A very special thank you to Kim, Stacey, Denise, Emily, and Erica for taking such good care of our words this month. If you have written with us before, welcome back. If you are joining us for the first time, you are in the kind, capable hands of today’s host, so just read prompt below and then, when you are ready, write in the comment section below. We do ask that if you write that, in the spirit of reciprocity, you respond to three or more writers. We will see you back here in January — we are taking December off. Also, check out our “store” to retrieve your complimentary copies of our new books: https://www.ethicalela.com/store/
Our Host: Erica Johnson
Erica lives in the suburbs of Little Rock, but teaches in the rural town of Vilonia, Arkansas. She has dedicated thirteen years to helping high school students excel in Advanced and College level English courses. Not only does Erica work with students, but actively supports teachers through mentor programs and her work with the online community known as Teach Write and the Teach Write Academy. Erica spends her non-writing time setting new personal records in CrossFit, playing silly games with her extended family, and planning more trips than she can ever afford to go on. If you see her at NCTE in Boston, please say hello!
Inspiration
During this past summer’s Teach Write Camp, not only did we study a collection of poetry — The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace and Renewal — put together by James Crews, but we also met with Crews via zoom. We discussed how he built a collection so that it seemed one poem was in conversation with the next.
One of my favorite poems from that collection was Heather Swan’s “Boy” — a poem that contrasts the innocence of a boy catching bullfrogs with the reality of the boy asking heavy questions about war and violence:
“This is the child who,
in the darkness, unable
to sleep, curls into
the body he came from
and asks, But who invented war?”
Clint Smith, too, writes a poem contrasting childhood innocence with darker problems facing the world in “Playground Elegy”.
Process
I started this poem by recording snippets of conversations from my students during a nature journaling exercise, but if you find yourself away from your students or children today then consider calling to mind a common question you’ve been asked by them. Or use your notebook and return to your own childhood and reflect on a question you asked when you were a child. The more difficult the question to answer — the better!
In addition, record imagery that comes to mind when you think of that childhood experience. I encourage you to focus on concrete sensory details, but if you have to pull from memory or make something up that’s fine too.
Weave the heavy question(s) together with the imagery so that one is contrasting or speaking to the other. A conversation between the adult and child, a juxtaposition between the innocence of the scene with the heavy burden of the question being posed, or start from an innocent question and work your way into a world of adulthood — or reverse that!
I don’t have a specific form in mind for today — just write what feels right to you!
Erica’s Poem
I’m Trying to Find a Cricket by Erica Johnson
Three teenage boys wander
the field behind our school —
not to ditch class, but to explore nature.
What will I do if they run?
There is no mad dash for parked cars,
the dust is kicked up as they race
to be the first to claim a three-foot-long stick.
It takes an eye blink and suddenly
I no longer see shuffling senior high students,
but watch over giddy, playground bound children.
“It’s our tickle stick.”
I am told, when we return indoors
And they mount it to the classroom wall
with a scribbled note-plaque and a proclamation.
Another boy — two months shy of being a man —
gently places a conjoined acorn on my desk
like a holy relic from a bygone age of wonder.
“Can I keep this?”
And I want to ask him the same.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human, and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. For suggestions on how to comment with care.
Erica, thank you for this prompt and for sharing your poem. I am not an educator yet, so I thought of some things I experienced in school that could be similar experiences to my future students and ended up thinking of the loss of a loved one.
“She’s gone to rest,” my mother said,
Her voice as soft as a fading breeze.
“But why?” I asked, as sunlight spilled
Through the emptiness of the maple trees.
“She’s in heaven,” my father sighed,
“How could she be there, she was just right here?”
The clock ticked loud, and the room stood still.
Where she once was sat empty,
But it felt like she was still here.
“Will she come back?” innocently hoping this
Instance would be like a temporary tattoo
Just waiting to be washed away.
But it was not, she was really gone.
Along the window swayed the trees,
silently shifting along with the breeze.
Up and away goes a monarch
Fluttering through the winds.
Goodbye Grandma,
“Will you protect me on my way?”
KC, what a lovely telling of the loss of your grandmother. I love the simple and multiple questions little you asked.
Trigger warning.
I loved this prompt, but when I started playing with it, the result became very melancholy.
Ryan
Handsome, exuberant, slightly obnoxious
This man-child who couldn’t help
But dominate my American lit class.
He returned the next year
For creative writing.
Joyous, loyal, and empathetic
His friends followed him to join my class,
Turning each class into a celebration.
He’d linger after
Just to talk.
Soon he honored me:
I was the first adult he came out to
Practicing on me, I suppose,
before the harder task of telling his family.
We unwittingly dressed alike
Both wearing pink tops and black pants
Or both donning navy blue blazers on the same day.
I started wearing my second choices
After three weeks of matching outfits.
So did he.
It broke the pattern.
The next year he was my aide,
Mostly an excuse to hang out in my room.
His senior year he took my college writing class,
Injecting class with energy,
Just by being there.
We took photos at graduation.
Cried and smiled . . .
But he didn’t go away.
Every few months he’d email me,
Ask me to meet him for herb tea after work–
And we’d catch up.
He always made sure we celebrated our birthday week.
He struggled, but always chose to be happy.
Eight years after graduation
A drunk driver took his life.
My former student
My 26-year-old friend
Was gone.
I spoke at his funeral—
Then told my principal
It was time for me to teach somewhere else.
Oh, Kelley, I am so sorry for this sad story. However, I’m happy this beautiful poem and rich memories of Ryan were birthed here in this space. What a lovely human he was and he left hope on many.
Erica,
Thank you for your prompt and poem today. I love how you captured the goofiness of teenage boys with their “Tickle Stick.”
Yesterday,
you were engrossed in Legos,
sharp rectangular edges scattered about the house
waiting to be the brick in your construction
or a deadly prick under foot.
Yesterday,
you were full of joy, searching for sea glass,
aqua blues, and 7-up green,
a multicolored assortment for your glass jar
Yesterday,
you were sprinting through the neighborhood
snatchin blinking fireflies out of the night sky,
You were jumping into crisp autumn leaves,
you were snuggled beside
Today you lie in your bed, unmoving —
it’s amazing how still teenagers can be in the morning —
covers pulled over your head
and mumble, “What’s the point?”
Nice poem, Tammi. I appreciate the format, and it makes me want to write one like this. The details of your Yesterday stanzas are so rich–like the 7-up green sea glass, and “snatchin blinking fireflies.” I can picture your daughter under the covers with her sad question, “What’s the point?”
Tammi, I like your take on this task with yesterday/today binary opposition. This line made me smile:”it’s amazing how still teenagers can be in the morning,” as I remembered the 7-th graders I taught some time ago. They couldn’t stay still a minute even during the first hour, and I loved them for that ))
I really like the way you move from yesterday, yesterday, yesterday to today I think that really helps with the portrayal of how quickly things can change and especially with teenagers!
beautiful contrast.
beautiful contrast. I like what you did with this. I especially love your colors of sea glass.
Hi Erica. I love this topic and am going to have to come back to it. This poem was on my heart today. It’s not quite there yet, but it’s getting late!
Brian
by Mo Daley 11/20/24
Twenty-nine years later
The tears flood over me
As I sit in a dark theater,
Reminding me of how many days
We have missed together
Oh, Mo, I’m sorry on this sad anniversary. The tears “Reminding me of how many days / We have missed together.” Heartbreaking poem.
Can I just give you a virtual hug? {{{ Mo }}}
Erica, thank you so much for hosting todays open write! I really enjoyed writing about my childhood and asking the questions that I once did not know the answers to as a child.
Bedtime
time for bed
walk up the fluffy stairs
into my purple, green, and pink room
two twin beds opposite sides
fish swim in the corner
Why do we have to go to bed?
Why can’t I stay awake all night?
When will my mom read me a story?
Do you go to sleep too?
Why is it so dark outside?
two young girls
jumping from bed to bed
scared to be loud
mom’s gonna be mad
Why is it dark with I go to bed?
Are there monsters in the dark?
Why is it so dark outside?
Are you afraid of the monsters too?
time for bed
bedtime story time
my favorite story
mom does funny voices
the ending it the worst part 🙁
time for bed
MM, isn’t it hard to identify to identify what was most scary? The stories, the darkness or the separation?
Awww, what a precious time for little ones. I love the playfulness of the two girls and the wondering about the darkness and mom’s whereabouts.
These lines make me think of a picture book for bedtime! Great poem, MM.
M M, I love getting taken back to when I didn’t want to ever go to sleep, always wanting one more story, and not understanding why I had to sleep. It contradicts me now, always wanting just one more hour!
Thank you for hosting, Erica, and thank you to Kim, Stacey, Denise, and Emily, for the prompts and kind responses.
I had a need to reflect on/celebrate my 20th anniversary living in America today.
What’s Time?
What’s twenty years in a human life?
One fifth of a century,
Two decades, a single generation—
How do we measure its weight?
Twenty years ago, we landed in Houston,
Hope flickering between fear and resolve.
I was not a dream-chaser by nature,
But this was a land that promised
Dreams could stretch and grow,
Where opportunity claimed its home.
With my teenage daughter beside me,
Our hands gripped tight in quiet awe.
From the airport into the unknown we rode,
Through Texas dusk and Louisiana sky,
Eyes searching for something
That whispered, “This is America!”
Twenty years later, the whisper has grown.
This country, vast and imperfect,
Became our home—filled with kindness,
Friends, colleagues, caring neighbors.
Yet we ache for a little bit more:
More love, more care, more unity.
These twenty years feel like a paradox:
A lifetime lived in a fleeting moment.
So much has been built,
And much more remains unfinished.
Looking back to that day in Houston,
The measure of time, I find,
Is in the stories it holds—
And the dreams it dares to sustain.
Leilya, I love the honesty and the hope in your poem about these twenty years. Paradoxical, yes–“filled with kindness…” “Yet we ache for a little bit more” Congratulations on this 20th anniversary of your coming to America. I really like this line: “Through Texas dusk and Louisiana sky,”
Leilya,
I love the way you capture the passage of time in your poem and especially love this stanza:
These twenty years feel like a paradox:
A lifetime lived in a fleeting moment.
So much has been built,
And much more remains unfinished.
I love when you write about your move to the U.S. You capture so much here. I especially love
Erica,
I loved reading about the three playful teens. So precious! This line is a favorite:
The hour is late, and I haven’t had time to write today, but this question and my answer from October 2016 is etched in my memory from when I was teaching in Bahrain. It’s the question I first remembered when I considered what to write about.
2016
Miss, I’m afraid.
Will your country vote for him?
No, we won’t, Nawaf.
Next summer we’re going to America,
but there will be a Muslim ban, right?
No. Let’s wait. Don’t worry.
2024
I’m afraid too, Nawaf.
Heartbreaking, Denise. It’s awful that we are once again afraid for the safety of our students.
Oh, my, Denise! How? How can we look into these kids’ eyes?
It feels like Groundhogs Day, doesn’t it? Right back where we were in 2016.
We are all afraid…
Denise, you said so much by saying so little. Thank you for sharing.
Hi Erica, thank you for this interesting prompt. I had so many thoughts this morning. I was hoping to do more but I was at a district training all day staring at a screen, so my eyes need a break and my brain is fried. However, I wanted to write to a question a student recently asked, and I opted for a golden shovel poem.
Will We Ever Be Enough?
A student asked me on November sixth…
Why are we still fighting for justice
do you think white people will vote for a black woman
they only want white men in power
hate is taught in the home
seeing all the people at the rallies supporting a
Black woman, a prosecutor, a leader for ALL
people made us think she would
win
©Stacey L. Joy, 11/20/24
I also want to thank all of your here who wrote with us this week. I loved being back in community with you. Have a restful and enjoyable holiday next week and happy December holidays too. I’ll miss writing here in December, but January will come in a flash.
Stacey,
your poem is heartbreaking. I, too, thought she would win. One of the first things I thought when I realized that she did not is that we have failed the next generation.
That being said, I do have tremendous faith in our students as our future leaders.
Stacey,
I am still scratching my head. I can’t believe the way things went and I can understand why your students would have the questions they do.
Stacey,
This poem is very powerful and hurts me to read. I do really like how you organized it, and I like how you talked about something that is not talked about enough. 🙂
Stacey, Oh, my god, I’m so sorry for all the children. What a question: “Why do they hate seeing Black people win?” Heartbreaking. “They only want white men in power” is so true. That seems to be the bottom line. But I love the hope in “all the rallies supporting a / Black woman, a prosecutor, a leader for ALL people…” Yes, she was. And YES, SHE CAN. If not her, another soon. Thank you for sharing your heart and your student’s question.
Both questions–in the title and along the left margin–are heartbreaking, Stacey. What’s even more upsetting that we can’t quite answer them definitively. Hugs to you and your students.
Erica, thanks for what turned out to be a provocative prompt, each are stories I remember, clearly there are links between the two; I like how the questions drive the deeper meaning.
the question(s)
sitting in the back seat
riding with my mother to take Mary home
I noticed a spot in a neighboring yard
a red dirt yard stretching towards the wooden house
sometime in the last few days I’d heard my parents
talk about a cross burned in someone’s yard
after we dropped Mary at her house, I asked,
Mom, why do Christians burn crosses?
Isn’t it a religious symbol?
My mom shared no words with me. Not even an
answer that might have made sense like to scare
people.
Silence speaks.
Martin Luther King was assassinated towards the end of my
fifth grade year. The evening was a solemn one at my house.
The next day at school a classmate (who’s name I still remember),
said my dad laughed. Even today I think to myself, how can this be
someone’s response?
Jamie,
you’ve shared the MLK story with me before, but it’s still shocking. Makes me wonder what happened to your classmate and to all of our students and young people exposed so casually to hate.
I found these lines especially powerful:
Thank you for sharing.
Jamie — This is the million dollar question —
“Mom, why do Christians burn crosses?/Isn’t it a religious symbol?” The hypocrisy is astounding.
Jamie, thank you for sharing this story. I see I am about the same age as you, so I have memories from around the same time. “My dad laughed” is such an awful response, but also predictable. A few years ago my cousin said, “The world has a lot of problems, but I feel like this particular problem [racism] is at the root of all others.” I’ve been trying to be louder about it since then.
Jamie, silence can be deafening sometimes. I can’t even imagine. I read poems today and want to cry with every poet and every speaker. Thank you for sharing this story.
nothing’s certain, except
three year old sage
she toys with new ideas
like an avalanche with boulders
there she is Rapunzeling
in purple and lace
long hair in a braid
hopping over lava pillows on the floor
laughing with joy
then full stop
a pivot of her head
quizzical eyes on me
Do you know that you will die next?
Thank you, everyone, for this wonderful five days of poetry writing together!
Love love love turning Rapunzel into a verb!
Maureen,
I can just see this unfolding.
Absolutely love your opening metaphor:
And then her record-scratch question, bringing her and the narrator and the reader all to a
Thanks for sharing this vivid narrative poem.
Maureen,
Fun!! So imaginative and magical! I want to be this sweet girl! I adore this so much.
Maureen, the words that you used throughout your poem, “Lava pillows on the floor” and “she toys with new ideas” puts a very vivid picture in my mind. I love poem and stories with amazing imagery!
Oh, my goodness! That question would put things in perspective, wouldn’t it? This is so cute. “hopping over lava pillows” “Rapunzeling” “then full stop…” Such powerful writing, Maureen.
Maureen, you got me smiling from the first line, and then that full stop and a question made me realize that I, too, heard similar questions from young kids (not directed to me), but they are somehow fascinated or worried, or I don’t even know how to term their “interest” to death.
Maureen,
I can totally see this image you’ve painted of your grandaughter. Boy that ending! Yup, kids do not pull punches.
!!! That ending, Maureen! It’s not just, hey, you know, people die, I had this revelation while “laughing with joy” and playing, no, it’s the “you will die next” directed specifically at you that does it for me, lol. I hope you’re keeping a vigilant eye on that three year old, Maureen. 🙂
Erica, this poem is a combo voice poem,me singing duet with the diverse students I’ve taught over the years. So, often expectations are based on physical appearance alone.
Why can’t I be me?
So what if everyone is doing it?
Why must I even try?
Why can’t I be me?
Why must be like you?
You don’t look like me?
So I can’t be like you.
Folks expect me to shoot and to sing
But basketball’s not my thing.
I’d rather make music on my cello.
Those fat strings really sound mellow.
Don’t assume when I enter the room
You know who I am from my looks.
I may live in the inner city.
But I’m not one of them crooks.
Some may steal to provide healthy meals
They don’t have jobs, so they may rob
They just take what they need to feed their kids
Some are just on the skids.
But that’s not everyone and that’s not me
Why won’t you free me to be me?
🤨😔😒😟🏡🎼🎶🎸🏐
Such powerful questions to grapple with and I think you weave them into the poem beautifully. I especially loved the description of the cello strings — I’m not sure why, maybe because of how specific it was.
Anna, this is a thought-provoking, process home. It could ignite powerful conversations. See you in Boston!
There is truly a song here, Anna. I am singing “Why can’t I be me?” These lines are particularly incisive,
Anna,
I love the repetition of
and the final, powerful shift to
Especially love these two lines:
I can hear a student saying them and see and hear the same student playing their cello. Beautiful. And also bittersweet given the context.
Thank you for amplifying your students’ voices.
Anna, I really enjoyed reading your post and it is on a topic that is not talked about enough! Thank you for sharing your point of view and giving others your perspective. 🙂
Two Instances
Yesterday, one
of my freshman
students kept
repeating the
phrase, “When
it rains, it pours”
again and again.
He followed this
up with, I have
no idea what it
means, but I just
like saying it,
“When it rains,
it pours.”
Later, during 6th
hour, I heard a
senior across
the room say
something To
a classmate about
“projecting” as in
Are you projecting?
It sounds like a you
problem. He followed
this up with, I just
learned the word
“projecting,” and I love it.
Now, when I asked him
about this at the end
of class, he said
he loved it because
you could change
any situation with
just that word,
and I said, oh,
(with a small laugh)
so your choosing
words to help you
manipulate people
and situations, those
are the words that
make the cut?
And he said, yeah,
(as if surprised)
isn’t that the point
of words?
___________________________________________________
Erica, thank you for this prompt and your mentor poem! I love the last two stanzas (and everything that they encompass): “Another boy – two months shy of being a man – / gently places a conjoined acorn on my desk / like a holy relic from a bygone age of wonder. / “Can I keep this?” / And I want to ask him the same.” Tapping into (and witnessing) that joy and wonder is such a wonderful thing! For my offering, I pulled two moments from my school day yesterday, and my final interaction seems a bit less hopeful, lol, than yours was.
…and that is the point. Your poem shares the wonder and power of the words we learn. May we all keep offering that wealth to our students…
when it rains it pours – this anecdote is a fun one, the curiosity about an expression to common for me not to grasp the meaning, but fun to hear how a student delights in the words – wonder what he thinks?
projecting – and this is great – there is so much depth in this word used this way, maybe this student has a future as a counselor or analyst
one student lacks understanding and the other has learned to use words to advance themselves is a situation – the difference between freshmen and senior year
thanks for sharing
Scott, I appreciate the “meta”thinking around words and your students processing. Thank you for sharing these small experiences that build our teacher-lives.
“isn’t that the point
of words?”
Oh my, this is marvelous, Scott!
Scott, at least you can take heart that the students are loving words and language… may the last one learn to use his powers for good. These two scenes are so real; each student appears in my mind, earnest but awkward (let’s revisit the word “freshmen”), and I can even see the glint of awe in their eyes while they try out their new phrases and words like Harry Potter tried the stacks of wands. I loved every line for the realness of it all, these first attempts at word-magic.
Scott our student asks an important question. Is this why we encourage them expand their vocabulary and then choice words carefully to convey their messages in a compelling way to a specific audience? Isn’t scary when they manipulate what we teach in odd ways?
I love the seeming frivolity or friendly flippancy of the first two stanzas, Scott.
I read the last stanza as a young person doing their job in languaging – trying on to see what fits and feels right, feeling the power words can hold, even loving them.
I remember myself at that age doing the same, still doing it.
My hope is that all our kids over time acquire the empathy that underpins our shared human experiences. Life and language can humble us.
Thank you for sharing
Well dang, Erica. Every so often a prompt arrives that I need. I haven’t done this one justice, but it’s a start to process. Thank you. I love the teenagers acting like children in your poem.
When they asked what is suicide?
He just told them.
He always answered.
He answered everything.
Because children need answers.
And because he believed in
answering questions,
they don’t get to ask him
anything anymore.
Ruled too _______
for their own good.
I can only guess what they might be asking now.
They might sound like tough questions,
but they’re just kid questions.
Kids who had a dad in their life all the time
then sometimes
then never.
And I can only imagine questions left unanswered.
Why can’t we see our dad?
Or beyond questions.
I want dad.
A simple want.
Denied.
Wow, Angie. My emotions tweaked and changed as I moved through this powerful poem. The movement in these lines was a gut punch:
Angie,
This is a heartbreaking questions “why can’t we see our dad”
And your ending, “denied” really imparts the finalty.
I don’t know, but that final line after everything in the poem really hits hard with what you are trying to grapple with in the poem — especially when held in contrast with who is asking about it. Thank you for bringing this poem to this space.
Angie— loss cries out from this poem. And the kid questions tat will never be answered. Heartbreaking…
Angie, this is such a powerful piece! I love the crafting of “He always answered. / He answered everything. / Because children need answers” to “they don’t get to ask him / anything anymore” to “then sometimes / then never.” Those short lines are everything! And then we have “A simple want. / Denied.” So moving!
You left me in chills. This is so powerfully, sad. I feel the weight of this dad’s absence.
Angie, you tip us off right from the start but I still wasn’t expecting the dad to be the one. The questions and the simple want of dad who’s gone…and we readers knowing why…it’s searing. The children will be coping with it forever. I appreciate how you lead us to the longing beyond the questions. Superbly rendered – and utterly heartbreaking.
Ohhh my! This poem hits hard. I sometimes feel inadequate when children ask the kind of questions that are just too hard to explain. But they deserve to know. Thank you, Angie.
Angie, your poem hits in the tender places in the heart. Such adult issues, brought so quickly and soberingly to the realities of children who don’t understand. Denied a dad is such a tough struggle when it was all the time to sometimes to never. It hits home.
Erica,
What a powerful prompt! It’s pure genius. I love the mentor poems you shared and your original poem. As a mother of four who have grown out of childhood, I have an abundance of questions to reflect on.
From the Mouths of Babes
The neighborhood boys gather
in the side yard after school
for another game of football
before the Indiana cold
strangles their desire.
Our youngest has donned shoulder pads
plastic cleats, and the Purdue jersey
that engulfs his tiny frame.
Burnt orange red, and yellow leaves
blow through the yard
as the grey sunless sky
backdrops the scene.
I’m sitting on the back porch
grading papers when
our 4th grade son breaks
from the formation.
He runs over me,
hurdling the landscape
that separates us.
Through his helmet, I can
see his eyes filled with tears.
“Are you going to Hell, Mom?”
I rise and swallow him in a hug
saying, “I sure hope not, Buddy.
What’s burrowed into
that beautiful little brain of yours?”
“Teacher said today during the Respect for Life
convocation that people who vote for Barack Obama
are going to Hell.”
As the disbelief overtakes my body
from toes to head,
I decide this is a conversation for later.
“Don’t you worry about me, Bud.
Go have fun with the boys.”
His tender heart encased
in his little body
shoves his worry aside,
running back to the game
shouting,
“Come on, Saints,
let’s kill ‘em!”
~Susan Ahlbrand
20 November 2024
Sheesh! What a “teacher”! I don’t know what I would have done. Thanks for this narrative poem that brings me back to parts of my own childhood (football fanatics)!
Susan,
The juxtaposition of joyfully watching your children with autumn backdrop is striking against the hateful message from your son’s teacher. Shame on her. What an awful thing to tell children!
Okay, I’m horrified by this teacher…and laughed out loud at the final lines,
That is poetic!
Susan, I read your poem somewhere yesterday on my trip to Boston. It made me gasp. Though it’s not the first time I heard similar proclamations (even from a brother in law), I am so sad to read this version. Your sweet boy and your interactions with him are so precious.
From the mouths of babes indeed!
As his tender heart grapples with the fear of hell and damnation, planted by the misguidance of a supposed leader/teacher with such damaging repercussions.
Given the recent election and the fervor of white nationalists, I fear hell is not a place anyone is going to – it’s what we are all walking into.
The knowing way you / the speaker responds is perfectly reassuring, something that our kids need daily, especially given the turn the world has taken and how opinions seem to pass for truth.
The irony of his joyful shout restoreth me. 🙂
Erica,
Thank you for hosting and sharing your poetry today. I too will be in Boston and hope to connect.
my recent birthday greeting:
happy last birthday mom
where you are taller than us
what? us? my teens
blossoming progeny
i tower over most…though
jenga tiles are being pulled
out of my vertebrae with age
so, threats of being the shortest
at my once 6’ stature, please, no
but yes, it’s time, biology, genetics
a sensible although facetious
birthday reality, rude or rational?
maybe, would it? could i?
wrap them as mummies with toilet
paper to halt this transformation?
duct tape them vertically to limit
these inches? gorilla glue
them to the wall where their
heights are etched–this will
keep them permanently in a spot
where i can still look down at them
stop their morphing into emerging
adults who…will what? unknown
that is their path, vertically and further-ways
yet still, i will always be older
take that, son!
Omg the directions in this poem are so good, the movement from fun to deep. Excellent.
So many great images, Stefani! Especially love
Thanks Stephanie! It’s my first NCTE and I have no idea what to expect — but I know I’m going to have fun and gain some amazing experiences over the weekend.
As for your poem, I love the reference at the end to the height chart on the wall and using that to reflect on your child’s growth. What an exchange and I love the mix of serious contemplation and humor. I definitely chuckled as I read this.
I love your line – though / jenga tiles are being pulled /out of my vertebrae with age /so, threats of being the shortest – such a temporary reflection on the reality
and I love your final lines – yet still, i will always be older / take that, son! – there’s power in those words.
thanks for sharing. I easily relate to your words.
Erica,
thanks for hosting and giving us such rich mentor texts.
One thing I love about teaching seventh grade is how quickly students can flip back and forth from being mature and being innocent and silly. Your poem captures beautifully the different ages within our students and us.
I love the yearning for innocence and wonder of your ending:
Your prompt made me think of a difficult conversation I had to have some years ago. I hope it’s okay that today I’m sharing a poem I wrote years ago. It was good for me to revisit it today.
Diving into the Wreck
after Adrienne Rich
I remember reading the poem
after becoming an English major
but before traveling into heavy waters
Almost everyone I loved was alive
No one needed a transplant or a trach
no one was struggling with panic attacks or painkillers
But that’s an unfair recounting
a binary falsehood
years before reading the poem
I travelled north for my first grandparent’s funeral
not understanding my family’s laughter in a time of grief
in high school my friend Michael wanted to commit suicide
he sat across from me on the sidewalk in the city park
not sure what to do with his hands while he wept
my cousin Michelle hydroplaned and died
on the last day of her summer job before college
I dreamt of a deflated swimming pool
and that I could not walk upright
from Rich’s poem
I remember the weight of the water
the deep submergence
under all of that heavy heavy water
In recent years
I’ve been deeper in the water
and closer to the wreck
I’ve taken care of my brother’s children
while their mother was in the hospital
waiting to give birth to a baby we weren’t sure would survive
I’ve seen that infant, Isaac,
grey and plasticine
small and still
after his tracheostomy
I’ve told his parents
that he looked good
when he did not
I’ve slept fitfully
over the noise
of Isaac’s oxygen tanks
and suction machines
I’ve watched my brother and sister-in-law change
the dressing on the trach
for the first time
trying to get all of the steps
in the right order
without upsetting their baby
I’ve watched my nephew cry soundlessly
baby gurgles and angry cries
bifurcated by his trached windpipes
I’ve cried all the way home from my brother’s
so ready for a break
knowing that my brother wouldn’t get one for a long time
I’ve helped my grandmother dress herself
wanting and not wanting to glimpse
the scars of her mastectomy
I’ve held my grandfather’s gnarled hand
index finger bent at the first knuckle
as he lay where he never wanted to be:
the home
I’ve read at my grandmother’s funeral mass
my voice silenced
by the word mountain
I’ve wiped clean all manner of body parts
and laughed at the formerly unmentionable
I’ve attended the funerals of students
young people crying in suits and dresses
looking both older and younger than do in school
I’ve cried with my cousin
sitting on the floor in the small waiting room
after the surgeons told us
that now would be a good time to pray
for her daughter
I’ve sat side by side with my cousin
not as close as I wanted to
distanced by her cigarette smoke
pausing on her back porch
before going back to the hospital
when in a rare just the two of us moment
in a house full of worried family and friends
she asked me to deliver her daughter’s eulogy
I’ve held my cousin’s daughter, Ellie,
in her hospice bed
installed in the living room
while everyone else slept
in the peaceful early morning
and answered the question
that she did and did not want the answer to
yes,
yes, she was dying
but she would be surrounded by love
I’ve written and delivered El’s eulogy
looking out at her friends and family
celebrating the connections each of us had with her
the ways in which we served as mirrors for her
breaking down when I addressed my parents
absent because of my mother’s arrhythmia
I’ve ridden the nonlinear wave of grief
Ellie’s been dead almost a year
ten months and three days
writing that history
pushes forward the tears
but the heavy waters of grief
don’t push me down to the wreck
so often as they did even a month ago
I can dive back in
without the weight of the water
taking away my breath
I told a colleague about Ellie
in the parking lot after work yesterday
and I didn’t feel loss or sadness
just a knowing connection to my colleague
whose mother is dying and starting hospice
after we dive into the wreck we surface
driving my two nephews and my niece
back from a summer visit to my parents
Isaac
still small
but alive
and unrestricted
asks us if we remember when he had his trach
I laugh along with his siblings
when I repeat this story to my Mom
we remember
the wreck
of seeing him
crying noiselessly
propped up and wedged into his infant carrier
amidst the oppressive omnipresence of
oxygen tanks, pulseox and suction
we’re glad
that he can imagine
that we could forget
I love how you started with the memories of reading Rich’s poem. Sheesh, a lot of tough stuff. I think it’s amazing that after all of those stanzas of experiences you end with something equally as powerful:
“we’re glad
that he can imagine
that we could forget”
Your words are beautiful tying them to Rich’s poem. There’s power in knowing we can live things. Things that are ‘the worst.’ (Wo)man can endure. The knowing that allows us to get up each morning and face the day in spite of the day before. Does pain build callouses?
Holy sh*t, Sharon. Your poem and your experiences are incredible. I read the whole thing with tears brimming in my eyes. You have been through so much, which of course, makes me think of all the things I’ve been through. Your extended metaphor is amazing. The line,”I’ve ridden the nonlinear wave of grief,” really speaks to me today, as I wrote about my grief over my brother’s death hitting me unexpectedly, as he died 29 years ago. Nonlinear indeed! Your poem is amazing.
Thanks, Mo.
Sorry for your loss. Anniversaries are hard. Regular days, too, though. Sending peace and love.
Today’s This Photo Wants to be a Poem: https://reflectionsontheteche.com/2024/11/20/this-photo-wants-to-be-a-poem-tricks-of-nature/
Feel free to join in.
I’ll be back later to write here. Thanks for hosting, Erica.
I’m going to star this and try during the in betweens of NCTE!
That’s a great picture and poem, Margaret. I think it would be a terrific classroom prompt.
Erica, this is a fabulous invitation for ending the Open Write. Oh to maintain the wonder we had as children…the tickle stick in your poem is such a poignant symbol.
Here’s a childhood memory – I think of it often. Thank you for this-
The Stairway to…
I am supposed to be
waiting
with the other children
in the hallway
by the back door
where my dad
will pick me up
and even though I know
if I make him late
for Sonny and Cher
he’ll be mad
but I can’t help it
I am being pulled
by invisible fingers
I slip away
through the stairwell door
where I begin
the climb
I have learned
from my
secret explorations
that parts of this church
are old
and that there are
connecting stairs
on every floor
and that I can get to them
by crossing over the
strange, wide
Sunday meeting
places in the middle
of classrooms
on and on I go
finding my way
a door tucked here,
another there
until the stairs narrow
and narrow again
until there’s only stairs
and walls
I wonder how high I am
and if I will reach the bell
in the tall steeple
when suddenly
the stairs end at
a door.
I’ve come
as far as I can.
There’s only one thing
to do now…
I reach for the doorknob.
It’s locked.
There’s a window in it
but behind it,
only darkness.
I stand in this
utter silence
wondering
what is behind that door
and why does it need
to stay locked
and would I really
want to go in
if I knew
yes
I still
want to
even as
I shiver
and turn back
to the stairs
for my father
and home
I love the way you build suspense and anticipation in the poem!
What a vivid memory. I like the short stanzas and suspense also! I don’t think I have as clear a memory of anything from my childhood. I try to think of things and I cannot. Maybe I should write more 🙂
Oof! I was climbing the stairs right along with you! The tension was building as you travelled , and then the door wouldn’t open. I want to know what you would have found…
Fran! And now, of course, I need to know what was behind that locked door! Did you ever find out? I love the realization to “would I really / want to go in / if I knew”: “yes / I still / want to / even as / I shiver.” Insatiable curiosity for the win! (And I love the detail of “Sonny and Cher” as the show that your father would watch and didn’t want to miss.)
Hey, Scott – I never did fid out what was in that exceedingly dark room somewhere near the top of the VERY tall steeple – the tallest in that city. I suspect it was the carillon… and I confess to extreme nostalgia, a desire to return and wander there again and see for myself. Of course, as an adult not affiliated with that particular church anymore, I can’t think of how to pull this off (just go ask, maybe?? Hi, can I just wander this building for a bit??). As a child I felt that whatever lay beyond that door was of great significance, and potentially scary.
Fran, we could make this happen. What’s a little light B&E among poet friends? I’ll create a diversion — I’m pretty adept at juggling, nothing great mind you, but definitely passible for the occasion — we’ll get someone else, Kim or Mo or Gayle or Maureen or Angie or Susie or Glenda or Stacey or Stefani or Tammi or Anna or Leilya or Denise or Susan or Jennifer or Margaret or–, look, we have options, or even Sarah herself for that matter, as the wheelma…er, wheelperson, and then you go in and find out what’s behind that door! And now, of course, I can’t stop thinking of a poem/movie, something like Ocean’s Eleven with poets from the Open Write community … sorry, where was I…oh, yeah, just give out a barbaric yawp and we’ll come runnin’. 🙂
Fran, your poem brings to mind all the ways kids want to explore and find answers, even with the fear of the unknown and the uncertainty. Those doors so real in childhood are future symbols for wondering what is behind every next turn. I love what you have done here instilling the fear and building the suspense. I’m also glad you turned back to the safety of home.
Fran, what a lovely childhood memory you’ve recreated for us today! I love those invisible fingers pulling at you. You’ve created some wonderful tension in this poem.
Fran, thank you for this adventure.
I was transported to my elementary Catholic school days, where we often attended mass in the cavernous, beautiful stone church adjoining the school. It had so many ‘secret’ curving stairs and passageways, leading down to a separate chapel below. I too, know the grip of “invisible fingers” and slipping away . . .
well done!
Erica, your poem captures the whimsy and awkward edge of childhood, and I love the conjoined acorn. It makes me chuckle to think of the humor there and all at once the innocence. Thank you for hosting us today! You inspired a memory of when my middle child was young and had outgrown his bike. I used a 5×5 form.
Chasing the Future at the Kitchen Sink
overnight, he’d grown
a foot, it seemed – so
when I saw him ride
his bicycle by
the kitchen window
as I washed dishes
it brought to mind a
huge bear riding a
motorcycle in
a 3-ring circus
his back slumped over
the seat, head looming
over handlebars
ankles spinning wheels
in a duck-paddle
my mother-heart froze
in that moment, a
vivid photograph
etched in memory,
forever preserved
today, his own 5
grow a foot each day
too fast – much too fast
new generations
chasing the future
Oh, Kim. I love this. The 🐻 image and 🎪 is perfect and sets a whimsical tone. Sweet poem.
I love the stark image of the bear riding a bike — it’s silly yet stands in contrast with the hard feelings of realizing your kids are growing up!
I love that you focused on height and growth and the movement from your son to his own. “chasing the future” is a great phrase that blends the bike ride and height and time 🙂
Kim, every day my husband and I say to each other that time goes alarmingly fast. Suddenly the kids are big – the boys’ voices change and you jump, thinking there’s some strange man in the house. Then they are parents themselves. It all happens in warp speed – never during, but clearly so in retrospect. I can see your boy looming on his bike; I can feel the cold stab in your mother-heart. I so know it. This title and closing theme of chasing the future is just perfect.
Kim—the image of the bear on the bicycle— lonely, and such a perfect memory…
Kim, how sweet to see the time travel in your poem! I can’t imagine what that must feel like to see the new generations of my own children. Perhaps one day I will. I love this ending!
Erica—your poem felt so real. Those child’s minds still hiding in men’s bodies… you brought the scene and the emotions to life.
Childhood’s End
Sixth grade.
A time of power for girls.
My willowy daughter was full of power that year.
Her place in the world was secure.
On a beautiful day in October, a call came.
Her best friend, dead of E. coli
Her beautiful dancing friend.
My daughter asked me just two questions…
“Do you think she was scared when she died?”
“Was I a good enough friend?”
The end of childhood.
GJSands
11/20/2024
Oh, man. Gayle. This is heart-rending and raw and true. Just like that. That’s how it happens. Wow. What a poem you crafted here. The italics are childhood wavering.
Oh wow Gayle. The way this poem delivers that gut punch at the end!
That’s tough, Gayle. And you write the tough so incredibly beautiful and deep in just a few words. Thank you for sharing.
Gayle – this is wrenching. The loss of your daughter’s beautiful young friend and the worry of having been “a good enough friend.” It definitely marks an end to childhood – the title is so fitting. I can sense the mother-agony over helplessness to ease a child’s pain in those moments. I know it. I have lived it.
Gayle, the willowy time of your daughter having power and security and then finding that despite all that feels so secure, we are in control of so little that happens – especially when death strikes close in a young friend. That definitely marks a line between childhood and adulthood. I like that she brought the questions to you.
When I woke up to wind-shifting
rafters in the attic and rain
tapping SOSs in no code, and
a coffee filter folded over
with grounds resting in my
mug, I exhaled it is done and
moved my body into collapse
a perpetual collapse. My students
would not tell me about their
storms or collapse or toasts or
dance in the first thirty minutes
of class. They’d say, while sipping
from Stanley cups and criticizing
professors, nothing to me. I never
asked the what they did that morning,
didn’t even occur to me on that sixth
day after. But I did ask them to
write a question for Tom, who was
teacher of the year at one time,
who left the classroom on a mental
health break for two-weeks but
never returned to teaching, who wrote
a book about what’s hard and good about
teaching and pulled up a virtual chair to
our class. And Angela asked, looking up
from her black ink mosaic on a sticky
note that she sketched all through
class in her own collapse, how
can I be a teacher now? My god, I thought,
I know this. How can we not. If not us,
then who. Us. We. We will do this together. But
I said nothing. I sipped the last of my
coffee– grounds and all. I really have to
pick myself up and get back to work.
Sarah, through the minutia of a day, you set the scene for how many of us feel, degraded, depressed, questioning in our own minds, and realizing the children are the ones who will suffer most. The mental health of my students weighs on me every day, and no one is paying attention to that. The 10 Commandments won’t fix them.
I think my favorite line is the “How can we not.” That line resonates with me this morning and speaks of both risk, reward, and hope.
Thank you!
Thanks for being honest with the saying nothing or not asking at times. I love the bookend with the coffee grounds.
Sarah, I love your vulnerability here, acknowledging the unknown(s) of it all. Your students are lucky 💜
Sarah, this is riveting, from the attic wind and rain with SOS in no code (love that) to the haunting portrait of Tom leaving the profession, to the palpable despair of Angela and you. As much as we love words, sometimes there aren’t any. So much to say that there’s nothing to say. So symbolic, that sip of coffee, “grounds and all.” Yet you keep your foot in the crack of the door, with resolve to get back to the work that must go on. Beautifully crafted, throughout.
Sarah, in the words of Keith Whitley and others who’ve sung the song, sometimes “you say it best when you say nothing at all.” As I read your gripping poem and saw each scene unfold before hearing the question asked by the student planning to be a teacher, I am wondering whether the student will come to that conclusion that you know so well. In time, and in spite of all the obstacles – hopefully she will. I love your coffee fueling and the way you power on.