Let’s write together.
Dave Wooley is just beginning his transition into a new career as a member of the School of Education at Penn State University in Curriculum and Instruction. Previously, he taught English, Journalism, and Creative Writing at Westhill High School in Stamford, Connecticut. His teaching has been framed through his involvement in Hip Hop music and culture as a rapper and DJ, and he has taught several classes about hip hop as a craft and as a cultural movement. He has been involved with the Furious Flower Center for Black Poetry as a participating scholar in its last three Legacy Seminars and he is one of the authors of Furious Flower’s newly created open access syllabus, Opening the World of Black Poetry: A Furious Flower Syllabus. Dave and his family recently moved to Pine Grove Mills in Centre county, Pennsylvania.
Inspiration
September, obviously, is a pivotal month for educators as we gear up for a new school year. Those new beginnings have always been rooted in reflecting on past practices and past experiences. In my family, since 2001, September has been an especially essential time for reflection. My father, a NYC firefighter, answered his last call on September 11th, 2001 at the World Trade Center. So every September is a time for us to reflect on the time we’ve had together, how we are doing in the present moment, and where next our path might lead us. It’s a good time to take a look in the mirror, literally and figuratively, and take stock in where we are, where we’ve been, and where we are going.
A poet that is really instructive for me in this moment is Yusef Komunyakaa, as his use of structure, imagery, and theme often resonate with the idea of reflection. Two poems, in particular, come to mind–one is “The Towers”, which is written about 9/11, and the other is “Facing It”, which is about a Vietnam veteran’s visit to the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial in Washington DC.
“The Towers” uses a structure in which the poem’s two stanzas are structured to look like the twin towers–mirror images of one another. Komunyakaa writes the stanzas in the form of direct address, the first beginning, “Yes, dear son,” and the second beginning with, “No, not one” to create a counterpoint. “Facing It” is literally about looking into the mirror-like structure of the black granite wall of names that is the centerpiece of the memorial–a literal moment of reflection. “My clouded reflection eyes me/ like a bird of prey, the profile of night,” he writes.
Process
For your poem today, I’m suggesting that you lean into the metaphor of the mirror and reflection. Perhaps you’ll choose to write a poem where the structure creates a mirroring effect, as in “The Towers”. Or you could choose to make use of the imagery of reflection and what that imagery tells us about our present and our past and the relationship between the two. You could even choose to write an “After” poem, with your poem reflecting the work of another poet, or a previous poem that you’ve written that you’d like to revisit.
You might even choose to check out a couple of the prompts about reflection and memory in the EthicalELA e-book 90 Ways of Community: Nurturing Safe & Inclusive Classrooms Writing One Poem at a Time for inspiration. Reflections of Hope in My Mother’s Eyes (p. 248) and Re-Encounters (p.162) come to mind.
Dave’s Poem
After the Towers
After Yusef Komunyakaa
Yes,
it was a brilliantly
beautiful morning. The
Sun spilled light and warmth
to saturation. Nothing could be
Wrong, it seemed to say.
This is morning in America;
even the traffic was light.
The first clouds in the sky
rose from the ground, man made,
disturbing peace
Hope collapsed
blighting the light.
No,
today is not particularly
Sunny. Gray clouds obscure
the light. Dark mountains
surround this valley,
and yet blue skies peak
through between the clouds
And the horizon.
These dark clouds
Yield heavy drops of rain and,
Stubborn,
Hope grows
like a weed.
Dave,
Thank you for your prompt and your poem. The contrasts between light and dark really captured the horror of the day and how life changed in an instant.
I was especially drawn to these lines “Hope collapsed/blighting the light.”
I am so sorry to hear that you lost your father that day.
I recently took a position as the Gifted Specialist on the Teaching and Learning team in a new district and am still adjusting.
Adjustment Pains
So, I did this thing, made this decision,
decided to be bold, creative,inspired.
Told myself I needed the stretch,
and I stepped off my familiar worn path
into the world of teaching and learning.
But, now doubt slips in.
Clouds my judgment.
Sits on my shoulder whispering like a little red devil.
Questions erode my confidence.
I ask myself “Am I ready for this change?”
Will I miss the hum of the classroom?
Miss being knee deep in the trenches?
Will my silent office pound in my ears?
Did I oversell myself?
I guess time will tell.
Tammi,
This poem is EXACTLY where I’m at. With those exact questions.
You capture this moment perfectly. So much doubt and apprehension, and yet, there’s no going back.
Only time will tell.
Oh, Tammi, your honesty here makes me remember a time in my career when I felt the same. “stepped off” “doubt slips in” “little red devil” The questions really help show your confusion, and that last line. So powerful and resigned. Here’s to the adjustment continuing and smoothed out doubts in your future.
Congratulations, Tammi. I know lots of people who can relate to this kind of change. I really think you’ve captured the tension well.
Tammi, your poem shares your uneasiness with making this huge change. I hope as time moves on that you find that the position is perfect for you. Time will tell and I’m sure you will make the position your own and be amazing. Don’t listen to that little red devil.
Birthday
By Mo Daley 9/22/24
Last night’s revelry
Forces me to reflect on
Three AM choices
LOL. As one who oftentimes stays up way too late, I feel seen in this haiku, Mo! Those “[t]hree AM choices” can be the best/worst choices we’ve ever made!
Ahhh, 3 am choices birthed chicken and waffles—there are neither good or bad choices at 3 am. There’s just what is.
Mo, fun haiku! I would have never known this afternoon. I love the word revelry.
Mo, what a perfectly written poem. The Three AM choices has me laughing aloud. Wow! Now that’s a party!
Just a quick note on this wonderful community. I was driving most of the day today, so I missed the book launch event. But what generous and absolutely useful resources! I’m so glad to be part of this writing community.
Thanks everyone for the kind words about 9/11 and for sharing your poems. 🙏 There’s so much brilliance and care in all of your words!
Oops! I gave Leilya credit for your poem! She quoted your lines! Oh eell, we do share here!
Thank you for hosting today, Dave! I like the focus on reflection in your prompt. In your poem, the contrast is painfully vivid in the ending lines of each stanza:
Hope collapsed
blighting the light.
and
Hope grows
like a weed.
My poem still reflects sentiments from the book launch party earlier today and the consistent care of ethical ELA community about each and every one of us. It is mostly about my experiences, but hearing others, I feel as if I am not alone.
To a Poet Tethered by Care
Then
Scared of awkward exposure,
Lost beneath the weight of grief,
Hurt, invisible, voiceless,
As though words would break too,
Hidden from warmth, just out of reach,
Lonely revisiting inner scars.
Now
Open to voices that call your name,
Found in the arms of those who stay
Healing, with friends who listen close,
Lifting the burden of silence, word by word,
Embraced by generous kindness,
Tethered to each other—no longer alone.
I love our tether!
Leilya. Your optimistic view reminded me on online workshop for educators called Hope is a Verb. If I’d seen your poem then, I could have posted that second stanza in the chat!
Still I can enjoy it with others today.
Leilya,
This line speaks to me “Lifting the burden of silence, word by word.” Our poetry really does up heal and bring us together. I’m sorry I missed everyone today. It sounds like it was a successful launch!
Leilya, I feel this, too – “Open to voices that call your name” – we get to know each other in this community, simply through our poetry…and it is comforting. Thank you for this poem!
Leila,
I love the juxtaposition in your poem and the recognition and affirmation of community.
The contrast of scars and healing is palpable. And tethering is a powerful verb here.
Oh, Leilya, yes indeed. Thank you for sharing your voice for so many of us. “To a Poet Tethered by Care” Wow. Such a lovely image. I can relate to every line. So beautiful. Thank you for the ways you have “Embraced [me] by generous kindness”
Leilya, wow, what a beautiful poem and a tribute to the power of being tethered by care. I adored your lines “Healing, with friends who listen close,
Lifting the burden of silence, word by word”
People who listen and write with you are truly priceless!
Dave, your poem is riveting. The title immediately set the stage, but it’s your end that has me thinking about how violence has changed our society. Absolutely adore your final three lines, especially, “Hope grows like a weed.” Powerful poem! Thank you. Although I am no longer teaching in a classroom, I am effortlessly transported into the various rooms I taught from the beginning one to the final one.
Alarm Bells Ringing
once I knew peace
quiet writing in an open room
a large-faced clock’s tedious ticks
embracing circles of sharing
while growing together
laughing at my students’ excitement
seeing a film projector
or better yet the sound of an alarm
giggling down a fire tube
bouncing into a crisp breeze
surrounded by delicious sunlight
but time changes like
the face of a clock,
closed classrooms with flexible seating
aiding our collaborative work
still quietly writing, sharing,
growing together
now the sound of an alarm
has new meaning
holding our breath
questioning whether to barricade or flee
knowing too well
loss and bloodshed
Barb Edler
22 September 2024
Barb,
I think you capture the stress of the changing times well. I know the holding breath aspect is literally something that happens when we have done practices. It is a real contrast the the sense of freedom and carefreeness in the first stanza…Will it ever return?
Barb, what a difference between the first clasroom of your memory and the last. I came to NW Iowa after the Maurice campus had closed, but the giant fire escape slide moved to the park (aka “the Maurice slide”) was a local tourist attraction. I love the way your poem captures the delight in having a fire drill at your first school. My heart breaks for the children who are forced to know new meanings for the drills. We’ve got to do something!
Powerful, Barb – and so well expressed – that growing together and that question now – whether to barricade or flee – such a modern dilemma. Teachers and students teaching and learning, but over their shoulders is always that threat. Heart-wrenching. Thanks for this.
Barb, your poem clearly contrasts the images of the classroom you created. The first line foreshadows the further development with “once I knew peace” preparing me for how it used to be and what had changed. I agree with you that “the sound of an alarm / has new meaning,” and it is very unsettling. i wish our children, parents, and teachers didn’t know these kinds of alarms at all. Thank you for writing and sharing about such a relevant issue of today’s reality.
Barb,
The transitions between peace, joy and terror is powerful. That last stanza is our sad reality which I think leaves us all longing for the days when alarms were innocuous signals to change classes.
Barb, it is chilling how those alarms have changed…what we fear when we hear one now. I love your lines,
Wonderful poem!
Barb,
That ending is stunning and heartbreaking. Much has been stolen from students and teachers. The clock is a perfect symbol of change in your poem.
Barb,
Oof, this poem packs a powerful punch. You capture perfectly the sobering change that the ringing bells signify. It’s a constant lurking.
Thank you, Dave, for sharing about your father in your prompt. This prompt was a wonderful fit for the celebration we had for the books today. Poetry writing brings words that mend, and your poem and prompt are evident of this. “Hope grows / like a weed.” is a beautiful ending of your No stanza. Congratulations on your new position. I hope to see you again at NCTE this year.
Your prompt made me think we need a clearer mirror to look back at our history and see ourselves.
__________________________________
People hold up the mirror of history and
take a swipe across the facts found,
the troublesome yesterdays their
lies work hard to hide. “Smear it,”
they say, “with projection and propaganda. We
want to keep our superior position.”
And they look at the stories and
throw them into rewritten oblivion.
Away with the hard truth,
the truth that could set us free. These
truths, not so self-evident after all,
that we are created equal stumble. The facts
scare, so we condemn ourselves to repeat
them, feasting on lies instead.
____________________________________
Striking line adapted from the book James by Percival Everett, Part I, Chapter 21, Page 126.
OOF–the line and the poem. The rewritten oblivion…
Denise, your golden shovel poem highlights an ugly truth. I love the hard words you’ve used throughout this from propaganda to oblivion, I do feel the fear of our world stumbling. “feasting on lies instead” is the final chilling knell of a striking alarm bell. Fantastic poem! Thank you for sharing!
Wow, Denise! What a perfect line you pulled from a great book that I really enjoyed. You make a golden shovel seem/sound/look so effortless, yet we all know what word play and syntax shifts it takes to make things meet up and flow.
Very powerful, Denise. It made me think of a quote from Bob Dylan for some reason. “People seldom do what they believe in. They do what is convenient, then repent.” I don’t think the repentance is happening as much anymore, alas. I think there is a lot of irony to the truth of your poem. We seem to embrace fears more than ever, and the truth that could set us free is just too inconvenient. We rush to stumble.
Denise, your borrowed line speaks the bold truth about our society, and your poem unpacks its meaning. Your diction is strong, unapologetic, and straightforward: smear, projection, propaganda, superior position, oblivion, and etc. I am reminded that “These
truths, not so self-evident after all, // that we are created equal stumble. “
When will we stop “feasting on lies?” Thank you for your poetry today!
Denise,
These last two lines — “The facts/scare, so we condemn ourselves to repeat
them, feasting on lies instead” — so true and frightening. You poem really speaks to the dysfunction of our world today.
Such truths conveyed herein, my goodness. This idea that “truths, not so self-evident after all,” – heartbreaking, really. It seems as if the only thing that matters is to keep repeating lies over and over, louder and louder, and these become truths. Loved your golden shovel approach!
Denise! “[W]e need a clearer mirror to look back at our history and see ourselves.” Here, here!! I love your striking line (and have promptly put James on my TBR list, thank you) and the “hard truth” of your poem: that “truths” are “not so self-evident” and we find ourselves “feasting on lies instead.” Truth! Thank you for crafting this!
Denise,
I’ll definitely look for you at NCTE! What a great line to choose, from an amazing book!
This is a perfect poem for the historical moment. I can’t wait for the feast of lies to be over.
Ah, Dave. Thank you for tripping-up my rituals and habits (and bringing me back to what I love most). I’ve been thinking about a chapter for a memoir called “Excessive,” which is what of my many faults. I love this prompt, which led me to another prompt, which kicked in my obsession of find a poem in a notebook (which I couldn’t find), which resulted in stopping me in my place to write for a little while. Thank you. And thank you for the bagels. I’m a Pillsbury dough boy who ate two and a half (the other one at lunch)
For Kris & Dave
September, 2024
No. It’s not easy. She told me if it was easy
everyone would be doing it. The hard stuff:
emptying the salty ocean with a silver fork,
swimming across sound with duct tape over
the mouth, ankles chained with boulders,
and hands tied behind aching backs. We
teachers, another day. Craving more intellect.
Answers. Leading horses to troughs where they
might actually drink. And I’m thinking about this,
knowledge, the art of finding truth when having
severe allergies to Schrödinger’s cat. Memories
of September 11th while teaching in Kentucky –
a chemistry teacher screaming in hysterics that
her universe was imploding. I didn’t let my kids
watch, because ignorance was my bliss. I needed
to know more, read, hit the internet for scholars
who would study & write more than me. I am a
leaker: keeping my emotions in check were a
priority. Flexing academic muscle was a choice –
I knew later that night I would cry. First, I would
check on Judy (she was flying back from overseas
at the time, working away from her Bryant Park
apartment). Second, I would figure a way to
help high school kids to process this world.
Third, I’d go for a walk along the Ohio River
looking to the sky for answers, knowing there
would be none – there’s never a correct choice
on those multiple tests, just a bubble to fill in.
I choose incorrectly every time so write a way
towards solutions. Journals. Anxious & afraid of
authority and expertise…there’s nothing more
obnoxious than a pretentious know-it-all who
takes the oxygen out of the room with the
brilliance they’re always willing to share.I’m a
lifelong learner, which is why I’d rather listen to
those who are asking questions over the ones
claiming choice C, as if education is a sprint.
It’s a marathon. I’ve always been in it for the
long haul, self-medicating myself to fall asleep
at night. To give my brain a rest. Inner-peace,
to shut noise out. So much noise.
There’s never enough listening. Being heard.
Yet, they hear me. These two in my kitchen
spreading cream cheese on their sliced bagels,
their son sipping Paul Newman on the porch.
Yes, this is the 2nd time I’ve written a poem
like this. The 1st was when poet Jack Powers
did a workshop on model texts and shared
Robert Gibb’s Homestead Park. It’s 2011,
and he’s teaching a room of teachers how to
read as writers. Write as readers. This is the
way – every Mandalorian knows this – each
Jedi. The youngest warrior sipping Mango
Tango, keeping Karal away from the butter
dripping off his plate. “I’m leading the call
on EthicaELA,” he tells me, “and I respond
“I’m just an April writer. Poetry month. I
commit myself to it every year – to keep my
rusty poetics in check…to heal from the
scholarly prose I get published in an abyss
without many readers. I remember the two
towers I created during Jack’s workshop…
ink in a writer’s notebook, hoping I’d one day
type it, but never did. Who knows which of
the notebooks this poem actually landed ???
Seeds spread across every room of my house
My office. In boxes, drawers, and storage
containers in the basement. So many thoughts
committed to pages ready to be birthed into
something larger than ink, only to be lost in
clogged hourglasses. I type EthicalELA into
the browser after our hugs, Sunday grocery
shopping (I’m still singing Earth, Wind, &
Fire from yesterday’s StoryFest). It’s the 22
of September. The day after. They returned,
stationed with their own Penns, for a short
visit to Connecticut. They missed missed
Karal (a lie) & we sit around a table drinking
coffee, trying to help one another return all the
evils into Pandora’s box (hope still debatable)
with no idea what he wrote to prompt others to
write this morning. Isaiahs’s socks were returned
…a birthday card crowing with friendship. $600
bottle of scotch still needing to be bought for a
colleague. Visit to the ex-wife to see Val. Five
hours of driving ahead, through memories…
stories, choices, the unknown. How quickly
the familiar changes each autumn. Winter
ahead.And I hear them. These two in my kitchen
who spread cream cheese on sliced bagels,
unaware of his poem – or of this reflection.
Bryan, I’m glad Dave convinced you to come out for some September poetry today. There are images upon images in this rich poem. Those examples of hard stuff took my breath away, and the poem continues with so much more. Thank you for sharing it.
Bryan, your poem is packed with images, reflection, and moments I can relate to. I am often amazed at the way a poem can carry you across a gamut of memories and the connections I will find when reading another teacher’s poem. I embrace those “many thoughts/committed to pages ready to be birthed into/something larger…” I also enjoyed “lifelong learner, which is why I’d rather listen to
those who are asking questions over the ones
claiming choice C, as if education is a sprint.”
Listening is such a powerful skill and a blessing when someone else truly listens, especially when we really need them to. Powerful poem! Thank you!
Bryan, I love the journey you take us on. These words stood out to me as monumental:
The hard stuff:
emptying the salty ocean with a silver fork,
swimming across sound with duct tape over
the mouth, ankles chained with boulders,
and hands tied behind aching backs.
Brilliant!
It is always a joy to “see” you in this space, Bryan! Thank you for taking me on this poetic journey encompassing places, colleagues, friends, characters, events, things to do, and so much more. I like how you let your thoughts to lead you. We never know where they may take us.
This is an alluring journey of words – I am fascinated by the tale within…I can relate to those notebooks, the conviction that you have written this poem – but where? You offer this thought much more poetically – loved this:
Wonderful!
Bryan,
This is a beautiful poem full of twists and turns, recollections near and far. I’m glad you wrote today! It’s always a joy to read your poetry. Especially today, after we got to share some time over breakfast!
Dave, what a precious anniversary September is, for you. Thank you for sharing this mirroring prompt – and I am so sorry for your and your family’s tragic loss back in 2001.
I went back to childhood with my ‘mirror.’
then and now
I watched
their rapid descent
as if each step downward
the riser sharply increases
and the leveling tread
grows more narrow
spiraling
sifting
distance so wide
two feet firmly on ground
holding onto understanding
as if stepping up with courage
the ascent of time
I forgive
Maureen, wow. What a healing beauty this is. I watched…I forgive. “sifting / distance so wide” The juxtaposition of “their rapid descent” and “the ascent of time” is very powerful.
Maureen, the movement in this poem is mesmerizing. I love your provocative end that rings with such emotion. Truly powerful and relatable poem. Forgiving is not always easy.
Maureen – I love the look of this poem, the two ascending stanzas and the dip at – spiraling/sifting. the end – I forgive – is a hopeful ending. I wrote about not completely being able to forgive some childhood terrors. I’m glad I came across your hopeful words.
Maureen, I am savoring each word as I read your poem. The rapid descent seems so real, I can see how it “grows more narrow / spiraling.” Then you come with that final “I forgive” and leave me wondering how much strength and wisdom went into that choice. Thank you!
Maureen,
The contrasting imagery in this is really striking. I love the move to sure-footedness in the 2nd stanza.
Dave,
Thanks so much for the prompt. It managed to merge with my daughter being home for a couple days from school, so I ran with it. I am not sure if I am running with it like Chariots of Fire, or more along the lines of someone running from Freddy in Nightmare on Elm Street, but I appreciate the opportunity.
AMONG OTHER THINGS
My daughter came home
from campus this weekend,
and among other things,
helped me move the mirror
from our mutual past
down the hallway
toward my empty nester
living room.
It was the mirror
we had placed
about the same time
she chose her own lime bedroom paint,
it was the one to see the woman
she could become, left since this August
in the quiet of her collegiate
soul matriculation.
We moved it
behind the blackout curtains
that cover the picture window,
so when I open the drapes
to a new day
the sun in brightness
will intercede in my fatherly reflection,
a bright nimbus to me
seeing me in the now,
adapting alone, caught
in empty sainthood.
Love the idea of a college student coming home and both literally and figuratively, I think, shifting the mirror down “from our mutual past” down the hall to the empty nester area…no matter how old my (now adult) children are, something shifts when they enter the home, and the ’empty nest’ feels exposed. How beautiful these lines,
Rex, what a beautiful metaphor for this new chapter you are in. These lines jumped out at me: “in the quiet of her collegiate / soul matriculation.” I loved “in the quiet” and then “caught / in empty sainthood”
Rex,
this image and the metaphor really work. What a gift this is. Hope you share with your daughter!
Rex, I enjoy how you intermix the present details of your life with the imagery of your home and “fatherly reflection”. It’s not easy being an empty nester. Hope you will transition well and appreciate your image of sainthood.
Rex,
The empty nester feeling is really brought to life here, and the care of your daughter.
I love the imagery in the last stanza. The optimism of the light and the lightness of the nimbus.
Visual Distortion*
Oh, America
is this what
happened?
Did you stare
at yourself
in the mirror
for too long
one night
in the wee
hours of the
morning?
Did you start
to hallucinate
and see
monsters
everywhere?
This would
explain
so much.
___________________________________
*A fairly recent study has shown that patients who “mirror-gazed” in low lighting for extended periods of time would “often see hallucinations like monsters, archetypical faces, faces of relatives and [of the] deceased, and animals.” This phenomenon is often referred to as the “Troxler effect” or the “Caputo effect.” It is rather interesting (and unsettling): google it.
_______________________________________________________________
Dave, thank you for sharing with us your poetry, your father’s story, and yourself. And thank you for turning my gaze (back to) the odd phenomenon of the “Troxler effect.” It’s helping me (a little bit) to “come to terms with” this present political climate within which we find ourselves. I watched the Presidential Debate and walked away thinking, this is impossible, unreal, how could people still follow and believe him…and that was kicking around in my head, I see now, and helped inform this poem.
(On a side note, I’m typing this while listening to the YouTube celebration party. Thank you all! This community is the best!)
Yes, yes, yes! This indeed would explain so much – – monsters and hallucinations. Thank goodness we have this safe space to write – – and that we still can!
Scott,
I think this is a powerful, ahem, reflection of the state of America. I wonder if the mirror gaze is revealing dimensions of darkness within us? What could be? What is? Some deep desire? Or deep fear. What happens when we see monsters? This poem asks the question — do we start seeing people as monsters and treating them as such? And then do we become monsters? Oh, you got me thinking of gorgons now!
Thanks for watching on the YouTube. Glad it worked.
Sarah
Scott! Imagining that this is what our poor little America must have done! I love this approach.
Oh, Scott, thank you for clearing up the mystery – this must be exactly what happened,
This is the only believable explanation! Love learning about the “Troxier effect.”
Scott-thank you.The Troxler effect. Finally an explanation for the world we are in today.
Scott, I love that you were writing this while listening to the celebration party. It made me smile to read that. I read your poem and then wrote my own, inspired by yours. Amen to all you said about “this present political climate”
Oh, Scott…thanks for teaching us and for finally revealing what the heck is up with our country. Makes perfect sense. I will be sharing the Troxler effect and giving you credit!
Scott,
I, too, am confounded by the continued support and belief. “Did you start to hallucinate and see monsters everywhere” is such an apt question.
I hadn’t heard of the Troxler effect but it is equal parts fascinating and chilling.
We are in the live Zoom session now if you’d like to join us.
https://okstate-edu.zoom.us/j/6028777200
Here is the poem I just wrote there from Allison’s 90 Ways Prompt on p. 130:
Yes.
Why did I say yes to that?
Is it because it would make me happy?
Is it because it would make
someone else happy?
Is it because I was asked (and thus say
yes as though it is not a decision
but a forgone conclusion)?
Is it because I don’t have a good reason to
say no (and that I don’t have a
decision-making protocol for
deciding what is worthy of a no)?
Do I already know the answer to the question?
Have I already known all along?
Yes. There it is. Yes. There it is again.
No.
The no is hard to muster.
Maybe that is the right question? Why?
Am I afraid to say no
because of fear of missing out?
Is it because people will forget
about me – and that scares me?
Is it because people won’t like me?
I think I am coming to understand
that it less about saying yes and
understanding my fear of no?
What is the right question? Answer?
Did I already ask that?
Sarah, thank you for the time of celebration to jump high and laugh loud and smile big. I’m so glad you still say yes to all of the writers who need this space. And that you write right here with us, encouraging us to keep on writing.
Thanks for the fabulous Zoom call celebration. I am still spinning on what a wonderful group of people I truly belong to. Your poem is so full of the question “Why did I say yes to that?” I think it is high time I get a protocol for deciding.
I love how this twenty questions prompt always leads deeper, more expansive – here, how your vulnerability is exposed, what scares you, what you fear.
It was magical to work with you on 90 Ways and so fun to celebrate with everyone! Thank you, Sarah!
Sarah–first of all–your comment about the YouTube celebration–will that be available to watch? I was at a previous engagement and just got home.
Second–I understand the difficulty of “no”. I had a friend teach me that if she said no honestly, she would also say yes honestly. Therefore, I could ask her for help safely, knowing that it wouldn’t be held as a debt in the future. I have tried (and sometimes failed) to abide by that rule.
Third–I believe all your “yeses” are why we exist here, adn why you are able to accomplish so much.
That’s all!
Sarah, I read your poem at the celebration (thank you for writing!) and reread it now thinking about all the ways I can relate to this poem. How do I learn to say no to some thing? I ask myself similar questions. and still need to get over the guilt (if not me, then who?) and make a decision in my favor sometimes. Thank you for sharing!
Sarah, your questions are the ones I ask myself when I take time to reflect on this. Sometimes I just say yes as if “(…it is not a decision / but a forgone conclusion)” Well done in such a quick write too!
The books are so worthy of celebration! I’m sorry I missed the zoom, but I’m so happy and grateful to be part of the community that this space has curated.
Your poem is so introspect and vulnerable. The questions dig deep.
Oh, Dave…what a prompt. All this time of writing with you and I had no idea your father made his last call on that day. Perhaps you have shared before and I never trapped it. I am so sorry that your family had and has such a front row seat to that tragedy. The mentor poems and your deeply personal poem are such perfect models for the concept of reflecting.
My husband and I are in transit home from parents weekend for our youngest. With the potential to make me feel so much less, our son helped me feel so much more.
The Eye Captures
prepping and primping
for parents weekend festivities.…
the lame light
and the hazy film coating the mirror
make it a challenge to prepare the face
for what awaits.
bags under eyes
sallow skin
frizzy, unruly hair
age spots dotting the wrinkled canvas
exasperation and frustration grapple
against resignation and futility.
there really is no choice.
uneasiness, uncertainty, regret
shine from those blue eyes
with the dimmed sparkle…
an invisible thread of reflection
puncturing the pupil
boring into the brain.…
why do you even care?
vanity always evades you
until these times when you
have to care, lest you embarrass him
in this plastic world filled with fancy.
your simpleness stands out.
you can’t snap your fingers and
all of the sudden have the
smooth skin, taut eyes,
manicured hands, and the smoothly coiffed hair.
you can’t just nod into existence
the perfect outfit that hides your flaws
and screams affluence.
you think you don’t care
until you care.
everywhere
pictures snap
those same blue eyes
shooting daggers of dread
toward the tool
of permanent capture.
yet
another image collector flashes…
the shutter of his eyes look at you with love and pride and appreciation,
not an ounce of embarrassment.
his pale green orbs freezing the moments in his mind
preserving the tableau
of a mom and her son
surrounded by lights and loud and fake and image …
the still life grateful for the realness
that stands amidst this snow globe world.
~Susan Ahlbrand
22 September 2024
Ooooh, Susan, this is so good! That second stanza is so powerful and then the turn in the last stanza captures the reason why we, as parents, do these things. The really important piece.
Safe travels back!
Susan-you capture the agonies of exposure to the world so perfectly. This stanza–“you think you don’t care/until you care” screams truth. I have been where you were. And the last stanza–those green eyes that make it all right. Beautiful, and a sigh of relief…
Oh, Susan! The line “pale green orbs freezing the moments in his mind.” Wow!
Sarah
Susan, these words and feelings and your son’s love and appreciation shine through so beautifully. Oh, yes – – I know the feel of not thinking I care until I care. My roots start showing and I wave my hand, but when they’re an inch long I go for the color. Underneath all of what isn’t fixable, there are the wrinkles to show we laughed and loved, right?
Susan,
I love how you capture the ease that our sons and daughters can offer us, when they don’t register our worries, but have a love that shows they are truly adult. Their shutters, their eyes, have watched us for the length of the journey…I like how the title becomes a positive by the end.
Susan, wow. You created this masterpiece on the way home from parents’ weekend. This is beautiful. I think someday (today even?) you should share it with your son. You capture the depth of his character and love.
Dave, We are wishing you well at your new place of enjoyment!
Reflection and Expectation
Mirrors that reflect
Invite us to reflect
Do we like what we see
Are we who we want to be
At the beginning of the school year
Students and teachers both fear
That all may not work out well
But who can really tell
So, go ahead and look in the mirror,
Reflect, then expect
That day by day, as we make our way
Through time, with a daily rhyme
That we’re in our prime
And all will be well
And that we look better than we smell.
Nervousness makes us sweat.
And you can bet
That others will notice and smile
They’ve been on this particular mile.
Anna,
“do we like what we see, are we who we want to be” are such essential guiding questions, especially as we face a new year in the classroom each September.
Anna, i really appreciate your opening question. There’s a lot to take in when self-reflecting and determining whether or not we are who we want to be. Yes, school year beginnings can be nerve wracking because they set the tone for the year ahead. I had to laugh at your line about looking better than we smell. Fun graphic to accompany your poem, too! Well played!
“Reflect, then expect” really spoke to me. It feels like a call to action.
Thank you for sharing, Dave, and thank you for the lovely way to spend a Sunday morning.
Vestibule Mirror
There is a mirror in the vestibule of our
1946 Cape Codder.
Original to the house, the mirror is full length and
built into the heavy, wooden closet door.
Discolorations bloom across its nearly
80 year old surface like lichen (mold? algae?) in
the vestibule’s reflective, transitional space.
“Vestibule” is such a strange term–
another one of the many long-lost words that I recall and then
have to look up to verify.
I remember that we called the front entryway in my Grandmother’s
501 River Avenue home in Providence a “vestibule.”
With complete certainty, I remember the address, I remember
the faint smell of powdery violets and starched linen, I
remember the hat boxes stacked to teetering on the closet shelves–
but I am not sure that the word “vestibule” is real.
It is, though.
The internet says it is. As do both Merriam and Webster.
A “vestibule” (noun) is a space used for waiting, for storage,
a buffer, an architectural feature that
divides the inside from the outside,
a channel or passage.
My grandmother, her vestibule, the house at 501 River Avenue, and all but one of the hats
(the brimmed, amethyst mohair fedora perched on my china cabinet)
are long gone.
My mother, who grew up in that house with her 6 siblings, passed through to the other side 30 years ago, and only 1 of the siblings remain.
Somehow, I have been standing before and walking past
the closet door mirror in my vestibule for nearly 18 years.
I have rocked two babies on my hip as they
blinked and smiled at their reflections;
watched them sing (“Firework” at 7 for her talent show) and practice talking (in Japanese, for election speeches) through elementary and middle school;
spotted them ruffling their teenage boy hair, and applying that last coat of lip gloss
on the way out and into what’s next.
We plotted their growth (dash/EMM or GMM/date) on the back of the
same closet door that holds that mirror.
I now find myself looking up at my son’s latest mark– 6’1” at 15.
Sometimes I look at myself in the vestibule mirror.
I stand in that gap; that spatial parentheses (between inside and outside,
all the befores and all the afters).
Last week, my childhood friend, Imani (“faith,” “belief”) reminded me to practice the
“Russian one minute,”
to be still and silent for a full 60 seconds before
crossing the threshold and leaving the house on a trip.
So I stopped, and locked eyes with the face staring back at me–
the same, near-black, almond-shaped eyes inherited from my mother and grandmother–
and allowed myself to focus on the now and my nearly 50-year old image,
yes– older and muted– but also perhaps enriched by the
fine cracks left from smiling,
the softening left from exposure to so many seasons,
the faint spots left from too many golden hours in the sun.
MMLB
Mariah,
There’s so much going on in this poem! Focusing on the anachronistic term “vestibule” invests a deep sense of history in your poem. And then the movements back and forth in time, your specific remembrances rooted in those spaces and objects, carry so much of your own personal history. All of the imagery around the passage of time puts us in those spaces and moments.
Mariah–I found myself nodding and smiling in recognition over and over in your poem. The question about that old-fashioned word, the gazing into an imperfect mirror, the moments of growth it has seen. Your poem feels like a warm, lived-in home. Thank you.
Mariah,
I will hold onto the line of silence “be still and silent for a full 60 seconds before”….and I think before any response to self, to others. I am in such a state of reaction that this is going to help me embrace the “enriched by the/find cracks left from smiling,/ the softening left..” and all the golden hours that warmed me.
Thank you for this,
Sarah (I am 51 btw, so I appreciate this especially.)
What a wonderful poem and these lines are simply wow:
Dave – Your prompt comes right at the right time. I was doing a bit of self-reflection yesterday when I poem just spilled out of me. I taught in NYC on 9/11/2001. I was commuting from NJ, and I saw the towers fall. It was surreal and heartbreaking. It’s
so strange that it is now part of history, and many people have no experience of it. I remember. I will never forget. I’m sorry for the loss of your father. This was a tragedy
like no other. My parish priest, Father Mychal Judge, died with the firefighters on 9/11. Here’s the poem that spilled out last night.
Not Completely
The wound that does not heal,
festers, infecting everything I do
or have done.
I cannot cure it.
I’ve tried.
I’ve tried hundreds of times.
It’s buried deep.
It’s covered over,
But it’s there.
And even in the layers
and layers of years,
it can open unexpectedly
and start to bleed
all over again,
a big gaping wound
where the thick scar had been.
Some say, the only way to heal it
is to forgive. I cannot do it,
not completely,
not so neatly.
The adult in me forgives
or says she does,
she thinks she means it.
But the child in me –
No. The child in me
cannot forget.
She cannot forgive.
Even through layers and layers
of years, tears, and prayers,
she will never forget.
So I’m left with this scar
that becomes an open wound
from time to time without warning.
I rock myself to sleep,
try to comfort myself.
“You are loved,” I say to the air.
“You are loved, you are loved,
you are loved.” and his words
sneak in, his vicious words,
his stinging words:
No one can love you.
You are ugly.
You are stupid,
You are nothing.
I rock myself some more,
shake off his words,
pick and peel them
off of me –
No. The innocent child
will never forget,
she cannot forgive,
she tells herself
she loves herself
and rocks herself to sleep.
Joanne,
I cannot imagine teaching in NYC
during those times OR actually witnessing those towers fall. Each year, when we do a 9/11 study, I have the students do a gallery walk and write about one the of the images. I always share my reflection about the image that strikes me most. It is the one of Father Mychal Judge’s body being carried out. I have done a lot of research about him. You must have been quite blessed by having him as your parish priest.
Now, for your poem…holy cow, I feel like you were writing the feelings that well insight of me all-too-often. The images you use to express the feelings associated with those deep, deep wounds and the difficulty with accepting forgiveness…they really help make the emotion come through. I hope writing this was therapeutic. Hugs to you.
Thanks, Susan. Father Judge was a friend of my mother’s and kept up correspondence with her after he left our parish. He was a spirit of giving and calm and resilience and laughter. I keep in my. mind an image of him singing in his brown monk clothing, walking down the aisle of the cathedral, holding out his hand to parishioners, all the while belting out the Lord’s prayer. I hope to see him in heaven some day. And yes – poetry is always therapeutic to me no matter the topic. This one was just tugging at my sleeve wanting to be heard.
Joanne–this poem cries out–so much pain, spoken so honestly, and so eloquent. Beautiful.
Joanne,
Wow, that is a really close connection to 9/11. Father Judge was a treasure. I didn’t know him, but my dad did.
Your poem is a powerhouse. You paint a picture of something unforgivable and, I think, provide an example of the power of refusal in choosing not to forgive. The image of the scar carries so much meaning—the reminder of hurt, but also, the mark of resilience. Thanks for this great poem.
Thank you, Dave. Father Judge was a close friend to my mother. I remember him walking down the aisle of the cathedral singing the Lord’s Prayer. He was a very special man. The world misses him.
Joanne, these wounds that come out of nowhere are real and steal precious times where we could have felt comfort and joy. I’m so sorry that the words of someone who was not capable of loving himself or others have stolen such trust and love from you. I’m grateful that somewhere you made the decision to make a powerful, positive difference in the lives of others. You do that every single day, and you build others in beautiful ways.
Thank you, Kim.
Oh, Joanne, what a painful but powerful poem. My heart hurts reading of the hurtful words spoken. It is so hard to heal some wounds, and they are easily open. Thanks for sharing such a personal poem, one that I hope helps you heal. Hugs.
Hi Dave,
I applaud your strength to share something so deeply sorrowful today with us. When I was teaching my 5th graders more about 9/11, I was able to bring a fellow teacher in who was there when it happened. We also read a lot about the tragic losses from lingering sicknesses still continuing today. I am grateful that you allowed us into this personal space with you. I send you love today.
I chose a Golden Shovel using a line from an article I read about Black deaths in war. One of my dearly departed uncles was a Tuskegee Airman, my dad fought in Vietnam, and I wish I had known the importance of getting their stories when they were alive. This poem is for them and for the Black men and women still fighting America’s War!
My striking line is: Black Americans made up about 9 percent of the armed forces but represented 20 percent of combat-related deaths.
America’s War
Black courageous men on the front lines
Americans needed them in war. Red-Tails
made it possible to fight and look
up and rise to victories. No concerns
about disparities and inequities
9 percent were Black soldiers
of the entire military, and of
the deaths, 20 percent
armed men of color were
forces in flight to respect and honor.
Black veterans deserve protection, but
in justice, they are under-represented
Men and women are two times 20 percent
of the unhoused. They are over-represented victims of
incarceration, a combat-related
systemic plan to destroy Black joy and increase Black deaths.
© Stacey L. Joy, 9/22/24
Ooops, I forgot to attach my image.
Powerful poem, Stacey. True and powerful. “Two times 20 percent of the unhoused” hits like a backhanded fist. All these facts are people are Americans who should be protected. Thank you for this poem.
Stacey–wow. just wow. The statistics say so much, but your poem gives them life. Wow.
Thank you, Stacey. You point out the losses that continue to mount as a result of the sicknesses of people who responded after the attack, that’s a continuing legacy, unfortunately.
I love your choice of a Golden Shovel—coincidentally, I got to meet Terrance Hayes this week at the Furious Flower Poetry Conference!
Your poem is so powerful—and exposes what is a dirty secret. I can’t help but read “in justice, they are under-represented” as “injustice”. Thank you and your family for their service.
Wow, how awesome to meet Terrance Hayes! I am sure I would’ve been fan girling and giddy! Such an inspiration. Thank you, Dave.
Powerful poem. I love how you transformed the data into real people who are “under-represented” and “victims.” You help us to see the truth.
Stacey,
This golden shovel is a fantastic approach to claim and evidence with the powerful aesthetic in black and white and bold. A call to action in “Black veterans deserve protection” and the need for “systemic plan to” illuminate Black joy in instead of destroy. Wow.
Thank you for this,
Sarah
Stacey, I love this! Your golden shovel sparkles today, friend! What a beautiful way to shift from beginning to end, too. I have been to the Tuskegee Institute in Alabama where the airmen were. It was fascinating to me to see those places, including the tree outside the chapel of the George Washington Carver office. You can feel the presence of so many right there, their legacies still lingering in the breeze, their footprints still in the grass, their words whispering in the leaves of the trees. It’s spiritual. I know you are proud of your uncle. He would be so pleased with your poem today – – smiling big!!
Stacey, your poem is one that needs to be shared with as many audiences as possible. Your poem hurts my heart with its truth and the reality it shares. We need to do better, and I agree that there is a systemic plan to destroy “Black joy and increase Black deaths”. Magnificently constructed poem full of a history we need to eradicate. Thanks for sharing these striking details through your incredible poetry with us today!
Stacey, good to see ways you encourage your students to see the truth and decide to something about. The fact that you, someone they respect, is memorializing family members encourages them to do the same.
Knowing the truth is one thing. Doing something positive with that truth is a better thing. Keep up the good work. Teaching, memorializing, AND inspiring social action to reduce the difference in the number of those who serve and who are served.
Dave,
thank you for sharing these beautiful poems and the story of your Dad.
hits hard.
Love the reminder of how stubborn hope is.
Your call to reflection gave me a chance to sit with some thoughts that Maureen’s prompt had stirred up.
September
the month passes quickly
the early weeks of learning names—
and needs
building traditions
rebuilding my stamina and patience
this year, colleagues of my generation
are already frustrated—
things didn’t used to be this way
those of the younger generation
are already talking at lunch
of quitting
too much pressure
too much work
outside of the work day
and, of course, too little pay
on the 5th and the 18th
I pause
to remember my grandmothers
on the days of their birth
both women of faith and love
I shake off my colleagues’ concerns—
valid but not necessarily central
I think of the 162 young leaders
I can
teach
and
learn
and
laugh
with
We need your support, Sharon. I keep hearing of colleges and universities closing their education departments because of lack of interest. Lack of interest? We are surely in a sad state of affairs. Thank you for all you do to support your young leaders.
Hi Joanne,
my poem’s a bit ambiguous, but the 162 young leaders I’m referring to are 7th graders. It does make me sad that it is hard to attract and keep young teachers. Many tell me that it is not a sustainable career. I’ll do what I can to support and encourage the young ones that I work with.
Sharon–your students are so lucky to have the hope you offer them–especially the laughter. They will remember you and what you taught them, but the will remember the laughter with the greatest appreciation. And I loved your line–valid, but not central–a great way to deal with the realities of teaching.
Sharon,
Thank you for this poem and thank you for your dedication to teaching. In my new role, I’m teaching prospective new teachers. I’m really heartened by their optimism and their enthusiasm for the work. I hope that they get the support and respect that they deserve.
Your poem speaks to resilience in the face of mounting challenges and the strength that we can call upon from our ancestors at these moments.
Dave, my heart is happy and heavy all at once today – in your unique roots in hip hop and poetry, I take great joy in knowing that the beat goes on even after the tragedy in your family – – and I know your dad is smiling down, proudly, from brighter towers, still with you as you live and work and play – cheering you on as you invest in the writing lives of others. Thank you for this prompt. I need more mirrors in my life to show me the things I need to see.
Mirrors
mirrors
of life
in art
Picasso
exhibit
in Nashville
with my
daughter
we sat
admiring
wondering
taking it
all in
then my
birthday~
she sent
blank journals
with
Picasso art
covers
fronts and backs
mirrors
mirrors
of life
these words
conversations
with Fran
we chatted
on writing
on family
on pens
and pencils
then a
Ticonderoga
Noir
Holographic
Hexagon
flat sections
mirrors
Kim,
This is a brilliant piece! I want a journal like that with Picasso on the covers! Did your daughter make them? I’m sure that warmed that writer’s heart of yours! There is nothing better than a Ticonderoga pencil, right?
Love this so much! Hope to see you on Zoom later today.
Kim, I love this skinny poem. It takes us down a straight path straight to reflection. I love the end stanza with pencil descriptions – it all comes back to writing or drawing in Picasso’s case.
Thank you Kim!
I love your poem. I’m raising an artistic kiddo, too. His favorite artist is Basquiat and we have many journals and device covers with Basquiat images around the house!
I hear the ways that we tell stories in your poem—the word and the image and the mirrors that they provide. And even in your description of the tools that poets and artists have in common.
Kim,
Fantastic poem.
I like how it combines the philosophy of art mirroring life, the plot and images of your relationship with your daughter and ends with a rather Cubist description of the simple but mighty pencil.
Well done.
Kim, I love how you show the power of togetherness and the way people connect through their experiences and gifts. I feel the wonder, the taking it all in and the beauty of art and mirrors.
Dave–I remember the day with such clarity. Your story, the poems you led us to, your poem–I read them with tears streaming. It was a beautiful day. And then it was not. I am so sorry for your loss.
I started to write a reflection poem–a before and after of our newest addition to our household, but it morphed into an English lesson. Here it is:
The Tale of Littlebit Sands:
An English Lesson
Exposition
Characters: Two verging-on-elderly people
(leaning upwards from the verging-on)
Three elderly cats–roles established,
routines well in place.
Lap-warmers,
window-dozers,
sunlight seekers
Two small, spoiled-dogs-
one oft-dozing elder,
one three-year old teenager,
all angst and energy.
Setting: An old house that knows its place.
The Inciting Incident
Frantic barking
at the ivy at our back door,
two small dogs in attack mode.
A bird? A squirrel?
Once in a while,
an unfortunate small being
is found is found sacrificed n the yard,
much to my dismay.
This small being,
whatever it is,
will NOT be a sacrifice.
I pull the dogs away.
Rising Action
A small gray blur
scuttles through the ivy,
hissing and spitting.
a handful of angry blue-gray kitten,
determined not to be a victim,
destined to be ours.
The Climax
Gloved for protection,
I pulled her from the ivy,
16 ounces of indignation
claws out, ready to defend.
Falling Action
What else could we do
with this small bundle of fury?
The kitten stork had delivered her.
Self sufficient,
self confident,
Fearless.
Ours.
The Resolution
Two verging-on-elderly people
Three elderly cats–
routines uprooted, seeking solitude,
requesting respite
One oft-dozing elderly dachshund,
enticed into occasional play,
with a tail that asks for attack.
One three-year old teenager,
now a willing sparring partner,
corner-careener,
trouble seeker.
And one new resident
named Littlebit,
Cat-toys underfoot everywhere,
objects apparently begging to be
knocked over.
No sacred spaces.
And so much joy.
A household that knows now
what it had been missing.
Gayle Sands
9-22-24
Here she is…
Littlebit – sweet cat. I love this creative piece. You grabbed my attention with the characters and carried me all the way through rising action – climax – resolution. Such a great way to tell a story through poetry! Thank you.
Gayle, Littlebit is adorable (as is her name). You are such a beautiful writer, always. I love the unfolding of this story, the corner-careener, the 16 ounces of indignation, the uprootedness of all of you. You’ve managed to give us all the important bits in so few words. (I think I need to borrow this form to teach storytelling to students. I’m going to call it the Sands).
😄
Gayle,
Thank you!
I’m with Jennifer on this one, the form that you use is so creative and sets this up as a whimsical play in 5 acts. I love the character descriptions that you begin and end with and the way that you describe the kitten as a “handful of angry”!
Dave, your prompt offers so many possibilities. That clear blue day is forever embedded into my mind as we watched and listened to the tragedies that unfolded upon themselves. I am drawn to the clouds (first man-made and rising from the ground, then gray clouds dropping rain to water hope). Such a powerful and searing symbol. Please know how much your father’s service as a firefighter means. I am incredibly sorry for what that day took from you.
Mirror, Mirror
In
childhood
I once gazed,
fascinated,
at my reflection.
Who’s the fairest?
the glass seemed to ask,
reflecting the ever-shifting
preferences of a world
made of fairytales,
spinners of straw into gold.
The answers eluded me,
the breadcrumbs long gone
with the striking of midnight.
I spent too long gazing
at myself
to ever find myself
or the self that might have been
had I once gone
through the looking glass.
Jennifer–what a beautiful poem of longing. loss, and possibilities…
“or the self that might have been
had I once gone
through the looking glass.
Jennifer – this is just so beautiful. I love the word play – straw into gold, breadcrumbs, striking midnight. And the ending is pure perfection – had I once gone through the looking glass. Thank you.
The allusion to fairytales is so strong here that it evokes for me that uncertainty I felt as a young girl. Who am I? Who do I want to be?
Jennifer,
This is a wonderful reflection. I love how you use the language of the fairy tale to evoke loss (and some regret!) as a mirror to your childhood self.
I love how you intermingle phrasing from those fairytales that helped shape our view of the world.…and of oursleves and love and relationships. These lines…
will stick with me!
Jennifer, I savor your every allusion here to the fairytale world. I loved all of these stories as a child. These lines struck me so:
I spent too long gazing
at myself
to ever find myself
or the self that might have been…
Honestly, they blow me away with their truth. Reminds me, in a curious way, of Robert Browning’s “To a Louse,” with the (paraphrased) reflection: “If only we could see ourselves the way others see us.” In a word – yikes. Is our vision of self so distorted? In another word – possibility. All too often we just cannot see it in ourselves. So many ways to take this line of thinking, on this side of the looking-glass alone, not to mention the other!
Ack. Robert BURNS*
Dave,
Thanks for this great prompt. I love “Facing It,” and having a dad who was a Vietnam Vet always meant that this poem touched my heart when I read it. I’d never read his 9/11 poem, and I’m now planning on incorporating it — and yours — into my 2-day 9/11 lesson for AP Langers next year. I loved your poem and am so sorry about your dad.
Mother/Child
Misunderstanding Misunderstood
Fail to stick the landing She doesn’t think I’m good
Verbal gyrations Always accusing
Soul abrasion Ego reducing
Shades of gray White and black
Heart betrayed Insight lacked
Listen to me Hear me out
Harsh decrees River of doubt
Learn from my experience Baby steps: victorious
Hear my voice and take my heed Increasingly, I yield the need
I learn to live to let her go. I learn, resistant: Take it slow.
my formatting above got messed up. Here how it’s really supposed to read. 🙂
If this isn’t a tale of motherhood…it is so difficult to let them go. And yet we must.
I love the two voices you created hear, and definitely can relate. I think your high school students would love to write this type of poem. I’m sure they will have a lot to say!
Wendy,
First of all, your poem is so good. The formatting calls to the reader to read it both down and across which changes and deepens the meaning. The two voices really capture the inner monologue that a mother and her child have (as a dad, I relate, lol).
I don’t know if you know Komunyaaka’s Vietnam collection Dien Cai Dau, but it is amazing. Thank your family for your service.
Even before I saw the image, I could tell what you were doing. And it’s genius!
Dave, thank you for sharing what must be a tragically hard thing for you. I appreciated the structure and how you have found hope. These days I am facing my mother’s Alzheimer’s and yet she still feels love and smiles and laughs. I’ve tried the yes, no structure.
Yes,
her eyes are blue
like the topaz I wear. Yes,
naked dolls rest under quilts
that still smell of her perfume
she has forgotten to wear. Yes,
she knows me, loves me still,
startled awake by the sound of my voice.
Yes there is a glimmer
of the mother she was, listening
at the kitchen table as we watched
a heron fly over the lake,
talking about my day.
No,
brain disease is not my fault. No,
I can’t fix this, can’t be her oldest daughter
reliable, responsible.
No, this is not my fault. She’s not fighting,
blaming me. No one can know her thoughts,
but I know she’s not mine anymore.
No, I don’t know who to tell
about my day.
Margaret, I can feel the weight of responsibility, especially in your No stanza. There is strength there, in that small word. But therein lies the weight. I love that your Yes stanza lifts and fills with light (glimmers, topaz, love), sitting on top of the no’s, floating like the heron over the lake. I hope that you can find comfort in the yes’s. This offered a glimpse of hope that I don’t usually associate with Alzheimer’s and all the scariness that it evokes.
stunningly beautiful and real. Keep writing your grief out. I can relate even though this isn’t my mother.
Oh Margaret, I know this so well. It is so very painful to watch and have no control over. Please be gentle with yourself. Give yourself permission to cry – to pause for a cup of tea – to tell about your day through your poetry. We are listening.
Margaret – I have been wanting to tell you that I am holding you in my heart, having recently read of the progression of your mother’s disease. I am slow these days. Having cleared the hurdle of my son’s wedding, I am hoping to get back on track. Now. This poem cuts to the core. Every single image is sharp, from your mother’s topaz-blue eyes to the “glimmer of the mother she was” and of course, of course, the heron. I look for the heron myself, every day, and am often rewarded. Solitary creature…perfect symbol to lead into the second stanza, feeling alone, even struggling with tendency to self-blame when we cannot “fix” (why do we daughters do so, even as we know disease or – in my case, a mother’s mental illness – is robbing us?) Those ending lines say it all – the profound sense of loss, even while one’s mother still lives. Again – I hold you in my heart, friend.
Dave, thank you for your words. The Yes, No mirror was so effective in portraying the day for you – and all of us. Your words reminded me of the last days in the hospital as my husband lay dying. I recall life continuing on outside while the world seemed to stop inside.
Out there
the world turns
like every other day,
cars traveling across
the bridge as people move
with purpose to be the best,
clanging,honking and beeping away
In here
the world stopped.
A life lay still and quiet
loved ones gather around the bed
holding hands, feet, even their breath
sounds of beeping machines fill the silence,
until suddenly all is quiet and life slips away
I have not lost my husband, but I remember this feeling when my father died. How could life go on, cars clanging, honking…? The beeping machines silent is a visceral feeling. Thanks for sharing this pain with us.
Christine, there could be no more startling contrast than that between life and death. The image of your husband with loved ones gathered, holding whatever was closest (even their breath – oh, oh) as the sounds and life slip away captures the immensity of our love and loss. Your placement of “away” at the end of each moment emphasizes that loss. Even with all of the life-filled energy in the first stanza, the beeping away reminds me that we take it for granted. Beautiful. Heart-wrenching. Hugs to you.
Christine,
Your poem so aptly captures the dissonance of the world continuing around us despite our loss and grief.
I found these lines especially beautiful:
Thank you for sharing.
Peace
Christine – this is so piercing. It brings back the long days I spent in the hospital not knowing if my own husband would survive cardiac arrest and emergency surgery. Days when I didn’t even see outside to know the weather. Time does stop and the world does shrink to that one space… a parallel universe. I find myself holding my breath again, too, reading this verse and living these moments beside you.
Dave, I have so many thoughts. First, congratulations on your new work. It’s so important that those that can work with our college students do. I don’t imagine the transition to higher ed is easy. But, I’m awfully glad you are doing it. Thank you. And, I’m so appreciative of your Dad’s service. What a tough day September 11th is for so many of us that I don’t realize. Thank you for your mirror poem. It’s beautiful and shows how more than one reality can sit beside another. The work of ‘clouds’ in your poem is significant…they do some heavy lifting that I’m taking a lesson from.
I don’t have a poem to share because I ended up writing a couple of pages of what turned into a love letter to a grandmother. I think someday it will turn into a poem. For now, it’s a pool of love and gratitude for a woman I miss very much. Thank you for prompting that.
Dave, I find myself lingering long over your lines and Komunyakaa’s. The mirror approach works so incredibly well – like a camera, almost, filtering through different lenses to find meaning, which is our deepest desire in life. Thank you for all of this – know that I will return here to savor and re-savor. My “mirror” isn’t quite a balanced reflection (less lines in first part) but here’s where I am at the moment.
After the Wedding
Yes,
it’s incongruous
that hummingbirds should represent
love, joy, peace, and healing
when their reality
is such a desperate
and fiercely-focused fight
to stay alive
every single second
of their short lives
No,
that is not the image
I want for you, my son,
although you loved
these tiny iridescent creatures
when you were a little boy…
this mattered
so ridiculously much
to me that on the morning
of your wedding, amid all
the frenzied preparations,
I stopped to refill the feeder
for the one precious female
that remains
when all the others have flown
and that I find myself
sitting alone in the darkness
and stillness of the next morning
thinking of all
the sweet, sparkling splendor
of yesterday, the last of summer
while I wait for the sun
to shine anew
maybe bringing revelation
on wings of love, joy, peace
and healing
all that I have prayed for you
your whole life long…
guess what, she’s here
in the pink light
on this first day of autumn
tiny silvery presence
coming to my window
like a wondrously determined
blessing.
P.S. Dave – I meant to tell you much I love your ending lines on hope being stubborn, growing like a weed. I find such truth in it. Sometimes we don’t even feel we candle handle hope growing again – but it is going to try, in every crack of the broken heart.
can* handle
“Like a wonderously determined blessing” What a great description of these fleeting beauties! Thank you Fran!
Fran, I read your blog post about this female hummingbird. I love how you’ve woven her into your hope for your son and his new life. Yesterday we played with an oracle deck and my granddaughter picked the hummingbird which symbolized “infinite joy.” Such a perfect image for her because she is fierce as well as pure joy.
Fran, a “wondrously determined blessing” indeed, as are so many blessings – light-filled, small, fighting to hang in there. I see you as the blessing within your words: continuing to feed the last remaining hummingbird (despite the frenzy of the day), finding the love and strength in these small, remarkable creatures, sharing the “love, joy, peace” strengthened through prayer and hope for/with your son, offering us this glimpse, this beautiful glimpse, to start our day.
Fran – I love this poem. I think that birds are God’s little angels on Earth. I watch them intently. Your love shines through to your son – love, joy, peace and healing – all that I have prayed for you your whole life long. Such a beautiful gift to give your son – a hummingbird.
Fran, how beautiful! I have been wondering about the wedding day and what sweet moments happened – – I know there were many seen by all, but through. the eyes of a poet mother there are miracles everywhere, and precious things no one else sees. I can’t wait to hear more! For today, the pause of the hummingbird feeding and the wonderfully determined blessing warm my heart for your family. Congratulations on the newest Haley.
This was a great prompt. Thank you Dave for allowing me to sit quietly and thing this morning about remembering. I wrote Simple poem about reminiscing – thinking of my grandparents, my dad, and other close to me that I have lost. And how while looking in the mirror their physical details seem to change.
How can I remember you?
Is this what reminiscing is like?
As over time the images,
Become scuffed and rotted on the mirror?
Your voice muffled as though I am wearing earplugs.
Straining to hear the cadence,
of your speech.
Is that what you sounded like?
What color were your eyes?
What did your laugh sound like?
Physical attributes,
solid parts of you.
I tell myself I will never forget,
but find myself struggling to summon up details.
I hate that memories fade,
melting into my history,
mixing into other events,
people, and objects.
Until I am not sure that it is even me in the mirror looking back.
Mona, how perfectly you capture the desperate need to remember alongside the imperfection of memory – so many lines resonate with me. The sound of the voice, the eyes, the precious details of someone so loved and lost, and how we change. Beautiful ending image, contemplating one’s own image in the mirror, as change (and loss) are inevitable in life.
Your words capture my fears of all the memories fading away and forgetting the details that meant so much to me. I was so moved by these words
This poem really hits home with me as memories fade. I, too, hate that this happens and why are we always surprised by it. The older I get, I forget more and more details. I recently read a memoir and was taken by the details. Did the author really remember every single one?
Wow Mona, your poem perfectly captures the feeling of reaching for memories; the feeling of reaching back and grabbing at uncertainty, the questions that it puts into your mind as the details melt and mix.
Powerful poem, Mona. The list of questions is so effective. And yes the ending – I know well – Until I am not sure that it is even me in the mirror lookin back. This life requires sturdy travelers for sure.
Dave, I love how your reflective poem brings hope and darkness together so starkly. It rings of truth to me. I’ve opted for a palindrome poem, a style that was brought to my attention by my cooperating (mentor) teacher last semester. It really resonated with our classes. Running it back the other way renders a totally different but completely related meaning. The stanzas reassure one another but remind me of the importance of looking twice at what might otherwise be missed?
Crooked curtains
Flows softly into the room
Walls a shocking gummy orange
Tempered by a flickering lamp
The power browning out
Freshly constructed furniture
Wood sanded and stained
A bike, all angles, sits in the corner of the room
Any softness transformed into utility
And hard, unyielding cement
The room uneven but secure
The room uneven but secure
And hard, unyielding cement
Any softness transformed into utility
A bike, all angles, sits in the corner of the room
Wood sanded and stained
Freshly constructed furniture
The power browning out
Tempered by a flickering lamp
Walls a shocking gummy orange
Flows softly into the room
Crooked curtains
Helena, I absolutely love palindrome poems. I know how hard it is to keep the flow working both ways. I find myself in the very midst of this room, noticing tiny details – I think about how we notice strange details at significant moments in our lives. “Any softness transformed into utility” really strikes. You may know of this palindrome poem, The Lost Generation – I have shared it often for the way the meaning changes so dramatically when read backwards.
Marilyn Singer perfected this poem form. Do you know her work? “Mirror, Mirror”? Wonderful children’s poetry books. Your poem paints a specific image and feeling.
Helena,
Thanks for introducing me to this form. Perfect for the prompt! Your language in this—unyeilding, shocking, crooked, all angles— is really decentering. And the form echoes the feeling of uncertainty and lends a certain spookiness to this.
Thanks, Dave, for the prompt, and for your family story. Your poem honors memory, in that way only poems can.
Kevin
Upon reflection,
I wonder if my words
got angled, tangled up
in emotion and syntax,
the facts of what I was saying
obscured, for surely,
if I had been clear enough,
if I had been passionate enough,
if I had whispered loud enough,
with passion, in a fashion,
he might have listened;
instead, he just upped
and walked away
Kevin – This is brilliant and painfully honest. The disturbed water image in the poem reprinted was amazing, itself a startling metaphor. That image of [he] just walking away is, ironically, clear as a bell in my own experiences. You’ve effectively captured the dance between one side of the mirror and the fuzzy reflective powers as we process a poignant moment. Thank you for a fine piem this morning. Susie
This is so effective. Reminds me of my stubborn daughters when they were teenagers. “upped and walked away” has such voice!
Kevin,
Thank you for getting everyone started this morning. I love the image of the angled words—and the internal rhyme and extension of the image with “tangled”. I was in a poetry workshop this week and one of the poets spoke about the pull to end a poem happily, like a neatly wrapped up story. You poem carries so much power because you leave us unsettled and unresolved. Such a good poem!
Dave, if you loop back here, check out my blog post. I think you might find it interesting (or so I hope).
https://dogtrax.edublogs.org/2024/09/22/open-write-upon-reflection/
I used the Google Notebook LM to examine my poem, in relation to your prompt today, and it generated an AI Podcast analysis that is fascinating, as the “podcast hosts” move from your poem, my poem and Komunyakaa’s in really insightul ways. (The podcast is 11 minutes long!)
Kevin
Kevin,
thanks for sharing both your poem and AI generated podcast.
I like the word play of
and the parallelism of
This is my first introduction to Google Notebook LM. I’m impressed with the AI’s simulation of the rhythm and enthusiasm of podcasters voices. The literary analysis is pretty good too. Like most things AI, I’m intrigued and wonder how I could use it in the classroom.
The AI element both fascinates me and sends up alarm bells. The pace of things getting better (those voices, with emotional range and human tics) is quickening. The only thing to do is keep playing, exploring, reflecting on the experiences.
Kevin
We are on the same wavelength today! You expressed your pain so eloquently. The lines are tight and flow into each other until the jarring end. Your Word Are PERFECT!
Kevin, I love the graphic that mirrors your poem so perfectly. And thanks for trying the “podcast” feature and sharing with us your results. I’m gonna have to give that a try. I played with Notebook LM a little bit last year, but I haven’t tried this yet!