me pondering
If I “grew up” into an anarchist.
Leilya,
This is such a beautiful narrative poem. I love the hopeful, idealism you convey in the opening stanzas. I found your words — “With its regulations, constraints,/(Textbooks, exams,/ prescribed curricula),Often stifling innovation”– so relatable and was thinking about how my ideas for teaching and connecting with students don’t always fit neatly into the prescribed standards. But, as you progressed through your story and I realized you were referring to your experiences in the Soviet Union, my perspective shifted to appreciation for the fact though I may feel restricted, I have a voice to bring about change. Thank you for your thought provoking poem.
Your words, “While the masses blurred into sameness—“ , this feels so painfully true in many places in the world today. I am so glad you grew up into an anarchist! Thank you for this poem.
Leilya, that pondering is real – I have wondered, too, about the system and all its regulations. I try to be professional when sometimes I would just love to swing a bat at that bubble and let loose what is on my mind. I am hearing you loudly and clearly here.
Leilya,
I so appreciate your honest calling out of “the system” in this piece. I think that just recognizing and naming what you see suggests that you’ve “grown up” to to be more rebellious than you might think: calling things by their true names isn’t easy or, often, accepted.
Leilya, wow. This is so interesting to read your history in the education system. I love reading about the freedom of expression through your eyes. I also like how you spaced those lines in the last stanza. It makes me read them with more authority, the “older, Wiser, More assured…”
Leilya,
As long as you’re using your lovely voice to name the things that need named for what they are, you are performing a necessary act of anarchy. Let me tell you this: Our system once had more academic freedom for teachers to create and implement curriculum that engages students. You are in a unique position of knowing what happens when authoritarianism takes root in any system. Keep speaking your truth!
This is very much a rough draft, but I’m trying to force myself to put more poetry out there. I feel like I have more to say about following rules.
Confessions of an adult rule follower
I’m a rule follower
That means that …
I will turn in my lesson plans on time
I will be at morning and lunch duty
I will get the laundry done before the underwear drawer is empty
Sometimes though, I like to speed
Just a little
Not enough to get pulled over
And the laundry gets done, but it might not make it out of the basket and into the drawer the same day
Dinner might be from Braum’s because I don’t feel like cooking
Again
Maybe my poetic self discovery tells me
that following the rules makes life boring
Carriann, I see myself in your poem and realize I am a rule follower as well, for the most part. Sometimes, breaking these rules just needed as a breath of fresh air. Thank you for sharing!
Cariann,
I can totally relate. I have been a rule follower and people pleaser most of my life. I love your last stanza:”Maybe my poetic self discovery tells me/that following the rules makes life boring.” I find writing poetry as liberating and lets me move out of my comfort zone too.
Cariann, I am so glad you are putting more poetry out there. It’s a great way to grow, and I enjoy reading what you write. I confess: I have a lead foot, too, and it has gotten me in trouble a few times.
Carriann,
This waw great! I love those sneaky little moments of rebellion that you describe. As a firstborn, Type-A rule follower, I totally get you and recognized those moments you describe. 🙂
Oh, wow, James…this idea brought forth a flood of ideas for me! I captured many of them in notes, and I’ll probably return to them later on, but this was my very quick first go.
Rebel Without a Clue
An early, vivid memory:
A sign wedged in
my baby brother’s stroller,
its rough-hewn post topped
with dark black letters
neatly stenciled
on a white background:
“Recall Our School Board!”
Four-year-old me
hefted the sign’s twin–
“Save Our Students!”
Mentored in rebellion’s art,
from an early age
I was always
encouraged to take a stand,
speak my mind,
even when doing so
was a decidedly
unpopular choice.
Oddly, when I hit my teenage years,
my parents seemed baffled
at my contrary nature,
not realizing
how influential
those early experiences were.
Now, I walk a line
on a daily basis
between enforcing rules
and wanting, more than
anything,
to rebel against them.
Julie, thank you for opening up about your rebellious nature. I can imagine you at four and in your teens. You are lucky to be “encouraged to take a stand,/ speak (your) mind.” You current state of balancing between “enforcing the rules” and rebelling against them also seems so relevant to me.
i am awed by your upbringing. What a gift to be “Mentored in rebellion’s art”. I like that phrasing, too – rebellion as art form.
Yes, it is one thing to be part of enforcing rules. It’s a whole other thing to have to follow them. Therein lies all of the temptation to test the limits. It’s why most days I feel like my toes are right on all the lines, testing every boundary. High five!
Julie,
I love the bafflement of the parents. It is as if their fire has died down a bit, and they forget the zeal of their youth. I love your descriptions of your being nurtured in the art of rebellion. Does this show up in dinner conversations with family in your world today? I grew up in Iowa City and was exposed to a lot of the tumult of the 1970s as my dad was a dean. We got out of grade school to watch McGovern speak on the Pentacrest! What a truth with the last stanza, especially as a teacher. We know the importance of rules, and celebrate the value of individual autonomy at the same time.
Julie, I loved and related to your observation on your folks’ reaction — mine also schooled me in injustices and rebellion…and were surprised when I rebelled! lol. Love this poem!
Oh, Julie, I love these lines:
Now, I walk a line
on a daily basis
between enforcing rules
and wanting, more than
anything,
to rebel against them.
I feel like that captures how I feel.
This prompt brought me back to a time of teenage rebellion and a pack of risk-taking friends.
That Night
We saw the search light
heard the siren
and ran as fast as we could
crouching along the wall
shimmying under the barb wire
back past all the signs
DO NOT ENTER
FEDERAL PROPERTY
KEEP OUT UNDER PENALTY OF LAW
We heard
the screech of brakes
the command to STOP
and we dropped to the ground
we rolled and rolled and rolled
splintering off in all directions
escaping
It was a good idea to wear black
Maureen, I love your poem. It creates a “perfect” movie scene with such a vivid imagery. I can “see” the signs and “hear” the sirens, the brakes, and the command. Sounds like an adventurous night. Thank you!
Maureen,
I was with you on this escape. Love the way this narrative poem unfolds and the ending “it was a good idea to wear black” had me laughing and nodding. “Yep, Good Idea!”
Maureen, I’m falling out of my chair over here in Georgia. I have this scene playing in my head, and I can hear the whole thing – – including Mission Impossible music. Yes, I feel in my bones that I was meant to be there with you that night in that group of friends to roll and roll and roll wearing black. That’s my kind of night.
Maureen,
I loved this and loved that you never detailed what (exactly) you were doing, leaving us hanging. A vivid memory in a memorable poem!
I’m with Wendy here, Maureen, I love the mystery that you’ve crafted in your poem! And I love your vivid descriptions: “we dropped to the ground / we rolled and rolled and rolled / splintering off in all directions.”
Maureen— I love the tale you tell here. And the last line gives such a punch to the story!
I love this prompt, and your output. I especially appreciate these lines:
unfairly mired in the fight between
who I was, am, want to be.
I look forward to writing a poem about my own rebellion. But I just left the movie theater after watching Cabrini about the first American saint. So, I chose her as the topic,
An Empire of Hope
in honor of
Sister Frances Xavier Cabrini
first American saint.
She was drawn to the Heart of Jesus
and wanted to draw others to it.
fighting for what she wanted
fighting for what was needed
uphill battle
a woman–a nun–
in the world of men–of priests,
archbishops, cardinals, the Pope,
and a hall full of senators.
Of “too small a world”
she wanted to build
“an empire of hope.”
She refused the no.
She refused to buck to the political machine.
She refused corrupt attempts to shut her efforts down.
She refused to allow arsonists to deter her.
She wisely accumulated property
She stood up to man after man after man.
She traversed the ocean, the slums, the alleys, the sewers.
She maneuvered and manipulated around power’s demands.
She defeated the odds and survived 60-some years with TB lungs
She made the world small, helping the poor, ill, and ignored all around the globe.
She knocked back a whiskey with the man who stood in her way
as he said,
“Too bad you’re a woman. You would have made an excellent man.”
~Susan Ahlbrand
16 March 2024
Susan,
What an inspiring woman and poem. Love the lines: “She made the world small, helping the poor, ill, and ignored all around the globe./She knocked back a whiskey with the man who stood in her way.” Thank you for introducing me to this American Saint.
Susan, I love to learn about people through a poem. What a great tribute to Sister Cabrini. I haven’t watched the movie, but hope I will.You outlined so many distinctive and strong traits of this great woman. Thank you!
Ooooh, it’s a good thing she was a saint. I’d have taken that whiskey bottle and broken it over his head. Thank you for sharing the tenacity of this saintly woman.
Susan, this made me want to she the movie! Loved the anaphoric lauding of her at the end of the poem.
Hi James,
Thank you for hosting us and for encouraging us to rebel! I don’t usually need encouragement to rebel but I enjoyed the freedom today, mostly with form and topic.
I love this and feel this pull in myself as well:
I chose the West African Adinkra symbol of Sankofa for my inspiration because it means to go back and get…usually referring to returning to the past to inform the future. I have a tattoo of the heart-shaped Sankofa on my back, reminding me to always look back to my ancestors to lead me in my life today. My poem is a haiku sonnet.
Sankofa
Define Sankofa
Action, go back and get it
It is not taboo
Depart and receive
What ancestors left behind
Legacies of love
Return and behold
Genius, justice, joy, freedom
All of my birthrights
The past teaches truth
Never to be forgotten
Guides my path today
Sankofa inspires the rebel in me
To kindle knowledge of the past for a future of hope.
©Stacey L. Joy, 3/16/2
Stacey, your poem takes on extra “weight” as I reflect on the “new people” I learned about during our Black History Month 2024.
Reflecting on family and friends over time rings clear in your lines because what they left is being experienced today – both the positive and the negative. But, it’s the “legacies of love” that help us cope!
Depart and receive
What ancestors left behind
Legacies of love
Thanks for sharing.
Stacey,
I love the message of the symbol Sankofa and the beautiful message of your poem.
This stanza is especially powerful.
“The past teaches truth
Never to be forgotten
Guides my path today”
Stacey – this is truly inspiring writing. The stanza “Depart and receive / What ancestors left behind / Legacies of love” is beautiful. This whole piece feels written with real intent and purpose, and I can feel the inspiration in each line. I’ve never seen a haiku sonnet before, but I enjoy the form, and it seems to fit the topic and themes of your poem very well. Thank you for sharing this!
Stacey, that guiding light of the Sankofa in your writing and on your back is a strong symbol of who you are and what you believe. I saw your Canva on Facebook and liked it but came here to comment because I also love the background you chose. Your words are bearers of wisdom, and your form is, of course, one of my very favorites – – the chained Haiku, which forces economy of words in the very fabric of their power. Well done, friend!
Stacey, I love the way the structure and meaning of this looks forward and back, and the haiku sonnet format gave it, for me, a sway that was gentle and hypnotic. Loved this.
Hi, Stacey, I have recently learned about Sankofa from Ibi Zoboi’s novel, so your poem as a tribute to it felt very special. I see the colleagues reflecting on their favorite lines in their comments, and I love each line, each haiku that you masterfully weaved into this sonnet. The image adds to richness and beauty. Thank you!
I sometimes,
well, really,
most of the
time, so, ok,
ALL OF THE
TIMES, in truth,
have a real need
to listen to my
audiobooks at a
1.5x speed.
___________________________________________
Thank you, James, for letting me tap into my truly rebellious side and get this confession off my chest, lol. And I love the blaze in your last stanza of the “scorching scream / swelling in the back of [your] throat” and the “can full of gas and hand full of matches”! Fire it up!
I do 2-2.5 🤣🤣
Scott, I feel affirmed! I do that with podcasts too, especially when the speaker is repetitive and has a slow speech pattern. LOL.
Scott, The commas work so well here to offer pause and doubt before the all caps confession. Hurray for speed options.
Scott – this is such a delightful piece! I very much identify with your speaker/narrator as I often have my own “well, sometimes I…no, most of the time I…well fine, I do it all the time” moments both in and out of the classroom.
*Gasps and clutches pearls*
It’s Scott!! And his perfect rebellion!
I prefer 1.25,actually…🥴
🪶 Feather Float
O’ feather float upon my daydream drift,
sway upon my thoughts sputtering lifts.
Up to where simplicity was young,
and butterfly couplets rolled off my tongue.
That enchanted a place deep in my soul,
Lingering fresh, as I wrinkle old.
where ladybugs dance through sand,
and mud spotted imaginary hands.
Frog castles and squishy toes,
Feather Free my imagination flow.
Dance feather 🪶 one more time,
Swivel!
For you are my last rhyme.
Never touch where I stand,
So the ladybug
continues to write in the sand.
About my youth that I urge to tote,
will be everlasting,
as you float.
I dream of a time ago,
Within a day of butterfly flow.
Colors of life joined me and you
Now
a lifetime to peek through.
As I age where I stand,
My death,
is where you land.
So fro slowly from above,
as I create
stories I love.
If I do not,
they will never know,
My story of a feather’s float.
Clayton, I’m not sure you’ve seen the movie, A Million Miles Away a 2023 American biographical drama film detailing the life of José M. Hernández, a Mexican-American astronaut, but after seeing it this week and reading your poem today, the metaphor of butterflies take a a deeper meaning. What we have to shed to become….
The lines
I dream of a time ago,
Within a day of butterfly flow.
Colors of life joined me and you
Now
a lifetime to peek through.
It may have had a different meaning for you, but they speak to me about the ways, looking back at yesterday and around today, we see from whence we’ve come. Some of us are pleased with that picture … others of us await the total transformation or transmigration!
Thanks for sharing
Clayton, these lines will stay with me, the carefree feeling of youth
Up to where simplicity was young,
and butterfly couplets rolled off my tongue.
butterfly couplets……perhaps a title for a next book written completely in couplets?
I love Anna’s remarks below, and I want to watch that documentary. We learn so much from others in this group that connects us and enriches meaning. Of course, being from Georgia, I can’t help thinking of the feather floating down from the Presbyterian Church in Savannah at the beginning of Forrest Gump and the feather that carries on the wind at the end. It brings tears every.single.time, and when I’m in Savannah I like to walk by that church – – I was just there at the end of February. And sometimes it makes me misty-eyed.
Great poem today!
James-
“My arthritis and tired eyes say no, but
this can full of gas and hand full of matches say yes.
Let’s go tour the town.”
Huzzah!!! I will join you!
Things I Will Not Do Anymore
I have decided that I will no longer worry about not running for exercise.
But then, I never ran for exercise
So I suppose I should say that I will no longer
contemplate running for exercise. What a relief.
I have always felt guilty about my failure to run.
I have decided not to feel guilty about taking naps.
The elderly need naps. Why should I feel guilty?
But then, I have always been a champion napper.
Head down, eyes closed. Boom.
Asleep on the couch in minutes.
From now on, I will forgo the remorse of time wasted on naps.
I will no longer feel guilty about reading in bed at 2 AM
when my mind wakes me up for absolutely no reason
and refuses to go back to sleep.
2 AM is a perfect time to take in a couple of chapters.
Or four chapters. Or finish the book.
No need for concern. I can take a nap tomorrow.
I will no longer waste time on wondering who I am
or what I should have done
or how I will impress the world with my importance.
I will live the life I have and make the best of
the structure assembled with
what the world offered me as raw material.
That building is, after all, a comfortable one,
filled with all the things I need.
(and one in which there is always time for a nap.)
GJSands
3/16/24
Gayle, your words resonate with me so well today. I love all the things you will no longer feel guilty for and your second to last stanza is especially moving! I applaud your voice and acceptance to be who you are and embracing a good nap.
Gayle – thank you for sharing this with us. I adore that all the things you won’t do are objectively “negative” things – worrying, wasting time on what others think, feeling guilty about life’s little pleasures. I enjoy the positivity and inspiration in these lines.
Gayle, I so needed this poem today. It is beautiful in naming very specific things that people tend to judge as shoulds or shouldn’ts. Seeming common senses that make no sense in lived lives. As a side note, I stopped going to the gym 2 years ago, choosing to walk and do my own version of yoga in private without mirrors or college kids. Today, I want to the gym with Dan to use the volleyball court. While it was fun to play with him, the music and mirrors and college bodies were a lot of noise I didn’t need. I will no longer feel guilty for not going to the gym. It is not for me. Thank you.
Gayle, everything you wrote in your poem is about true living the way we need to live without all the frippery and expectations. So many times, I think about the toxic work culture that we live in – – work, work, work. That’s not how I truly believe it’s supposed to be. Where is the live, live, live, and nap when we need to? I’m with you – the older I get, the more days I realize a half hour or 45 minute afternoon nap would do me a world of good. This is all simple living at its best, and who among us really needs more than that?
Gayle,
I feel as though I read a description of my life in your words. I wrote a whole blog post yesterday about how everyone, including the critters, nap in our house. And running is for masochistic people who want to destroy their bodies. Every ache in my hips and lower back began w/ running a 10k and *breaking* something inside back in 2007. O e of the biggest mistakes of my life.
Im probably more rebellious in old age than I was in my youth. I credit my father for lighting the push back fire I’ve been stoking since I was 16. No apologies. Anyway, I love the prompt and think O may need to write more poems featuring this rebellion theme. I think most in this group know my father died when I was 16, and that he was blind.
Advice for Unquiet Daughters
my father’s advice was well placed
his deathbed wish i embraced
when patriarchy tries to smother me
dad’s sage advice sets me free
never put up with a man’s crap
i quote my dad. i clap back
father had more wisdom to impart
i nurture his words in my heart
never depend on a man for money
being broke isn’t easy or funny
these golden nuggets serve me well
and keep me out of misogyny’s cell
i share my father’s words to youth
so they’ll chart their lives in this truth.
Glenda Funk
3-16-24
Glenda, you’re on a roll today! I think James has sparked something in each of us that needed to roar. I like your rhyming couplets. I’m playing with some forms that are different for me as I write for Stafford Challenge, and I’m finding that it’s pushing me to explore more and to notice more – – like the uncapitalized pronoun i, intentional and leveled on a playing field of importance of true partnership. Your advice for unquiet daughters is inspiring, and your dad would be proud!
Glenda, what sage advice told playfully. I like the format you took to describe it here to. You make that rhyming look effortless. I think a collection of rebellion by Glenda Funk would be in order.
Glenda, I love your title! Unquiet is a perfect descriptor, and your use of rhyme is effective to lead us to your most important ending point. “being broke isn’t easy or fun” is definitely a sage truth. I’m sorry you lost your father so early in life. Bravo for sharing your powerful voice!
Glenda. That title. It should be the title of your memoir. And that line “keep me out of /misogyny’s cell” is my ongoing endeavor. You fortify me.
Sarah
Glenda–wise words, my friend–on so many levels! The youth you meet would do well to pay attention to your father’s advice!
Glenda, I remember you mentioned your father’s advice sometime ago. I think it is the best thing a man can teach his daughter. My father-in-law gave me a similar advice. Like you, I share it with youth. The rhyming your poem in couplets made it so much stronger; each one is sharp as a punchline. You rock, my friend!
Thank you for your prompt today, James! It was the perfect prompt for an idea on my mind.
Reminders
When my daughters cradle their future children,
When their minds pull between a heart falling
Into wide newborn eyes, love as pure as light,
Yet their bodies, swollen and aching with changes
Confounding and terrible as beautiful,
I promise to never say:
Raising you and your sister was a piece of cake.
I could’ve done it all myself; never needed a break.
Well, when I was your age, we didn’t do it that way.
Just stop eating as much, you’ll lose the baby weight.
Isn’t being a mother the greatest achievement of your life?
Don’t nag him, sweetie, remember, the home is with the wife.
Those newborn eyes reflect our greatest fears.
Mother’s minds are dark waters: serene and still
At moments, yet the maw of Charybdis open without
Warning. Thoughts spiral, attempting to drag our new
Mother under. In rocky seas, the village disappears;
After all, they expected mother’s sunshine.
My daughters, I have grazed over those jagged
Teeth, felt the incessant undertow of this monster’s power.
Those same nights that held sweet baby-breath and awe for
What I could do, also held your retched baby bile over sheets,
Your frustrated howls over a loose latch, an endless no-sleep
Spiral along with one thought: I made a mistake.
You will know these hours, days, years.
You will find your own weapon to slay these monsters.
You will grow and mold to your own motherhood.
Instead, I will clear the sink, bake the bread, fold the laundry,
Hearken back to sweet newborn nights when I hold you, whispering:
I know.
Jordan, this echoes and echoes and echoes as it resonates with me. You have truly birthed a magical poem of truth, and how hard, how hard, how hard it is to break the cycle of all that is said to us and not say those same things to our children. The jagged teeth and the expected sunshine – – this poem begs to be read to young mothers everywhere.
Oh, Jordan, wow, wow! This is so timely for me now, as a mother of two daughters. One a new mother and getting ready to have her second. I see so much truth here that I need to remember. I will soon be clearing the sink, baking bread, folding the laundry while holding memories and hope.
Now that is a poem for all and ought to be on those mother’s day cards. Such truth in naming the monsters that shame.
Jordan–Oh, my goodness! You have encapsulated all of motherhood here, and so beautifully.
“Those same nights that held sweet baby-breath and awe for
What I could do, also held your retched baby bile over sheets,
Your frustrated howls over a loose latch, an endless no-sleep
Spiral along with one thought: I made a mistake.”
and the ending...
“Hearken back to sweet newborn nights when I hold you, whispering:
I know.”
So true…thank you,
Oh, my goodness, James. Those last lines crack me up. The parts that say no and “this can full of gas and hand full of matches say[ing] yes” so masterfully written. Very good. Thank you for the prompt today. It brought me back to a time I hadn’t thought of for a long time. I’m writing a prose “poem” or just prose today…
I was a quiet anarchist in high school, subverting authority of those I deemed unworthy of my respect. Mr. B. was one of those who received my disdain. He promised a literary magazine of our creative writing that semester. As the semester wrapped up, we realized it was not going to happen. The haikus and sonnets and reviews and short stories were stuffed in a file on his desk. I asked to have the writings he had collected. Then I typed them on ditto masters, copied, collated, and stapled them in my business class. I passed them out to my creative writing peers. That may be the only good thing I did to/for Mr. B. Mostly I was indifferent or quietly disrespectful to a man I judged as lazy and unworthy to be in his position. That semester something good he did for me was refer me to my guidance counselor, a visit to see if something was up, if something was bothering me. There was, but I wasn’t honest, but I began to face my fears as a result of that visit to the counselor.
Since my experience with Mr. B., I am always extra cautious of students who are disrespectful to me. I know it’s not just a reflection of who they are, but maybe what they are going through. (And maybe a little about me too.)
Thanks for sharing this story, Denise! I love that you asked for the writings and gathered them to give them out to your peers. That’s awesome. I loved reading a part about your past. I can relate to many parts 🙂
Denise, thanks for sharing such a personal poem to show the impact a teacher can have. A gentle reminder that just because someone seems defiant or disrespectful there is most likely a bigger issue the person is troubled with. What a wonderful writing gift to present to your friends!
Denise – like you, when faced with disrespectful children, my first concern is for their wellbeing. I don’t think students are naturally inclined to disrespectful dispositions, and I found (in my albeit short teaching tenure) to usually be a sign that something more is going on in their world. Thank you for sharing your story today!
Denise,
I wish we’d gone to school together so I could be your partner in subverting that laze teacher. I sponsored Highland’s literary magazine 3-4 years. I’ve forgotten how many, and O didn’t collect a stipend. I made sure it was the best I could make it. That teacher of yours makes me angry, and this may upset some, but in my vast experience it’s almost always men who are lazy in the classroom. Not always, of course, but far more often than women. It makes me so mad, and I would have been your voice.
Denise, I wish I knew you in high school. I know I would have loved to be called to lend a hand with that magazine. I didn’t write poetry back then, but maybe I would have if you were my friend.
Sarah
Oh, Denise, what a story! I recognize “a quiet anarchist” from your story because I used to be one. I also experienced teachers like Mr. B. I wish we were in the same school, I would love to work on a magazine with you.
I agree about being cautious and more considerate noticing our students’ unusual or unbecoming behaviors. We often don’t know about their home lives and struggles.
James,
Welcome to teaching. I think I’d be happy as a kid to have you as a teacher with what I’d guess you would bring to the classroom. The prompt had me laugh a bit out loud, literally, as I was thinking of what defines me as a rebel in my recently turned 60th year. Thanks for your contribution, and your verve.
THE SEA REFUSES NO RIVER
Anarchy at sixty is an enigmatic flex,
and don’t think you’ll catch me
in a rut of routine.
I am arbitrary AF,
(Is that too strong?)
and break-
ing expectations.
I may leave food on my plate,
or my shirt untucked AF
(Hope Mom doesn’t read this.)
or not remotely finish the refill
of Dr. Pepper at the Mexican restaurant.
Who sings meow meow
to his daughter’s music choices in the car.
Guilty.
As.
Charged.
I got different time on the five clocks at the house,
and sometimes warm my old coffee
a minute and thirty-seven seconds,
maybe tomorrow a minute twenty even,
maybe dump it out
make a fresh pot…
maybe drink it cold,
and leave the cup on the bathroom counter.
I will leave a bag of ground coffee
in the automotive aisle,
and walk away from my cart,
just leaving it.
Ah love this Rex!
Especially “I may leave food on my plate,
or my shirt untucked AF” yes! This was me my entire adolescence!! Brought me back!
Rex, omg, this is so funny. I love the 60-year-old anarchy you describe in your poem. So many details make me smile throughout. I love the last two lines too, which speak to me even more of “breaking expectations”
Rex, the title is great and has me working through the metaphor as I read. The AF is unapologetic yet the parentheses and italics show an awareness and love of others in your wake. I imagine I’d settle into my arbitrary (fickle) nature if my partner did not need reason and routine so desperately.
Rex, your love of coffee is memorable, and I appreciate how you tie this coffee addiction into your poem. I am thinking you must be at Wal-Mart to have coffee in the automotive aisle, but I love that image because it seems so sudden and uncharacteristic of an adult shopper.
What a privilege it would be to write a poem about an inner anarchist that doesn’t really exist
To make jokes about wanting to burn things
down or kill someone
He doesn’t have that privilege
I don’t think he’s able to suppress anything
I don’t think he can live in this world where things don’t make sense to him
He was never a rebel without a cause
He could justify anything and maybe that’s most dangerous
He may burn something down some day in the name of his beliefs, not society’s norms
He may do something else.
Oh, Angie, I can think of some “he” figures who this could be about. He sounds dangerous and disturbed.
Angie, the pronouns here of he and I offer such a sense of knowing and familiarity. To live with or alongside the he so capable of justification is terror. And still the he is familiar to me/us as I imagine the men in power with matches.
“He’s” a rebel WITH a cause, to be sure…his own; “he could justify anything and maybe that’s most dangerous” – absolutely it is. And it’s terrifying… your poem packs a gut punch of truth, Angie.
Brian, your poem and prompt are compelling. I can feel that scream swelling.
Bite Me
I refuse to celebrate
silver
wear purple &
avoid
at all costs
reality shocks
I will jubilantly howl
shouting
“go ninety” &
smile
kicking ass &
taking names
Barb, I also responded on your blog to this one when I read it earlier. It’s fabulous, this resistance to aging with a bold stance, jubilantly howling in true kick ass fashion. I’m here, too, never having driven a motorcycle but suddenly finding myself in a black leather vest and some chaps popping a wheelie and revving the engine, V fingers pointing at my eyes and yours, challenging all of us in these throes of aging to a demonstration.
“Jubilantly howl” might be the best two words I have ever read. It calls to mind moments of pure bliss and pure passion – moments when words are inadequate to describe how you feel and only a proud, primal roar will suffice.
Barb,
I love this poem. The allusion to “When I am Old” is perfect. I envision you as King Fu Grandma kicking ass. I think old age should make us brave enough to shout, so even though you don’t celebrate gray, you definitely honor it.
Barb, I feel like you might be alluding to Iowas basketball but can’t be sure because I also read this as pro-aging. I love both readings.
Barb, I note the allusion to When I am old, I shall wear purple…but what really comes to mind is Do not go gentle into that good night/Old age should burn and jubilantly howl all the way. 🙂 Powerful energy here – it’s palpable!
Barb,
I love the use of &s today. It captures the busy nature of growing older and keeping lots on our plate. Kicking ass and taking names is a real teacher type expression. Someday I would hope to kick ass and not bother taking names…Nice touch with jubilantly howling, as it belongs to the alpha wolves in all of us.
The Herd
The wattle-necked, rectangular-pupiled goat inside me stands
and won’t yield but will reach high branches and refuse distaste.
Legs to climb and run and crawl, I will jump over walls of harm
until I learn to open gate latches with new words. My goat,
my breed, its way seeks other inquisitive, independent animals–
together we are curious to investigate new terrain, a sniffle,
a nibble. When we catch a hold of pap, we cannot be herded
away as sheep. What I eat as a range-rider raises rifle or crook
is words. Chewing on possibilities, turning away whistles,
I saunter to work a phrase, seeding heads, foraging down,
selecting grass over clover. Wholly stubborn in soul, I raise
my variable jaw to see a herd gathering not to the rider, but
to each other, to share our aromatic verse and drown out
the rifles and crooks that attempt to silence our poetry.
Sarah, wow, your poem is provocative, rich with images, and ends with a great big bang! I am enthralled by your metaphor and love how you extend it throughout your poem. The “Chewing on possibilities” is perfect and I love the image of being “Wholly stubborn in soul.” You know how I feel about being silenced so your poem speaks strongly to me. Fantastic poem! Thanks for speaking to my heart today!
Sarah, I’m reading and reading and rereading and each time I read, I find something new to chew on. Yes to the chewing, as a goat will do on anything, even Kudzu, even trees. I love reading these goats as so many different personas, especially as the opposite, dead opposite, of sheep. And the little ones that climb and then do the kick spins – – playful but powerful animals. Cute but yet tough. I like what you have done here to bring a poem that makes me think in so many different directions today!
Thank you for contributing, Sarah! I love the way you turn the idea of being one of the heard on its head and disrupt its typically pejorative usage. I’m also quite taken with how you depict words, ideas, and poetry itself in your poem. Your writing is deliciously imaginative and thought-provoking.
Sarah, I keep rereading to savor the images, the impeccable metaphor, the artistic turns of phrases (chewing on possibilities, I saunter to work a phrase, share our aromatic verse) – and the confessions of stubbornness. As the last triumphant line reveals…it has its good uses! This is just magnificent, all the way through.
Sarah, yes, yes, I want to be in this herd that “seeks other inquisitive, independent animals– together we are curious to investigate new terrain” This is so fun to read. Like others, I keep reading it and learning so much more of that magical way you can “work a phrase.”
Sarah,
Wow. Too much goodness to single out one thing in particular. It is like when I have driven to a place like Yellowstone, or the old neighborhood where I grew up. I see all these evocative things, that are replaced by the next evocative thing in sequence. I am driving through substance…Is the poem’s format reflective of the grouping of the herd?
James, the poem that came to me echoes a perspective in the one you shared here in your evocative prompt. Thanks for setting the tone for today’s tune. I hope the insight this poem provides for me helps me be more patient with those I parent and mentor. 🙂
FINALLY!!!
Do what you’re told
Don’t be so cold
Don’t make me scold
Now that I’m old
Is starting to take hold.
Teachings from when I was a kid
Often helped me avoid a skid
But only when I obeyed
Only when I okayed
Test them out
My mind would shout
Be like a scout
Check them out in a bout
About the time I reached fifty
Clouds rolled back; vision more clear
It’s not necessary to seek out the cheer
There’s no reason to be shifty
Saving money can be thrifty
So can obedience and warmth
Ah! Insight coming forth
Doing what’s right
Avoiding the fight
Being the light
Ah! Doing what I was told
Finally, it’s taking hold!
I love the way you break up your rhymes in the last two stanzas, especially the way the “warmth/forth” rhyme is split across the stanzas. This makes your poem feel like a modern reimaging of the sonnet. Splitting the rhyme across the stanzas also makes that last stanza feel somehow…stronger. More powerful. Alive. (I’m not sure if that makes sense, but those seem like the right words!) I love the overall theme of clarity and insight as well – you perfectly capture those moments when the clouds fade and we start to see the light. This piece is wonderfully reflective – thank you for sharing this today.
Anna, I love how the first stanza has such imperative phrasing of limits and control and then the final one has gerunds with such progression and possibility — there is the insight or reframing in understanding that you show in your poetic word choice. Love it.
Sarah
Anna, I always love your combined rhythm and rhyme and I enjoy your positive message. The older I get, the more I understand reeling things in and staying between the lines. There is power there.
Anna, so true about insight and perspective becoming clearer around fifty! I loe these lines:
Doing what’s right
Avoiding the fight
Being the light
-and there’s a true celebratory feel to your verse.
James, your topic speaks to the very core of my being, and I love it. I’m a preacher’s kid. Oooooh, when I was reading the prompt, my fingers were already running to the computer before the rest of me had even left the bed. So much to feel here! I hear your constant craving in your poem to return to the life in the shadows, and so you are speaking my language. Thank you for investing in us as writers today. I’m convinced that the most compelling poetry, and all writing really, lives in those shadows, lurks in the pain. My sympathies ahead of time to any PK parents out there and sincere apologies to any well-behaved PKs who turned out good.
Bilingual Blessings
Okenfenokee swampland mud
plus Southern Baptist preacher’s blood
mix them and you’re bound to find
they breed an offbeat, lawless mind
this reptile in me, like Slytherin’ magic
broke dad’s sermons something tragic
stealing church chalk so I could play teacher
(kind of what you expect from the kid of a preacher)
I learned to smile, doodle tie in my hair
when I wanted to strike and crawl out of there
but
let me assure you, if you’ve ever wondered
there’s an upside to P.K. life I’ve encumbered:
Parseltongue’s real in this parsonage child
who early in life felt outcast and defiled
born in swampland of snakes
and raised among serpents
Now I speak both the language
of saints and insurgents
Kim – I love the duality of language here, and how it speaks to identity. You mentioned the “life in the shadows” in your comment above. I get the sense that your narrator has lived a life in both the light and shadows, and has learned how to navigate both worlds. Also, Your use of meter and rhyme is so on point, I heard a clear beat in my head as I read your words.
Kim, this is a brilliantly played poem. It must have been hard to let it out. That gut punch of “outcast and defiled” is painful. You have reckoned with the serpent.
Wow…the beat of this language is what gets me. It’s a pulse that circulates that swampland blood. Fabulous poem.
Kim,
The rhyme here feels new. I hear the rhythm of wisdom in this narrative from childhood to rebel to adult with discovery and deep understanding. This is a new world for me and yet you offer it with a familiar tone in that rhyme that helps see and understand languages you speak. Wow, this line “speak both the language/of saints and insurgents.” What power there is in that bilinguality!
Sarah
Kim, oooohhhhh, your poem is on fire. I love the “reptile in me” line and how you show you learned two languages. Your end is jaw-dropping awesome! I am impressed by your poem’s magic and your “lawless mind.”
Kim, what a mastery today! The rhythm, the rhyme, the journey, the allusion. I adore “parseltongue’s real in this parsonage child” for how it plays in my mouth and mind as I’m reading. And speaking both saint and insurgent – what a send off! So, so good!
Hi Kim,
I’m grateful you turned out to be such a phenomenal woman and that you can…
Love it all, my friend!
Kim,
Im cheering every line. I love the last line and the way it hisses w/ “saints and serpents.” It’s not easy being a PK, but I think you e done just fine i’m taking the good parts of those sermons and leaving the rest. I love the rhyme and found myself inspired to rhyme today, too.
Kim! The rhythm and rhyme are – in a word – perfect. In another word, magical… no pun intended with the Potter references. “The reptile in me…” it’s a real thing for all of us; a portion of my husband’s studies have focused on humans responding to situations with the reptilian part of our brains. The play on Parseltongue and parsonage is beyond masterful. “Raised among serpents” and bilingual in “the language of saints and insurgents” – it’s brilliant. I also cannot help thinking – considering the holiday tomorrow – that St. Patrick may have been the original Parseltongue.
James, your book of supernatural poetry sounds utterly compelling. Your poem captivates me; this line in particular reaches out from the screen and grabs hold of my imagination: “That person you seek is no longer me.” So epic! Thank you for this intriguing invitation to look back to look forward…you sparked this memory of a dream I had when I was a child. Need to work more on the title, I think, but this is what I’ve got…
Me Seeing Me in a Dream
When I was nine
I dreamed
that I was watching myself
sitting at a desk
in the classroom
I could see myself
so clearly
writing something
on paper
then looking up
in contemplation
I knew there was some
urgent message
I needed to tell myself
but I couldn’t get
my attention
I couldn’t get me
to look my way
The me in my dream
sat completely unaware
that I stood before me,
invisible,
unable to break through
some forbidding
force field
I stood before me
as if I were
my own ghost
Five decades later
I remember this dream
and the despair
of being unable to
communicate with me
and wonder:
What could that message
of such urgency even be
from child-me
to child-me?
Other than
dear me
pay attention
please save yourself
so much trouble
in life
keep learning
keep dreaming
keep writing
these will
navigate you through
all the unseen things
ahead
including
you.
oooooooooh, so lovely. So good, “from child-me
to child-me?” Every once in a while, I remind myself that decades of experience has its benefits. This poem reminds me too. I’m so glad to have read this — this morning.
Fran, what a dream! And what a way it haunted you and spoke loudly enough for you to, on this day, write this poem with this message for all of us to hear. Your use of perspective is so clever and captivating. I love that the message is to keep learning and keep writing to navigate through life. And the last two words…..well, those get the golden buzzer. Do you feel the gold confetti falling all around you?
I actually really like the title of the poem. The repetition of the long ‘e’ sound is lovely and soothing, and I think because of that, it made me read your poem in a nice even cadence, my voice soft and low. I also love the repetition of pronouns. It gives your poem a wonderfully surreal quality – which is fitting as you are writing about a dream – by reminding us that the dreamer and the dream are presented as two separate entities, yet they are the same person.
Thank you for sharing this!
I recently wrote from child me to me and it’s a battle to bargain with. You did so well and with a positive message at the end. I love the skinny lines. It helps me really read deeply.
Fran,
Love the wonder in exploring the possibilities of the message of the vision, of the ghost, of this friend of self. The stanza with the “keep learning/keep dreaming/keep writing/these will/navigate you through” are very powerful words for the child and the adult that I am holding onto today. The “keep” is hard to do a lot of the times, but that is the living.
Hugs,
Sarah
Fran, I admire the way your poem flows. The images you see in yourself, but I especially love your solution at the end to keep learning, dreaming writing to “navigate you through/all the unseen things/ahead”. Yes, we often have to be careful of our own human behaviors. Powerful!
The first 10 lines of this poem are my favorite. The image is so clear. I can see myself doing this. I can see my niece doing this. The idea of seeing yourself in a dream so long ago and trying to remember things about it is moving.
Fran, isn’t it amazing the power that dreams have, even after several years? I am drawn to the lines “from child-me to child-me.” Especially as you were not able to communicate between the two of you, and how that sits against the present-you speaking to the past-you. Like a dear me letter to the past.
Fran,
I like that it is still unresolved at the end, and there is still a questioning present. We hunger for answers so much, we forget the intrinsic value of questions. I like how it isn’t conclusive, but it still offers the reassurance to the child self from the current self in the direction that you wonder.
Everything leads up to gas and matches with an anarchist! But it’s the “tour the town” as if you were just along for a visit that really clinches the upheaval. Thank you for this invitation to rebel a bit so early in the morning. I’m attaching an image since I know the spacing will wonk out
Fascinating wordplay, Jennifer! With the rising of the sap, no mere spring fever, but anarchy… what I love most is the play with inspiring/in-spring in lament for following the god of destruction, remembering the world before it was so overturned.
Jennifer…this is kind of amazing that you were able to include so much word play and word arrangement on the page this morning. There’s a ton of great stuff here that is thought provoking. That in spring, inspiring is genius.
Jennifer, this appeals so much to my love of e.e.cummings and how he used the visual elements of poetry to add other layers of message. The style is one that takes a certain pen and skilled hand and mind to pull off with this degree of brilliance. Yours, my friend! Your mind, your pen, your style – – you are a master!
Jennifer – the “inspiring/(in-spring)” and “turned over/revo)(denrut” word play is so very clever and imaginative. I also really enjoy the imagery you included. The words “mud-lusciousness,” “puddling-wonderfully,” “scorching heat,” and “drought” really give readers a strong sense of how different the two seasons are. Wonderfull entry this morning!
Jennifer,
I fear I still do not know how to make this digital space welcome the spacing needed for our poetry. Thank you for problem-solving.
I love the use of parentheses and hyphens here to interrupt maybe leverage maybe will meaning for spring. The language of mud-lusciousness and “dog-/star” toward “remember again/ when.”
Love this,
Sarah
So creative. The blend of tech and nature is distorting and makes me think about how much has changed. I love “inspiring / [in-spring]” and the use of punctuation throughout.
Hi, all! Somehow the end of my comment is missing (a me mistake I’m sure). This should also add that I was inspired by and contains nods to ee cummings, the ultimate poetry anarchist.
Oh, Bravo! [clapping furiously] I love this! You’ve done this prompt and anarchy and poetry and cummings proud!
James, this prompt is perfect for my current WIP. And, you’re from Chicago–another good prompt? That’s where my main character is from. That burning scream…ending with “can of gas and hand full of matches,” lead me right to a riot! Love that intensity.
June 1919
The Chicago Academy of Fine Arts building at 410 S. Michigan Ave
Also home to the Illinois Equal Suffrage Association
I’ve done it.
I’ve withdrawn from classes
Now, to find work.
Professor Davis’ sealed letter
of introduction feels glued
to my glove,
I know I could be earning
governess wages in a day
with his tidy words
delivered to the right doors.
But, I am a painter.
I pass by suffragettes
arms full of bunting,
flags, and banners.
I stuff the envelope
up my sleeve
and open the door
to ESA office.
I cannot take
one more day
of powerlessness.
Linda, I am in love with this – the rebellious nature of your MC, the strength of (and in) her voice, the contrast between the tidiness of words to the expansiveness of bunting-filled arms. I want to know more!
Linda, this is amazing…I want more. I want it to be a novel in verse. This character is ultimately going to triumph…I want to know how, for I know there will be suffering for the suffrage.
That last word “powerlessness” seals the deal!
Linda – thank you for sharing your writing this morning. I love how you create a very dynamic narrator – the artist, the academic, the rebel, the laborer – in such a short amount of space. It gave me such a strong sense of the narrator’s conflict, and what has driven them to not take “one more day / of powerlessness.” This resonates with me as my students just finished a unit on oppression. We discussed the idea of what happens when the powerless get pushed too far. Several students commented that when people can’t take being powerless or marginalized, they start pushing back.
Linda, I was drawn in by the first line. What an amazing first line to make us wonder. And then the punch…..are you sure, sure you withdrew? And then the love of arts – – the real piece of understanding. Artists lose all their passion in the science of it. Now the real power can shine through. Oh, please please please keep it going. What happens next?
Linda,
Wow! This was a brilliiant approach and I am thinking of ways my students can use a character’s voice from history to speak through poetry!
Linda,
I like the quiet resilience of the woman in this, walking by the suffragettes and then quietly doing the right thing. There is so much heroism done without fanfare, just in the form of great decisions. I love the one sentence about being a painter. It stands out to me as an extended metaphor as she paints a whole new direction.
Linda, this sounds very cool! I really enjoyed witnessing this moment of realization from your speaker, this moment she decides to be no longer powerless. Thanks for sharing a bit of your WIP!