Our #OpenWrite Host
Glenda Funk is an NBCT with an MA in English literature. She taught English and speech 38 years and worked as an adjunct instructor for Idaho State University and the College of Southern Idaho before retiring in August 2019. As part of the NEA Better Lesson Master Teacher Project, Glenda developed a full-year curriculum for teaching seniors, which is free on the Better Lesson website. Glenda blogs at https://evolvingenglishteacher.blogspot.com/?m=1
Day 4, December Inspiration
In the introduction to her signature project as the 23rd U.S. Poet Laureate, Joy Harjo writes, “We carry many kinds of maps in our poems.” Harjo’s Living Nations, Living Words: A Map of First Peoples Poetry invites us to explore Native American voices as they “counter damaging false assumptions–are often invisible or are not seen as human.” The Living Nations, Living Words map includes 47 Native Americans who explore themes of “place and displacement,” focusing on “visibility, persistence, resistance, and acknowledgment.” We can explore this gorgeous project, listen to the poets read their poems and hear their commentary on their verses. We can also find inspiration in their words.
Tiffany Midge is an enrolled member of the Standing Rock Sioux who lives in Moscow, Idaho. In her poem “Antiquing with Indians” she offers a humorous, yet biting look at our obsession with collecting and objectifying Native Americans in children’s games and sports mascots. Midge says she selected the poem for its “ironical humor and its response to mid century kitsch…” We can access Midge’s biography and poem in oral and written form via the map and here. Since the project has no usage limitations (It’s all in the public domain), I’ll include the full poem.
Antiquing with Indians
By Tiffany Midge
First it was the tumblers for highballs—
cocktail hour with primitives,
the kind your grandma used to wear her red dress for.
$30 seemed too steep, even for a stereotype,
Even for bones, perfect and white, snapped through
afros, pierced through noses, prehistoric as flint.
Still you wanted them, even if you don’t drink
anymore. Then it was the battle of Little Bighorn
board game, replete with war-bonnet Sioux
and Cheyenne action figures on horseback;
plastic Gatling guns and cannons,
tomahawks and war shields galore.
But you’re above all that. Except for the beaded Indian
doll the pin cushion with a wrist clasp—
you want to be that Indian wearing the Indian
like a Russian doll, you want to uncover
and uncover, go undercover and pin yourself
back to completion again; buy the beaded skirt
for those days when Voodoo seems a viable option
(you know the ones). Just as we’d brisked
through the door, the real-life doll version
of Pocahontas and John Smith (what a pair!)
a voice from the back called out…squaw man . . .
later we found the 1906 novel the voice was referring.
Don’t you want to be more than a metaphor?
That’s the beauty of it, that’s the trick,
you think ironies are free, but they’re not.
Latona mentioned how she’d discovered
a Tonto doll, stoic and monosyllabic,
seated next to a Custer puppet
which had so unnerved her she felt it her duty
to relocate Tonto to a more auspicious corner—
someplace safe next to doilies or Fiestaware.
What wars might emerge from such proximity
she’d wondered. What skirmishes could result?
I imagined the Iroquois Brave
brandished on the alfalfa seed cloth sack
could overtake the Yakama Squaw Apple box
succeed his throne beyond the Calumet Baking Powder’s
proud profile. Don’t mess with vintage
the collections seemed to warn. If you think
this is Toy Story, you got another thing coming.
Some things that stand out to me in Midge’s poem are
- The three-line stanzas
- Enjambment
- Specific historic references
- Ironic tone
Invitation to Write
In this pandemic year educators also often feel silenced and invisible; teachers often feel as though they are cogs in a machine, moving parts manipulated and objectified. This silencing and isolation resonate with and echo the voices of Native peoples.
I invite you to explore Harjo’s map and compose a poem that maps an experience reflecting one of the themes and focus points listed above. As in the Living Nations, Living Words map iexplore “place and displacement,” and focus on “visibility, persistence, resistance, and acknowledgment.”
As always, feel free to share a poem unrelated to this prompt.
Glenda’s Poem
Mop Angel
The lie I told myself begins
with, “I might need that
sometime.” Of course that time
never comes. Until forty years
later I hold the bauble up to the
light, a layer of dust coating its
surface, and recall the dollar white
elephant gift exchange. I clutch the
memory to my breast. Tossing the
thing into the donation bin feels
like skinning a knee, the sting of
lost years, burned bridges, forgotten
names I swore I’d never forget
chiseled through time, erased with the
shake of an Etch-a-Sketch. Seems
permanent ink fades. Except for the
mop angel tree topper. I lift the treasure
from its nest among ancient ornaments—
echoes of Christmases past—and
run my fingers through its
strands. The halo, a little crooked, the
wings slightly frayed. This relic reminds
me of a life lived among teens.
My people. Like the old angel
I place atop the tree. My husband
no longer protests my nostalgia, my
Christmas miracle, a celebration of my life.
Your Turn
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.
Taking Attendance
When does class begin?
At the blade of 8 a.m. or–rewind–
when I turn the corner and see her
hunched outside my door?
Is there extra credit for
considering life and death before the bell?
And if, half asleep, she smells of yesterday’s Burger
King 5-11 shift, do I dock points for inattention?
Or add them, since she walked a tightrope
to get here?
And what is here? The physical space?
a mental state? How
here is she? How here
am I?
How here should we even be?
Her freckled hands flutter
across the notebook, not quite here.
Her pale eyes dart to the window,
to the door, restless
in this place. And now I’m slipping too:
here, not here. I walk my own
tightrope, my thoughts
teetering above this desk and pen.
Present or absent?
Allison,
This is a brilliant poem that poses important questions and offers equally vital observations about what it means to attend, to be in attendance.
Honestly, I don’t know how either teachers or students can fully be in attendance during these challenging days. The way you see students is so tender and caring. Reading your poetry is like watching you wrap them in a blanket of love. Thank you.
—Glenda
Allison, your poem says so much about the struggle between doing one’s job and knowing a student is needing so much more. I feel that struggle of how to walk the tightrope between being present and trying to decide what it is we need to do as instructors. Your use of repetition in this poem is especially effective….it adds that emotion of fluctuating. The question at the end: “Present or absent?” is powerful and provocative. Outstanding poem! Loved it!
Allison, what a description of your committed student. When does class begin indeed. She was the first one there. I love what Glenda said about the way you SEE your students. So beautiful. Thank you for this thoughtful existential question poem.
Allison, I appreciate your poem because you have something I long for and that is to see my students, any students, again. I love the tenderness of this moment. We know everyone is on the verge of breaking, on the edges of cliffs, on last nerves, but there’s a sweet and delicate love flowing through your poem that makes me thankful YOU are HER teacher! Bless you and your students.
My favorite lines:
I love reading your poems! ?
What beautiful enjambment. Those kids…we love them so!
Washing Hands
They say that all poems are
political; all poems are
an expression of freedom
against oppression are
innately radical. Their
mere existence is
resistance.
But not this one.
This one is just about me
washing my hands
and how sometimes I lose
count, so I need to start
over to ensure that
I’ve done it for the proper
length of time.
Hands lathered up, I stare
out the kitchen window
at the neighbor’s house,
at my neighbor who, although
it’s the middle of December,
and sure, it is unseasonably
warm, looks to be planting fake
flowers in the sills outside
of her windows.
This is the same neighbor
who was surprised when her
racist lawn ornaments were
stolen this past summer
when yet more videos
of atrocities and injustices
were going viral,
which, of course, makes me
scrub more vigorously, thinking
of the UPS package that came,
the actual reason that I’m standing
here in the kitchen —
Was that one thousand seventeen
or eighteen? —
So, I apply more soap from the
hands free dispenser, and
watch, transfixed, as she carefully,
artistically even, places various
colors and kinds together, creating,
to her mind at least, a pleasing
arrangement, taking more care
and effort to arrange these fake
flowers than she has ever
afforded her neighbors.
And I just wanted to wash my
hands, wanted to not (potentially)
infect my wife or myself, wanted
to simply go about my business,
maybe read a little, grade an essay
or two,
but I keep thinking
about the sad fact that
cultivation does take
time and effort and
persistence, and,
for some, it really
is easier to arrange
plastic flowers
than to plant
and nurture
live ones.
Oh Scott, there is so much to love about this poem. The frame of handwashing, losing count, scrubbing harder–works so well as your mind pushes deeper into its thoughts. I love the declaration that THIS poem is not political, followed by the realization that not only the poem, but the simple handwshing itself is now political. The ideas work so well together. Impressive.
Scott,
You know you are an unreliable poet in the tradition of the unreliable narrator when you begin w/
only to cleanse our eyes and ears w/ that Shakespearean hand washing imagery. The repeated washing to cleanse our lives of the racists among us, who themselves so defile our communities that only fake flowers stand a chance of blooming. Profound ending:
I love this poem and its progression. Your phrasing is clear and urgent. If only we could wash our hands and be done w/ folks like your neighbor. Thank you.
—Glenda
Glenda, I chose to go with the theme of visibility and tried to follow the form. Here it is…
Have you ever
Seen one of those
Camouflage paintings?
The artist
Intentionally paints
Themself in.
You take
A second look,
And there they are.
A wallflower
By their own design,
They are the art.
Katrina, I love your theme and especially the last stanza. Your poem really speaks to me, as I’m just finishing up Alan Gratz’ wonderful book Refugee with my 8th graders. He explores the ideas of visibility and invisibility as it applies to refugees. I love that it gets my students to think more globally. Thanks for your lovely poem.
Katrina,
Your poem makes me smile as I envision each poet in this space as art. I love the opening question and the extended answer format. Thank you.
—Glenda
Glenda, thank you again for another challenge. Today was a doozie of a work day, but I sat still enough this evening to finish my poem. I don’t know if I’ve shared this before, but my first cousin who is now 67 years old, is an inmate at San Quentin on Death Row. He’s been there (wrongfully convicted) for over 25 years. He was like a big brother to me and always my protector. This poem is dedicated to Billy.
Casts, Candles, and Cages
After the car accident
Cement cast from waist up
Held his bones
For what seemed an eternity
Mouth wired shut
Held his broken jaw
In place to mend
Convalescing at my house
Young enough to think
His injuries made him famous
A hero of some sort
At six-feet, three-inches
His eyes kissed the sun
Flecks of green and honey
My gentle giant
We made candles
From burnt sienna, peach
midnight blue
and pink carnation crayons
How simple for me to toss
My coloring treasures
Into a hot old pot
And watch those waxy rolls
Liquefy into swirls and loops
Before pouring our concoction
Into tall glass jars
Now, he writes books
On yellow legal pads
Children’s stories of
Fantasies, fables, fictional fun
To entertain himself
And reprogram his mind
When days and nights
Blend into a never-ending
Tunnel of darkness
Where everyone has COVID19
And no one has computers
Or calm colored crayons
Or sienna scented candles
On death row
©Stacey L. Joy
Wow, Stacey. The love is so strong and clear in your first three stanzas. Your memory of melting crayons brought a smile to my face, as I remember doing the same thing with my mom. These lines,
“At six-feet, three-inches
His eyes kissed the sun
Flecks of green and honey
My gentle giant” are brilliant. Such a contrast in your last stanzas. I’m so sorry your cousin is going through this. Hugs!
Stacey—I skipped your intro, so was surprised when i got to the last stanza—the person you were describing did not belong on death row. When I went back and read the text, my heart broke—for you and for him. His eyes kissed the sun…my gentle giant. What love there is there.
Stacey,
My heart breaks for your cousin, for you, for your aunt and uncle. I really have nearly zero faith in our so-called justice system. The juxtaposition of broken body in the first stanza w/ the broken system doing all it can to break your cousin’s spirit is breathtaking and haunting. That your cousin uses art as a survival tool is powerful. I have so many thoughts, but I’ll share those in a private message. Peace and love to you, friend. Thank you.
—Glenda
Oh my god, Stacey — This is way too complex to even fathom. I’m coming back to this poem… more from me later. Love, Susie
Inside my brain
The compass needle
Spins
Spins
Spins
Landing on the western bank of the Yukon River,
The ground grumbles
Where alarmed sled dogs whisper,
“Ayalga, traveller, you should not be here.”
Spins some more
Next stop is a sky blue railing
In Panfilov Park
That demarcates the defunct Ferris wheel
Where empty chairs groan eerily in the wind.
Spins one more time
Alone on the Teton Crest Trail
Watching the sun set
Behind a granite basin
Full of milky-blue water
The lone Pika’s scream echoes through the valley,
“Ayalga, traveller, you should not be here.”
Shaun,
I really like the element of chance symbolized in the spinning compass. There’s something beautiful in seeing the Ferris wheel ruins returned to nature, aligning w/ the final line. As a westerner most of my life, I’m drawn to the Yukon and Teton beauty. I have a friend (former student and colleague) who hiked near the Tetons w/ her wedding dress for her photos by one of the glacial lakes. Stunning imagery throughout, especially in
Thank you.
—Glenda
Shaun, the imagery of your poem is striking. I keep seeing this abandoned Ferris wheel making its eerie sound. As a reader, I feel a sort of bleak coldness; a sense of isolation; an almost encroachment in a place not often traveled by man. So many sounds and senses throughout this piece. Truly provocative and moving!
How to Raise a Wonderful Human
Be there for him.
Play with him when he asks you,
and even when he doesn’t.
Talk! Talk! Talk!
About everything, all the time.
Even when you think he’s not listening.
Read every damn day
to him
with him
near him
when he’s sleepy
when he’s wide awake
when he’s cranky
when he’s happy
when he’s snuggly
whenever.
Let him spend oodles of time with his grandparents
And let them spoil him as they see fit.
Breathe. Relax. You got this.
Because YOU are a wonderful human.
Well, Mo — that is about as sweet and important a message as a good teacher, mother, grandma can give!. Love that. Susie
Thank you Mo for this remembrance of what it takes to raise a human. I think these new lives are like angels dropped to earth and want to know everything about us. We must talk, talk, talk, point, point, point. Being there is so important to learn what this earth living is all about.
Mo,
I’m shouting “YES” to
Little is more important than this. You need to teach parenting and grand-parenting classes. Thank you.
—Glenda
Mo, I sense the self-talk in this poem, but your words would benefit anyone raising a child.
I love this! Yes, talk. talk. talk. I never realized how much my kids learned by talking until I was at the point of tears in my eyes from laughing or being so tired from the listening or sad from the tale. I hope that the person you had in mind for this poem gets it and feels encouraged. I do!
Glenda, this was another challenging prompt. You are a great teacher. That last stanza in your mop angel poem is everything:
It makes me appreciate you and your husband more than I already did!
I’ve been thinking about your prompt for hours, and could not do it. Then I went to bed and woke up at 2:00 a.m. thinking about it. So I had to get up and write. At this hour, I couldn’t follow any of the features in Midge’s or your poems. I just wrote something on my heart. In fact, the red underlining and Ctrl+ are my friends in the dark, as I don’t even have my glasses on. I am even forgetting what poems look like! So here is my middle of the night mapping attempt.
Mapping Her Goodbyes
Her first move, she was just over one year old. She had no idea on that drive from Iowa to Michigan that her dad had added an extra three hours to the all-night journey when he followed the road signs to Council Bluffs instead of Dubuque after dinner in Des Moines. She slept peacefully through it all in the car seat. When she woke up the box of tissues entertained her throughout the early morning traffic in Chicago. She tossed each Kleenex whimsically throughout the backseat for an early snowfall while Dad took his turn sleeping on the camping mattress in the back of the pickup.
Four years later we did it again. Busy selling our winter gear at the thousand-dollar yard sale, we prepared to leave Michigan for Phoenix. She looked up and saw her big yellow school bus neglectfully leaving her behind. Marcus later told her he was afraid she was sick. “Mom, there goes the bus!” We raced into the house and got ready, driving to afternoon kindergarten. I stood outside Mrs. Bigler’s classroom and cried like a baby as I explained why we were late. This experienced kindergarten teacher tried to cheer the young mother, “Don’t worry. It’s only October. She will forget about us and just have memories of her new class.” What? That offered no comfort.
A few days later, she and I were sitting in the bathroom. She sobbing and me trying to find a quiet place to console her where we wouldn’t wake the household of new friends who were accommodating us until our house was ready. At home, on this Saturday morning, the sun was shining and the pancakes would have been on the griddle, but in this new time zone, it was an unearthly hour for crying. She wrote me a note with a blue crayon, “Keep Marcus.” I joined her in sobbing.
And then we moved again. This time after she finished her freshman year in high school of all indefensible decisions. My husband tells people she never forgave us for that move. But she did, at least outwardly, formally. We took her from Arizona back to Iowa, the town of her birth. The girl, who later became her best high school friend, at one time was a baby she had seen-not-seen at the doctor’s office when both of their mom’s held each other’s hands as they waited their turn to have their two-month-olds inoculated. Fifteen years after the shots, she did fine in her new high school. She joined cross country, drama, speech, quiz bowl, debate. She Took AP classes and had some great experiences. At least I try to convince myself she did.
Before too long it was time for college. She packed her bags and hardly looked back. Sailing club on Lake Michigan, knitting club, including late night practice sessions and chats in dorm rooms with new lifelong friends, service and volunteer work, excellent success in classes. I asked her that Christmas, “How are you doing it? You are rocking your first year of college!” My firstborn’s answer stung but didn’t surprise. “I left home three years ago.”
Denise—wow. Strong girl—strong mom, strong words. I felt the blow even as you did.
Denise,
In Don Mee Choi’s DMZ Colony she includes a vignette of biographies from nine school girls. What you’ve shared echoes these in form, and that stunning, shocking last line certainly speaks of displacement. What a heart-wrenching revelation. Honestly, I no longer believe in poetic form, as it were. Long ago I began trying to write essays that had a lyrical, poetic quality. I owe a couple of English professors a debt of gratitude for their insight into how the best essays borrow poetic techniques, so I love what you’ve written. It’s travelogue in the tradition of some I admire, including “Blue Highways.” And should you want to revisit this and give it a “poem look,” it will be waiting for you. Thank you. I’m so glad you’re here w/ me.
—Glenda
Denise, this is so incredibly powerful. I love the detail, the emotion, and the end is so powerful. Thank you for sharing this piece so honest and heart-wrenching.
Glenda and all, when I moved to Keokuk thirty years ago, I felt a great deal of shock, disbelief, discomfort, and dismay after hearing our school’s fight song. To this day, our school still goes by the Chiefs. In my poem, I am trying to share some true history, and the personal discomfort I still feel about our school’s fight song and mascot. Keokuk is pronounced in a few different ways, but the basic one is as follows: Key O Kuck.
Chief Keokuk
History shares a
tale of drinking men on the
Mississippi while
Christening this small
Iowa town—Keokuk,
friend of the white man
Chief Keokuk
powerfully spoke; released lands
keeping peace and gifts
Taking his people
to Kansas, where he died—dis-
graced and powerless
Our high school is known
As the Keokuk Chiefs, where
Students scream his name
K K K E O
K K K U K–KEOKUK
I cringe; red-faced shame
On the river bluff
Keokuk’ Chief’s buried bones
may not be all there
History is full
of strange mysteries; questions
I just want to know
Chief, could you see how
they used you then? Can you see
how they use you now?
Barb Edler
December 15, 2020
Barb — Your poem points to how important it is to have some of the history to help us see the deeper story. I’m always struck by sports mascots…they seem to whimsical and without much thought (strange mysteries, indeed!)…just a convenient logo. History matters. I really appreciate learning this Chief Keokuk history…thanks for sharing through this poem! Susie
Barb—your question at the end sums it all up. We twist history to suit our purposes, and desecrate it for the same reason. Great food for thought!
Barb, I appreciate the contrast between how the students call out Chief Keokuk and how you address him directly in your last stanza. Your line, “Histoey is full of strange mysteries” is so true. Thank you.
Barb,
I’m increasingly dismayed by the tone-deafness of those who cling to Native American mascots. As I said yesterday, a local school has elected to change its mascot. For more than 100 years they’ve been the Pocatello High Indians. Many in the community are angry about the change. In writing my poem yesterday I thought about the ways mascots dehumanize and objectify and destroy personal agency. I truly believe those who align themselves so strongly w/ a mascot damage themselves. I’m reminded of what George Orwell says about despotic rulers in “Shooting an Elephant.” Like Susie, I appreciate learning this history you’ve shared. And I love the poignancy of these questions:
Do you have any Native Americans in your school? I love a couple miles from the Fort Hall reservation, so we have many NAs weighing in on these issues. Thank you for this important argument in verse.
Glenda, no, we rarely have students who are Native American, although we have had a few. My biggest take away from research I’ve done about Chief Keokuk is that he was very persuasive, but unfortunately, he did seem to be taken advantage of by white men and always worked for the peace. Apparently this meant giving up land. I have always been horrified by our cheer and because our mascot is a Native American because I think that is totally wrong, plus the cheer sounds completely racist. I am completely in your court.
Barb, thank you for sharing this history. It was a sad story of how his quest for peace and use of persuasion caused him and his people harm. The more people who expose their mascots and see what they are, the more will change. Thank you for being a mirror to others down the road, some who have never thought about it before. Eventually, with Cleveland and Washington making changes everyone who didn’t know will now know, and they will have to own their racism if they still fight to keep their mascots.
This is an extraordinarily heartfelt poem. My school was named after our native people. I had no idea growing up the hurt and misuse of the name was causing. Thank you for writing this. Thank you for noticing and being aware and shining a light.
Painted Walls
Touching the walls
Smoked etchings in an overhang
Baja paintings from an unknown people
Boarded up windows
Glass protected
from destruction by angry people
Set as prayer
for safety and food
Red animals rising upward
Lascaux, Altamira
Hunting cultures
with bison, arrows, spears
Colorful murals
of fallen people
give homage to their life
Drawn to remember
killed innocent victims
needing a sandwich and security
Ancient hunting rites
Provide survival for tribes
eating antelope fish and deer
Praying to God
in mystery and symbolism
for preservation and good luck
Recent murders depleting
harmony, peace and love
separating races
Painted records and routes
Pigments swatted or sprayed
to lead the nation
Maps of travel, entangled, overlapping
showing where to hunt
for social equality
Excursions in urban caves
drawn in human trance
on walls of the inner cities
Tributes to life in a quiet canyon
Weapons, wounds and protest
journey through urban centers
Our now present building
tImeless visions that speak the future
of surviving civilizations
___________________________________________
Thank you, Glenda and Jennifer for these prompts. They have indeed been a challenge and welcomed by my brain. So wonderful to have you do this!
Susan, I so enjoy the rich imagery and detail you share in this poem, but I especially like how you connect the past with the present. Your lines “Recent murders depleting
harmony, peace and love
separating races” shares so much of our current lives. The tribute to the past life journeying to urban centers is especially powerful. Love, love, love your final line!
Susan,
This stanza has me parsing out the images and sounds:
There is such a contrast between the quiet canyon and weapons and wounds and then, again, the quiet canyon and urban centers. Such imagery.
Sarah
Susan,
This gorgeous poem, so specific in its word pictures, captures the power of art to honor and remember. Favorite lines:
IThis is such a fitting poem for Harjo’s project. Thank you.
—Glenda
Recurring Voices
He dazzled the classroom spewing the bard’s lines —
…ours is not to wonder why… —
all the while groping his students
in the janitor’s closet under the stairs.
In a late afternoon hallway, that principal sidled behind us,
planting his power paws on my shoulders in his unwanted, massaging grip –
Hey, how are you fine ladies doin’?
Shoulders stiffening, I peeled from under the fondle.
When he wanted to laser a cruel cut –
Just shut up! Why can’t you be more like your sister?
She, the one he lavished with favor, the one
who spent her lifetime isolated with her schitzy demons.
When voices are hushed –
Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to —
he ended with a preposition.
I ended with verbs: love, laugh, play, sing, write.
When voices are hushed,
we sometimes hear them like strong bones
that snap beneath the skin –
confounding the rest of our lives.
by Susie Morice©
Oh Susie, your poem is heartbreaking yet filled with your power. That last stanza gets me: “When voices are hushed,/we sometimes hear them like strong bones/that snap beneath the skin –/confounding the rest of our lives.” How haunting these lines and memories are, yet you find your way to repair and renewal.
Susie, I was immediately drawn into your poem. I could feel that man’s hand on my shoulder; I understood how it was at one time, when we did not speak of a man’s probing hand. The lasting impact of sexual abuse and how one’s behavior may not be understood. I applaud your power…ending with verbs: “love, laugh, play, sing, write,” Yes! The final stanza is so incredibly powerful; I love how you pull in both sound and sensory appeal. I hear those broken bones! Incredible poem, Susie, thanks so much for sharing this today!
Susie—this is a gut punch from the first stanza—the juxtaposition of the honored teacher in the broom closet. And I could FEEL you peeling out from under that hand. (So many things were acceptable at the time we went through school, weren’t they?) strong words from a strong woman!
Susie,
I’ve read this poem several times. That principal I’ve never met sure is icky. I have known men like him. You, my friend, have the power of language, and that power exposes and heals. That’s why I love these lines:
I just wish I knew a way not to have these awful events “confound the rest of our lives.” Thank you.
—Glenda
Susie, you sucked me in with this one. I saw too, too many scenarios is just the first couple of stanzas. That’s a sad thing. But, because you’re so succinct, you did it! Then, I saw the zBard himself, writing about others what he was accused of doing himself! Double whammy?
Here’s a kind of tongue-in-cheek rhyming poem. I had a hard time so I ended up doing my own thing.
Teaching in the Time of COVID
Adapt. You’re a teacher
Change it up just like that!
C’mon, no not that way!
Just step it up—STAT!
Teens at home? Not to worry.
They’ll do homework all day.
And you’ll be in class
In a mask, all OK!
Pandemic? No problem,
there must be an app.
Just plug the kids in
And then take a nap.
No raise, no bonus.
Hang in there— you’re tough!
We know you’ll be fine,
(and you have enough.)
You’re lucky…and privileged.
So, what’s the big deal?
You kick back all summer,
Your plight can’t be real.
So, suck it up, teacher!
Don’t be a quitter!
My kid’s nose is running
And I need a sitter!
I am indeed laughing at this one. I have heard from many others who are not teachers say these words:
You’re lucky…and privileged.
So, what’s the big deal?
You kick back all summer,
Your plight can’t be real.
Gotta go now because my kid’s nose is running!
Nancy — Were it not so darned true, I’d be laughing. Teachers are carrying an extraordinary burden. Your voice is so clear…love this. When I hear a parent complaint that “oh yeah, the teacher can do that…do this…do that…call then…call now…hurry up… it just nukes my knickers. Glad you wrote this! Susie
Nancy, OMG! You absolutely nailed it! The incredible demands on teachers is always daunting, let alone during this pandemic. I totally agree that everyone expects teachers to make some kind of immediate change; that it is supposedly so easy for us to teach virtually. I could not help but laugh at your line “there must be an app.” You need to share this with more teachers! Priceless!
Nancy,
I think it’s so vital for teachers to pen poems such as this one. The public has such a displaced attitude about what it means to teach and why education matters. They do take the attitude
and look to teachers to provide child care, as though that’s why schools exist. It’s so frustrating. Thank you for saying what many feel. I hope it was cathartic.
—Glenda
This is the smiling front that I think many of us are using to mask the absolute agony behind it. Hang in there! “The Kids Are Alright” – The Who
Glenda, thanks for another great prompt! Your line that we teachers are “cogs in a machine, moving parts manipulated and objectified” got me thinking of Chaplin. And Chaplin always offers a lens of humor and love to examine that which causes us so much angst! Thanks for the inspiration!!
“An Ode to Chaplin’s Modern Times”
To the 24-frames-a-second chiding face
of the eye in the sky, you give nothing
but eyebrows, mustache, giggles, charm.
You don’t have to break
the rules. By following them
to a T, you make your point.
Accomplishing their goal isn’t what
matters. Perseverance, flexibility,
diligence, grace, lightness matter.
Don’t waste your energy breaking
the machine from the inside out;
it was designed to fail.
Use their crumbling system to create
joy and humor because
your resistance is your existence.
And before it’s all over, you’ll share your voice,
you’ll stroll that road with a grin
into the sunrise with love by your side.
Laura! So wonderful! I am reading this stanza over and over — so many layers to it:
And so appreciate the reminder to “create/joy and humor”!
Sarah
Laura,
Your poem makes me want to study Modern Times. I haven’t seen it in years. As is Sarah, I’m fixated on the stanza telling us the machine “is designed to fail.” However, the line that brings me hope is
There’s such an important message about how we live in that declaration. Thank you.
—Glenda
Precious!
Mapping my history in words
The first word that comes is, “turds”!
Who wants to recall and write about it all
When so long we were thought of as trash to appall?
But I will do it, because that’s not true.
Each person has value imbued by God.
Each just may be a different color of sod.
So, yes, I’ll share my story with you.
A fifth-generation descendent of an African,
The year the first came I know not when.
But some intermarried with the Cherokee
And, I married a man with a like pedigree.
His family is African, Irish, and Iroquois.
He learned his heritage when just a boy.
Growing up in the Valley, in the Keystone State.
Being a black teen did not carry much weight.
Some in his family are blue charcoal black,
Others, so white it seems melanin they lack.
Some could pass themselves off as white,
But in their family, it didn’t seem right.
Thankfully, now with our friends by our side
We’ve come to appreciate our skin with pride.
We value our race; it’s okay to say “Black”.
It’s a gift, we now see, as we look back.
We’re red and yellow, black and white.
And all feel precious in His sight. *
*Some here will recognize these lines as an excerpt of lines from a song sung in some Christian Sunday Schools as “Jesus Loves the Little Children of the World.” It’s just that now, as we, in the US, have begun to acknowledge the value of diversity that the lyrics of this childhood song have begun to “ring true” for me. Before it was just a ditty with a cute tune.
“Precious in His sight” are the displaced, disenfranchised, poor in spirit, mistreated, and disregarded. “Precious in His sight” are all the generations of enslaved black people and their descendants. He sees and He is opening our eyes.
Anna,
I remember learning “Jesus Loves the Little Children” when I was a kid. In college we sang parodies of the song emphasizing the underlying irony of the lyrics and racism in many religions, including our own (Southern Baptist). Your poem is honest and vulnerable. I really don’t know how you can be so gracious and poised all the time. I admire you and genuinely love learning about your heritage. Thank you.
—Glenda
Anna, I love how the speaker grows more confident throughout the poem. The lyrical frame provides a structure to present some deeper truths about acceptance and self-awareness. Phenomenal poem.
The Map Has Changed
I have accumulated a collection of books for women, ranging from 1869 to the present–books that tell us how to be women. I spent a couple of hours looking through them, searching for ideas to use as a basis for a poem. Then I happened upon this text. I take no credit for the words; just the arrangement of them. And then I thought about what happened yesterday–Kamala Harris was declared the Vice President of the United States–a first in so many ways. Look how far we have come, my friends!
Excerpt from Young Lady’s Counsellor: The Sphere, the Duties, and the Dangers of Young Women
1869
“These modern agitators…
invaders of ancient ideas,
who appear to regard everything as error which has
the sanction of antiquity
and everything as truth which is novel
would lead you
on a vain crusade
for political, governmental and ecclesiastical parity
with the other sex.
The ballot box,
the hustings, the bar,
the halls of legislation,
the offices of state, the pulpit,
are demanded as fitting arenas for the exercise of your talents.
There ought to be no barrier in your way
to any position in society whatever,
merely because you are a woman.
They would have you not a woman,
but an Amazon.”
Kamala Harris, 2020
“Mr vice president, I’m speaking. If you don’t mind letting me finish, then we can have a conversation.”
The Amazons have won.
Gayle, what a treasure to include that excerpt! These lines gave me chills:
because, honestly, I think many of our fellow citizens would echo and preach them today, in 2020! Ugh, have things changed? Will they ever change? How slow change happens…and, whoa! YES! Your exciting conclusion – let’s celebrate, let’s recognize our win!!
Gayle,
WOW! First thought: Preach. These lines encapsulate this moment in time:
I ordered an “I’m Speaking” t-shirt after that exchange between Pence and Harris. I love thinking about those books you have as maps, perhaps some distorted, that both guide and challenge us to draw new borderlands as we redefine what it means to be women. Thank you for lending your voice to the chorus w/ this stellar poem. I love it.
—Glenda
GAYLE – I love the riled up and righteous sense of this one. History is a slow machine, but change is in our laps for sure. I am hopeful and scared at the same time. Go Amazon! 🙂 Thanks, Susie
Oh, sister! That is so beautiful and powerful. Thank you.
Wow, Glenda – what an invitation! This is such a provocative challenge…loved it. My own poem reduced me to tears – so, you tapped something…guess this was where I needed to go.
You were always so able, and then you weren’t.
It was up to us to clear out your house, with you
in the recliner, snapping, sneering, barking
orders at us, you the commanding officer, we your drafted recruits,
working quickly and somewhat blindly, to divide a lifetime
of belongings into a uhaul going north, a pile of donations, and
the dumpster. I heard your heart breaking with every insult you hurled,
at our not knowing whether something should be kept, knowing
the only thing worth saving was your independence and that was
forever lost. Yes, it’s true, we each siphoned off little treasures,
I have the hurricane lamp, the bird bath, and the funny garden pelican, and
you never knew or had to know or ever would have understood
why we want to hold on to the loss of you.
Maureen—this broke my heart. Snapping, sneering, barking— her way of dealing with a broken heart even as yours were breaking. “The only thing worth saving was your independence and that was forever lost.” That loss is the most painful to bear. I am in tears reading this, as I was on the day we took my mom out of her home for the same reason. I have no words beyond this.
Maureen,
I know this poem is personal, but therein lies it’s universality of grief and loss, which also tapped into my tears. I’m a cryer anyway, and this poem breaks me. The ending captures the confusion that often accompanies these moments:
My sister and I have been discussing our conflicted emotions about our own mother. People are complicated. Beautiful poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Maureen, your powerful poem evokes such similar memories for me. This stanza is my father-in-law to a tee.
And now I have his old canes and his clock.
Maureen,
I appreciate you sharing your story. While I haven’t been recruited myself, I’ve listened to similar stories from my parents of packing, donating, tossing, keeping, weathering the inevitable changes that come with doing what’s best for aging loved ones. I especially loved and felt heartbroken at your enjambment here: “working quickly and somewhat blindly, to divide a lifetime/of belongings into a uhaul going north, a pile of donations.”
Oh Maureen, your poem speaks truth to us all, in past and present and even in future longings and fears. No wonder you cried, enlarged rather than reduced by your tears, I would humbly submit. This line tells so very much…
Bless you today as you remember.
All I read was biting commentary and feeling invisible. I read it to my SPED teacher and she laughed and said post it, so I’m sharing with all of you. I was going to try to find it within me to be more positive, but here’s the one I wrote at 7:30 this morning.
The Hardest Year
We got the email from our Super–
He loves us so much that he got
Us a brand new copy machine, so
State of the art that it shoots paper
Across the room like a cannon spewing
Out New Year’s Eve Confetti. The
Secretaries side-eye us when we comment
And whisper the truth–He’s so afraid to
Get Covid that he couldn’t stand having
To share the office copier anymore. The
Disinfectant being under a lock that
Only his key will fit makes a little
More sense. I guess. Lord only knows
How he’s been able to stand being
In the building with us and the students.
Judging by how often his door is shut,
A brand new policy, I’m beginning to
Wonder if he’s in there at all. Only a
Harried secretary sitting on a mountain
Of lysol wipes can confirm. I don’t know
How many bottles of cleaner I’ve gone
Through this year either–all bought at Walmart
Thanks to his magical key–now that we’re
Required to wash all our desks between
Student use, and NO! Students cannot
Wash their own desks, that cleaner
Could cause cancer! I ask the SPED
Teacher if this might qualify under reasons
for a class-actions lawsuit. She’s So
Buried under paperwork, I doubt if she
Hears me. Luckily, we got Google
Classroom this year–didn’t receive any training,
But now we can do our lessons in TRIPLICATE! .
Once for those at home and Staying there,
never coming to school; Once for those
who will be in-and-out due to Illness,
parents, and just didn’t feel like Getting out .
of bed that morning, and once for those
who are here with us; what Took you an
hour will now require five! If they can get their
lessons three ways, that’s three ways to fail.
No wonder my Failure rate is three times the
norm. You Know what else has become the norm?
The vein in my principal’s forehead–
We’ve named him Norm. He showed up
In September and decided to stay.
That’s about the time my anxiety decided
To grow teeth and take a bite of my lungs
Every morning on my way to work. It eats
Its fill all day long and won’t let up until I’m
Half-way home. I’m pretty sure we’ve all
Counted up how many years until we
Can retire, and for once each of us is
Intimately aware of just how many sick
Days we have. There’s four days until
Christmas Break and I still don’t know if
I’m showing up tomorrow. It’s only the
Expectation of having to teach from home
That keeps me here. I even bought a state
Of the art laptop just so I could work
From home. I haven’t taken it out of the box;
The more it stays in there, the less of the
Temptation to see if pajamas and bed hair
Are acceptable professional attire. What are
They going to do? Fire me? With as many
Times as I’ve written my resignation letter this
Last nine weeks, I might throw a party. At this rate,
according to my receipts regarding cleaning
Supplies and my hopes to provide a real
Education, my itemized tax deductions for
this year alone are staggering. My bank
Account and credit card are staring at me
With bankrupt eyes, performing Oliver Twist’s
Famous line With surprising effectiveness.
To quote my Admin at each meeting, “We have
To remember that this is the harvest year these
Kids have ever had. We have to continually
Offer them understanding and Grace.” That’s
Cool. Just one question. Where’s mine?
And this is why we peer edit! Sorry for all the mistakes.
I am so glad you shared this, Andrea! This is poetry as therapy, as release – I am in awe. There are so many powerful images – the magical key! Oh, how selfish of this leader!! There are so many great lines, completely drawing me into your story. Please check yourself and see if you are feeling stronger and perhaps even some joy, after writing this – because, seriously, poetry may be the daily dose of fortitude you need for this horrid year.
Your poem is an eloquent statement of all that is wrong with today’s approach to the Pandemic and education. Your words are honest and strong—expressing what teachers all over the nation are feeling. This deserves publication somewhere—seriously. The irony and anger are clear—and well deserved. Hope things improve for you (and glad I retired in July…)
Andrea,
Everything about this poem is pitch perfect. Every word true. I laughed and cried. The copy machine spewing paper is a staple in schools. I always said the office equipment came from someone’s relative. The superintendent who locks himself in his office: yep, I’ve had administrators who do that. One year I challenged myself to see how many days I could go w/ out seeing our principal. We called him the fantom. He locked the storage closet, so I got a VP who detested him, too, to steal ink cartridges for me. No way would I clean those desks. I’d get an IEP excluding me from touching the cleaning solvent. That stuff eats my hands. I could not do it. I really hope you share this poem far and wide. It’s so good. It’s so true. I read it to my husband. Thank you. Take care of yourself. I know that’s hard, but you deserve grace and care as much as the students do.
—Glenda
Andrea- I can’t even imagine. I retired just in time, I think. You are the unsung heroes. My poem today is about this same topic. Favorite line (though I liked them all) —
Andrea, you have articulated so clearly, using a variety of poetic devices, the challenges that few could ever imagine. The fact that you’ve taken time to write so effectively speaks well for you on a number of levels. The first, is you recognize the power of writing for the poet and the reader. The second is that you’re practicing what you teach. And ,odd but true, you helping us know how to pray for you.
Your closing question, Where’s your Grace? It’s coming from the seeds you’re planting with your students. What you give, you will get at just the right time. Trust your Faith.
Okay to receive a virtual hug? Here you are!
Andrea, I enjoyed this very much! The vein you’ve named Norm and the fact the copy machine was really purchased because of his fear were just two of the “moments” that I found exceptionally funny. But this is the part that really got me:
That’s about the time my anxiety decided
To grow teeth and take a bite of my lungs
Every morning on my way to work. It eats
Its fill all day long and won’t let up until I’m
Half-way home.
Well done! Thank you for writing and sharing this!
Teaching 2020
I sit in silenced, blackened smog
Asphyxiation grasping tight
Which turn to take?
I am lost without a GPS or Google Maps
I clinch on tight to my only devices
A tattered old world map creased and folded
A worn and faded yellow highlighter – used and dry
How do I get from old world to new?
How do I morph a human touch?
How do I deliver so much more?
I gaze out at mask cladded faces
Dotted like scattered constellations
far and distant
I stare back at a screen of white
Noticing smiles… a plaid curtain of reds and browns
A bag of Lays potato chips… and a little brown dog…
Journeys apart
old world to new
I need more than this dried out highlighter and travelled old map
I need more than this 50 year old brain can muster
I am terminal
Hidden like a New York City Subway Tunnel
Going this way and that
Silent from above
But chaotic below
I thump, rattle, turn and twist
I have no destination
I look down, grasp my yellow highlighter
And old world map
Hoping to still make a difference.
Robyn! I love the imagery/metaphor here! This year has been so hard and demanding on teachers to find out new ways to teach; it is almost like we’re supposed to dispose of all the old ways even when those old ways work. That line “I am terminal/Hidden like a New York City Subway Tunnel/Going this way and that” just grabs me! Great work!
It is beautiful synchronicity that your and Andrea’s poems are appearing here right next to each other! Wow. What a terrible year this is for teaching – and yet, you persevere. You work so hard. This line: “How do I morph a human touch?” – this is what we are missing, this sense of real connection. Without it, the work feels so impossible – but, truly, paraphrasing your last line, you are still making a difference. Believe!
I look down, grasp my yellow highlighter
And old world map
Hoping to still make a difference.
Those lines, that close—it is just the way I felt last spring. I don’t know if I did make a difference—but with your spirit, I know you do. Thank you for this (and amazing pairing with Andrea’s poem is perfection.
Robyn,
I love the imagery of an old world map juxtaposed w/ Google maps, the tools teachers once used in concert w/ those the new world order requires. I feel the pain of not knowing, of feeling lost in every word. Your images are so gorgeous, especially
That’s a beautiful metaphor. Thank you for this amazing poem.
—Glenda
Robyn in, others have said what most of us will admit. We’re glad you’re saying it for us! While many, like me, now are retired, we continue to mentor those who are not.
You and others today are capturing the stress, strain, frustration and pain of dealing with teaching during COVID 19, and helping us understand when we retirees hear from our mentees.
While I can not counsel from experience, I’m learning to listen, mod and pray for guidance. Poems like yours, help me appreciate the passion and dedication of you and your contemporaries.
Keep up the good work AND take time OFF on a weekly basis to renew the physical and emotional energy vital to being your best during these worst of times.
Virtual hugs coming your way. Feel ‘em?
Thank you for this invitation, Glenda! I clicked on the map in my home state of Illinois and met poet Elise Paschen whose mother was born in Oklahoma (my new house though I am not sure if it is home). I listened to Heritage, X. https://www.loc.gov/item/2020785212/‘ about when outsiders married then murdered Osage for their headrights for the oil on their land. This poem has me thinking about my heritage map.
Heritage
The year my grandfather was born in Collodi, Italy,
the Pope sulked at the loss of Rome,
and Italy imagined a legacy of colonial power
while grain prices rose and people starved
Joseph became a teen with Giolitti, master
of bribes, coercion, manipulation, corruption,
but nothing compared to the Fascist squadristi
the year my father met Lady Liberty
Italy claimed victory with 600,000 dead,
950,000 wounded, the lira was worth one-sixth,
savings worthless to a farm boy and sisters;
While Antonio Gramsci proclaimed Socialist revolution,
my grandfather wandered the streets of Chicago
looking for a new heritage in speakeasies and ice cream
And the year I visited Collodi looking for my own —
I found a Pinocchio theme park and a castle for sale.
Your map—what a contrast. The history, and the loss thereof. I have wanted to go back to Sweden to see my ancestral home, but I fear the same would happen to me. (And I can’t go anywhere, thanks to the Pandemic). The history of your ancestors gave the poem weight—the close provided the disappointment…
Sarah,
I learned about “simultaneous concurrent action” as a literary device in a classical lit seminar while studying The Odyssey. Your poem sparked that memory w/ the repetition of “while” and the single lines connecting old world Italy to new life in Illinois. This really is a stunning poem offering a way to explore one’s heritage. Genealogy research is very popular here, and I know my friend Debbie, who has popped in to write poetry w/ us occasionally, will love your poem, as do I. Have you read “Killers of the Flower Moon”? It chronicles the Osage murders. Anyway, thank you. I’m so glad you discovered a new poet via Harjo’s map.
—Glenda
Sarah, that last line has me thinking of the sweet Pinocchio stores in Florence and the gelato that is so fabulous – and the reality that generations of family find different things in our constantly shifting heritages..Your grandfather was a strong man seeking a dream of a better life for his family! I sure wish you had a castle in Italy so we could all come visit!
1. I love the whimsical ending, 2. Did your grandfather go into the ice cream business or own a bar?
Tucked high on a shelf
in the closet the plastic
covering hides her handwork
Yards of thread
twisted turned knotted
into tightly tedious rows
linking promises
idling time
I imagine her hands
deftly manipulating the handmade yarn
the tiny hook making memories
into molehills
Legend says she was bedridden
seeking something to do
She did it
Crocheted her life
into a tapestry of precision
no one’s ever spread
across a bed
If not for the note
pinned to a corner
no one would know
her hands
made this masterpiece
Now I search the names
of children branching on her tree
Surely another Cora
would treasure this family history
the art of a woman
living hidden
labeled keepsake
with no life of its own.
Amy, Amy! I have chills reading your lines, moving through this story toward wondering about “another Cora” and the “living hidden,” which holds such assonance in sound and paradox in just four syllables. These lines also really struck me:
How the thread links promises and this makes me wonder about the promises we all carry — yet to be fulfilled or needing to be revised.
Stunning,
Sarah
Amy,
I have a crocheted bedspread from my step grandmother. It’s a treasure, and I thought about it wrapped in plastic, tucked under the bed. It, like the covering you describe so beautifully, is a work of art. Years ago I read a book called “Women Speak: The Eloquence of Women’s Lives” that changed and challenged my worldview about art and domestic activities, so I love the way your poem elevates women’s art. These lines are my favorites:
I wonder how much hidden art from women await our discovery. Beautiful poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Amy, these words caught my attention…”
I imagine her hands
deftly manipulating the handmade yarn
the tiny hook making memories” as I had a mother doing the same knitting and making things that have ended up on shelves and forgotten. So hard to find a family member that will treasure the family history and art.
Glenda, I am so inspired by your beautiful and touching poem. I can so relate to the memories objects share with me. Just recently I threw t-shirts that were from more than 40 years ago into a door, refusing to let them go; the me that once was, etc. I will strive to be back with something much later today. Thanks for starting my day with a challenging prompt and powerful, moving poetry.
Daughter
A scar running down your chest.
I might be used to it. Slowly
it travels and blends.
That week of the doctors and nurses,
The room and the babysitters,
The knowledge that you had done the thing.
Sitting next to your bed,
bits of sun and heat,
you awake enough to chat and walk, slowly.
The other patients are old, getting
livers, lungs, and kidneys.
But then the man outside your room,
Maybe 50, maybe 55:
“I’m here for my daughter.”
I didn’t see her. But I imagined her
while we walked,
slowly,
up the stairs and down the hall.
Emily,
This is a gorgeous, ethereal poem. A scar is a map, isn’t it. You capture this in
We know so much from reading your poem but are left w/ much left to know. I love the paradox of this knowing-not knowing juxtaposition. It makes me think of life. Beautiful poem.
Glenda
Thank you, Glenda, for such kind words and this awesome invitation today. I’ve been enjoying checking in and reading the beautiful poems showing up.
Emily, the voices of moments that are forever engrained in our memories as words we will never gorget – this is what I hear in this touching verse today. I like the flashback of voice
Glenda, thank you for your investment in us as writers! This prompt was unique and challenging, and I can’t wait to see all the avenues it takes. Your ending inspired mine today – the Hope and miracle of the future! I took today’s date and broke it apart into two years of history and mirrored events.
Then and Now
1215/MCCXV
2020/MMXX
King John Forced to sign the Magna Carta
George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor police murders
King John rejects Magna Carta: First Barons’ War
COVID-19 pandemic sweeps worldwide
Pope Innocent III declares Magna Carta invalid
Harry and Megan opt out of royalty
Genghis Khan’s Mongols torch Beijing: month-long burn
Australian brushfires kill 47 million acres
Fourth Lateran council defines transubstantiation doctrine
Beirut erupts in explosions
The Dominican Order is founded
Murder hornets arrive
The Macy Jug is made
Beloved world legends die
Then and now: the promise of hope is found in a manger in Bethlehem
Kim,
This is a stunning approach to mapping history. I can’t help but think how fun it would be to have students model your poem. Thinking back on history, I remember learning the Magna Carta offered so much hope, yet here we are still dealing w/ those who would take hope away. For me this puts the faith in hope, the note on which you end, in perspective. Thank you.
—Glenda
I love the incongruity of all of these events next to each other: it reminds me of Midge’s continuous description of the antiques using Native stereotypes. It’s hard to hear one and then move to the next. Your religious ending is moving.
Kim! I love how this poem is becoming an educative tool for the heart and mind — not that the others aren’t, but I am learning lots about history today. The best is how you set us up for the last line, the way you offer a shift and space for reflection in the extra lines space and bold in the end. I love this and so appreciate your thoughtful attention to typography! Gorgeous!
Kim, THANK you for this poem in contrasts. The juxtaposition of events then and now gave me a swooping sensation, moving forward and back in time, comparing events, connecting dots. I need to look up a couple of your allusions–but I was pulled into the flow of this nevertheless! Bravo!
Oh, my goodness, Glenda. What a moving prompt from start to finish. I will go work on a poem now. But this is not one I want to rush. I’m in awe of the tenderness of your poem…that feeling of a skinned knee, realizing that the names are now gone despite a personal promise never to forget, The beautiful map of the memories. This poem hits me hard…in a good way. Thank you.
It’s not so easy to see
how this map is tree,
and the tree, a map,
connecting you, to me –
roots touching underground
fiber filaments stretched
in darkness, with faith,
so that when I falter, you won’t,
and I won’t, when you falter, either,
for I depend upon you
and you, upon me:
This map is tree
not always easy to see
(sort of went off in another direction after being wow-ed by the poetry map you shared, Glenda, and thinking of a recent podcast from NYT about the social nature of trees.)
Kevin
Kevin,
I think your poem honors Native American culture in its images of nature. Have you read “Braiding Sweetgrass” and/or “The Hidden Life of Trees”? It’s an amazing book about trees having human qualities. In your poem I love the flipping of phrases and am drawn to the middle section w/ it’s filament imagery.
That’s such a tender image of love. You are so talented at saying much in brief poems. That concision is difficult, but you do it masterfully. Thank you.
—Glenda
Kevin, I’m touched by your poem as response to the social life of trees as a metaphor for our connectedness across wires and screens these days. I also enjoy the craft of the rhyme. Thanks for sharing.
Kevin, the connectedness of life is strong in this verse today! Your imagery with figurative and literal roots is rich.
Kevin, you poem inspires me to fo on a hunt for images of trees and roots and connections that nature makes so impressively. I can see the perfect photo in my minds eye, and I’ll enjoy the journey of my search for it. Maybe I’ll just go for a walk in the woods today with the hope of finding my own.
Kevin,
I so enjoyed thinking about the social nature of trees here and the roots connecting us!
Sarah
Kevin,
Your poem is so meaningful on many levels. I feel that it represents how this group fosters and supports our creative voices. Being the first “map” poem posted, it was the last one I read (I start from newest to oldest).
I want to read this poem before starting each Open Write!
Kevin, what an interesting, satisfying poem! Map is tree, tree is map: you got my mind racing in the opening lines. I see the roots, holding you up, and together. Such a lovely image.