October’s writing inspirations come from Andy Schoenborn. Andy is a teacher at Mt. Pleasant High School in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan. As a past president of the MCTE and an NWP teacher consultant for the Chippewa River Writing Project, he has over 90 professional development contact hours and continues to facilitate learning locally and nationally. Subscribe to Andy’s newsletter and follow him on Twitter@aschoenborn.
Inspiration
In her work, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within, Natalie Goldberg reminds writers that “sometimes a simple idea, such as the idea of leaving, can inspire profound writing” (p. 27). Let’s try tackling the emotion that can bubble up from the idea of leaving.
Process
- Think of something that has emotion for you,
- use your words to paint the picture,
- and allow your reader to experience the same emotion that you felt.
- Try on a modified poem for two voices.
Sample poem: “But Will They Love You?” – Andy Schoenborn
When I was thirty-four he said, “I’m leaving.” His lips spoke the words, his eyes the truth. He looked at me through knowing brown eyes; his naturally curly hair flounced on his brow and his lips spoke the words again: “I’m leaving.” His tone left me breathless. He turned around in his much-too-skinny way, hiked his blue jeans over his belly, furrowed his brow - and left. The infant who stopped crying minutes after birth stilled by the sound of my voice. The toddler who climbed sleepily into my mountainous bed. The boy dancer during soccer games: “Look at me...I’m winning.” The memories of that boy flooded my mind and careened out of my mouth: “Where are you going to go?” My voice created a pause in him like the moment of his birth. He instructed me: “I’m going to the neighbors. They’ll let me have candy and they’ll let me stay up late and they won’t feed me disgusting meat.” I replied: “All of this is true, but, son, will they love you?”
Your Turn
Scroll down to the comment section and write your poem. It need not be long nor follow the prompt but give it a try if you wish. Just write whatever is in your heart or on your mind in any form it takes. Then (or before), respond to at least three other writers using any of the sentence-stems offered below. Check back throughout the day to read the response to your writing (and smile).
The stoic, brokenhearted father
lifted Ace’s broken body
40 pounds
almost grown
onto the dropped tailgate
of the pickup.
The boy
80 pounds
not yet grown
climbed up beside her
petted her neck, her flank.
What to do
what to do
unable to lift his loss
unable to lift our own
we gave him time with his dog
In the cooling garage.
When at last
past bedtime
I asked him to come inside
he climbed down from the pickup
like a tired old man.
And it was then I saw
the evidence
of the boy’s attempt to
deny the unyielding universe
to coax Ace
back to the living
by placing next to her bloodied mouth
four small pellets of dog food.
Allison—I have no words for this. In few words, you have distilled the loss of a beloved pet to is essence. From the stoic broken-hearted father to that last image of your son’s hope. Wow.
Oh, Allison — This poem has me in tears. This is a “leaving” that hits me so hard that it’s actually hard to breathe. I don’t know what it is about the role that dogs play in our lives, but losing this member of your family is gut wrenching. I think you’ve captured the feeling through the image of lifting the 40 pounds and the weight of your own son who’d “climbed up beside her” — those two beloved beings tethered by loving strokes pulled me right up onto the truck bed. The hope of a child, or any of us, that we might love another back to life (“coax”) just gave me a heaving chest in the final line. As my ol’ Watty lies here looking at me this morning, his near-blind eyes looking at me through his scruffy ol’ face, I am made twice sad knowing that he will be leaving me too soon. Your poem is beautifully written. The pacing of it was perfect. I am so sorry that you and your family lost Ace. Sending love, Susie
PS. I also am really glad I went back to yesterday’s posts to read the poems that I missed last night…too much late night stuff going on. I would’ve hated missing this one.
I’m not sure this qualifies as an emotion, but it sure is what I’m feeling lately!
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
No! Just five more minutes!
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Really, just five more.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Fine! I’ll get up!
What is wrong with me?
How can I possibly be so tired every day?
I watch the clock sluggishly tick off the minutes and hours
Yet my exhaustion stubbornly remains.
I don’t get my second wind
Not even a hint of a breeze.
I trudge on through the day,
Thinking about my couch
And how I will sink into it
At 4:30 for a quick and refreshing nap.
My friends say, “How do you manage to do it all?”
I think to myself, “Not well, obviously!”
Eat, grade, write, repeat.
Before I know it, I’m jerking myself awake at 10 p.m.
And stumbling into bed.
Maybe tonight that invigorating sleep will come
And I’ll awake,
Fresh as a daisy.
Mo—been there, done that! You’ve expressed the tired we all have at some point. I love the humor behind the exhaustion!
Mo — You’ve given me a “re-living” experience with your poem. This was my life for over 30 years…”eat, grade, write, repeat” until I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel normal again. The work you are doing as a teacher is, indeed, exhausting. What sits right beside the vivid honesty and truth in your images is the reality that you have brought an enormous energy to this poetry writing and responding. You have poetry inside you and down to your tired bones. For what it’s worth, daisies are overrated! LOL! You’re the orchid that lives a remarkable life underground and sends forth the majesty of a flower with the tiniest oz of water to bless its roots–and we are all struck by what unfolds. From one tired soul to another, Susie
Well, Susie, you just made this tired old girl’s day. Thank you from the bottom of my exhausted heart!
I Stayed to Leave
Before we married, you cheated . . . I stayed.
When my mother said we were from two different sides of the tracks . . . I stayed
. . . on your side
When I was pregnant and worked full-time with two part-time jobs . . . you stayed
. . . on the couch
When I was getting my Masters degree . . . I stayed
. . . in the books, you stayed
. . . unfaithful
When I received mail about your new son by another woman . . . I stayed
. . . faithful
When I had to work summer school . . . you stayed
. . . on the golf course
When fever took over me and I needed to go to the emergency room . . . you stayed
. . . home
When the kids and I wanted to go to Maui for vacation . . . you stayed
. . . home
. . . both times
When I asked you to help with the bills . . . you stayed
. . . broke
When you moved into the other bedroom because
we couldn’t sleep in the same bed anymore . . . I stayed
. . . calm
When you left for work the next day
I put a lock on my bedroom door so that you would stay
. . . out
You tried to stay after you received papers for divorce . . . I stayed
. . . in prayer
I stayed
. . . away from you and my home
Until you finally found somewhere else
. . . to stay
. . . forever
Leaving me
. . . grateful
Wow, Stacey. This is so raw and so emotional in its simplicity. Thanks for showing us the many sides of staying. I feel for you and all you’ve been through, but it really seems like you’ve come out on top. Thank you for sharing this with us!
Stacey, Your poems always invite me right into your life, into your heart. (The purpose of poetry?!) I love your title. Also how your repetition of “stayed” built a sense of strength as the poem progressed. You are awesome.
Stacey—the repetition, the resignation, and the building up of your strength are obvious. The simplicity of your words underscores the tough decision that you made. Congratulations on a strong poem and a tough choice.
Stacey – I’m sorry I didn’t get to this last night. I read it and thought, oh my god, this is a wrenching poem and an even more bone rattling reality that you’ve had. So, I waited till this morning to respond, so I hope you track back to this. You’ve set up each line artfully and used “leaving” and “staying” with a hammer hitting repetition that works so well. Through that rhythm of those truncated lines, you build strength with each of the stabbing threads in these experiences. By the final line, I am solidly in your court and rooting for you. There’s something quite auditory about this poem — when I read it out loud, it grows and gets me riled up till the punch of those short lines almost shout through gritted teeth. Dang, girl, you been though hell and back. I am so glad that your writing puts these threads down like a shroud that needed shedding… needed leaving. Susie
Most of the time when I travel abroad folks ask what I think of our current administration; then they share thoughts similar to my own. This has not been true in Germany. Several Germans, including my EF guide, have expressed gratitude to the USA for its role in freeing Germany from Hitler’s grip. I admire the way Germany owns and tells the truth about its history. I’m awed by the historical memory.
“Thank You for Coming”
Thank you for coming and
Bringing freedom to our country.
These simple words, this
One common phrase
We heard time and again
Thank you for coming
For liberating us from the
Monster with the little mustache,
For finding the Eagle’s Nest and
Setting our country free.
Thank you, America, for
Coming to Dachau where
You, our great redeemer,
Rescued thousands and
Did your best to free multitudes.
We thought you and we had done enough.
Yet Time, who loves to trick and beguile,
Leaves us watching, knowing Ideas once Dormant rise anew, Threatening to leave Us asking: How could we have forgotten? How could we let evil rule again?
—Glenda
Glenda,
Those last lines, which I felt were coming, really resonate with me as I think about how we neglect the Dormant, how we neglect the need to weed, to turn up the soil, to plant the seeds we need to treat Time.
Peace,
Sarah
Glenda, I was in Berlin last May with EF and felt the same sense of appreciation for the matter-of-fact truth of history. Interestingly, we had a bus driver and a tour guide who both told their stories: one from East Berlin, and one from West Berlin at the time of the wall. I loved hearing both perspectives! Your last line is simply prophetic: How could we let evil rule again? The Kool-Aid does strange things. And I think of Elie Weisel in his masterpiece Night, saying, “Never shall I forget……” Thank you for sharing this today.
Glenda, I really appreciate hearing this perspective, as it differs from my experience. When I was living in France and traveling in Germany 8 years ago, people there loved to talk politics, but really only current politics. I don’t think I ever had anyone bring up anything historical. Thanks for sharing!
Glenda — I’m glad I came back to yesterday’s pieces. I had to take off before I got to these yesterday. Your poem added new thoughts to our country’s image around the world. I’ve been very worried and still am. My favorite part of your poem is the reality of the final lines… “Time, who loves to trick and beguile…Threatening to leave Us asking: How could we have forgotten?” As we’ve abandoned the Kurds, in particular, leaving allies who’ve spilled blood side by side our own brothers, I am heartsick. In just a few lines you’ve captured how easy it is to change gratitude into chaotic cruelty. Let us not forget. Thank you for writing …. this dose of the image and partnerships we leave behind fits Andy’s theme on Wednesday just dandy. Safe travels! Susie
My grandmother lived a wonderful, independent life until she was 104 years old. Unfortunately, she lived until she was 106. My mother, at 91, is healthy but suffers from dementia. This poem did not start out quite so grim as it ended up. It is amazing how writing takes on a life of its own as you go…
Leaving
Women take a long time to leave in my family.
The road to the earthly exit ramp is often a century long,
so we know a lot about leaving.
First leavings are exhilarating.
At 20, you do not leave
so much as you move away or toward.
Leaving is a thrill when you are the one with the feet
and the world is full of new possibilities for leaving behind.
But when you’re not paying attention, leaving begins to pile up.
So many “last times”…
The last time you carry your child up the stairs to bed.
The last “mommy”.
The last time she asks you to comb her hair.
The door closing behind him as he drives himself to school.
You do not see small leavings until they became memories.
Small leavings create large holes that break your heart when you realize them.
Leavings blur as life gathers speed
College, marriage, career…
Life pulls people away
You become their past,
The stuff of nostalgia.
Old age eventually becomes a series of goodbyes
as friends take their leave–
some quick, some slow,
some in stages– mind first, body later.
Those are the hardest.
No matter how, you are left to carry on.
It would be nice to leave the party
Before the band stops playing,
to dance your way out the door,
Gaily waving goodbye en route to your final leaving.
Yes, that would be nice.
Oh geez, Gayle — this is fantastic! You have layered on the leavings in so many artistic ways. And you’ve paced those to fit the slower leavings and the faster ones. The very first line yanks me right in (women take a long time to leave in my family), and I am guided to absorb that leaving comes in so many different clothes the “pile up.” The “blur” and “stages” draws on my own introspections. I can visualize the son leaving (door closing behind him) and it pangs. But I really love the end images of wishing we could dance out the door and waving goodbye as if it had all been a lark. Dang, leaving is tough stuff. You’ve totally nailed this one. Thank you for working through this difficult topic…I feel instructed to pay attention. Susie
Gayle,
Wow! Wow! Wow! I love this poem. The women in my family take a long time to leave, too. It scares me a little. Superb repetition in “the last time.” So many lasts, so many leavings. Such an evocative poem. Then there’s the mental leaving while the body refuses to go. Superb.
It’s going to be hard to write through the tears! I loved your final verse – leaving before the band stops playing. The power in your piece starts immediately – women take a long time to leave… And the contrast between first leavings and the subsequent ones works beautifully. Thanks for this.
I need a tissue box over here now, Gayle! You packed a whopper with this one. All the goodbyes – – I never thought of it being something that women master so proficiently. This reminds me so much of that scene in Mamma Mia where the mom is singing the song “Slipping through my Fingers” (by Abba) to Sophie as she brushes her hair. The whole audience cries at this part. That’s how I felt reading your poem. My own mother left twice as well – Lewy Body Dementia with Parkinson’s. I so love your poem and thank you so much for sharing.
There are so many special yet painful leavings in our lives and you’ve captured them so beautifully. From our children leaving to our own leaving our bodies in death, if only we could embrace it in joy and acceptance.
“It would be nice to leave the party
Before the band stops playing, BRAVOOOO
I love your poem, Gayle.
LEAVING THE SEASON
Farewell, humidity and sweat-stained clothing
Good riddance dehydration
Lightning bugs and 10 pm twilight
Blood-tainting, killing mosquitos
Gnats infecting kombucha SCOBYs
Hornets biting and taking the privilege of the outdoor deck space
Fly swatters whipping without progress
Sand, grass, and water bottles litter the car
The scent of chlorine and dirt in welcome hugs
Hello four seasons, hello fall in West Michigan
Adios, fire season and droughts
See ya later festivals
Fireworks and friendly tourists
Slight change in congested traffic puzzles
An earthquaking fear of the big one
Coyotes stalking our pets and preventative power outages
Forecasts provide no progress
Sand, grass, and water bottles litter the car
The scent of chlorine and dirt in welcome hugs
Hello one season, hello every day in Southern California
Stefani,
Thank you for helping us remember, revisit, and generously depart the “good riddance” and the “dirt in welcome hugs” to think about season and every day.
Sarah
Stefani, from the start of your poem I was thinking wow she is really describing my life! I’m in California! And then you threw the curveball with Michigan! And then
“The scent of chlorine and dirt in welcome hugs
Hello one season, hello every day in Southern California” YESSS!!
This was so much fun to read and visualize. I have suffered most of the California struggles except the coyotes. KNOCK ON WOOD!
Loved it.
Stephani, I moved from California to Michigan, and while California has “better weather” having been born in Michigan, I found the sameness of California boring. We, too, had the nightly coyotes, but no pets, so we only heard them howling about the pets of our neighbors.
Unfortunately, we also experienced modest earthquakes, but also the devestating fire in 2003 when we lost 300 homes in our town of Scripps Ranch.
Your poem makes me compare/contrast and decide to be content because nowhere is fabulous unless we’re sharing that place with folks we love and love us.
WOULDN’T YOU JUST KNOW IT!
“It’s time to go for piano lesson.
Get your book. Get in the car. Let’s go.”
“I don’t want to go today. I’m going to run away.”
“But you asked for these lessons and from the start we agreed
You take for two years at least.”
“No, Mom, I don’t want to go. I have friends I want to see.”
“The rule in this house is we keep our commitments.”
“I don’t want to go. Can’t you see?”
“I’m getting in the car. Now go get your book.
You promised and you’re coming with me. And don’t give me that look!”
“Not today, Mom. Not today. I told you I’m running away.”
So, he got on out his lunch box and packed it tight with underwear.
And slipped the handle over the handle of his bike.
The lunch box fell off, the latch sprang open
His briefs took a hike when lifted and blown by the wind.
I sat it the car and watched. I wondered what he would do then.
Without looking around, he gathered his briefs stuffed them all back in.
He got on his bike that day, like he said. My son just rode away with a grin.
Thankfully it was just down the hill to a friend whose Mom called to say he was there.
My husband and I gave our son a few hours, then called and said, “Come home!”
My son whined, “If I come home, do I have still have go to my lesson?”
“No, son. Not today. You used your lesson time when you ran away.
But you must go next week. You made a promise that you must keep.”
“Okaaaayyyyy, Mom. I’ll be home soon. But I guess, I’ll look absurd!”
On that day long ago we all learned a lesson.
Both parents and sons keep their word!
And who has become a music teacher and still makes music today?
Yes, you’re exactly right. It’s the son who ran away.
Anna — I got such a chuckle reading this. You really captured all those parent admonitions…that mantra of keeping our commitments rings very familiar. But the whole story of it is delightful. We both learned lessons — yup… it’s quite a task, that parenting thing. I love that your kiddo grew up to be a music teacher. I’d be curious how he might write this poem. Might make a terrific companion piece. Thanks for sharing, Susie
I’ll ask him about that. 🙂 He also writes music. Maybe he’ll record a song with his lyrics describing this incident from his perspective. Hmmm. Could be interesting.
Anna,
I love how this poem is adding more voices to Andy’s story of leaving home. The dialogue is so technical in its construction that I am in awe of your craft and the voices here. And the perspective of parent and child resonate here with humor, with wisdom, with acceptance.
Sarah
Anna, what a neat verse of dialogue to tell your story. This makes me think of a children’s story book entitled First Day Jitters – – we never see the kid who won’t climb out of bed to go to school until the end……when we realize it’s the teacher who has the first day jitters. I love your son’s neat experience and the outcome of the music efforts!
LEAVING
An act of preservation,
decision, defiance, determination
not to end up,
instead, to rise up.
“College, you do that on your own,”
Dad had made that clear,
he was having none of it.
Colluding, Mama and I would find a way
for me to make it.
Grinding through freshman then sophomore
years at the local u,
walking, hitching to four part-time jobs
cleaning houses, selling license plates,
typing tests for profs,
running errands for the Dean,
I saved, studied, steadied, and readied;
at ninety-nine cents an hour and then the big bonus —
a buck and a quarter — it took two years.
Silently packed and my brother out front
with his too-young family and gassed up Belvedere,
I squeezed Mama till we both agreed to let go,
Dad distant in the doorway —
he hadn’t known of my leaving till that morning.
Joey, his bride and toddler, and I
rolled down the driveway and off to the interstate,
Mizzou two hours away.
No matter that I wasn’t registered;
the letter said I could pick courses on opening Tuesday.
No matter than I had no place to live;
I could sign up for a dorm on opening Sunday.
No matter that I had paid no tuition;
I could pay up on that same September Sunday.
One green, two-buckle suitcase and a cardboard box
with a thin plaid twin bedspread from Aunt Marie,
a pink towel with my name embroidered on it,
a homemade pink satin pillowcase from old Mrs. Cordelair —
I was geared, ready.
Negotiating lines in the old red brick gymnasium,
I signed for 15 junior hours,
slapped down my precious $270,
scooped up the Schedule of Courses,
and swallowed hard when that unfamiliar official face regretted,
“we are out of dorm rooms” and stood long staring at her,
losing my words
till she added, “but the Temporary Housing line is over there.”
Shifting queues, I finally turned with an address card in my hand:
“boarding house… edge of campus —
one twin bed… shared room… one night;
pay landlady $3.”
Emerging from the swarm of student bodies,
I eyed Joey and his family
waiting across the street, leaning against his car,
he’d forfeited his shot at school,
he understood this leaving.
Navigating the few blocks across campus,
Joey sidled his big finned Plymouth to the curb,
and we swung open the doors to unload me to the sidewalk
in front of a ramshackle 3-story frame,
a hive of students huddled on the front porch jabbering,
buzzing in and out, letting the front screen door thwap shut.
I reached out,
embracing my brother’s family
before they piled back in the car.
Joey leaned down, wrapped his arms around me,
whispered,
“You can do this,”
he knew
and at that moment
I knew.
by Susie Morice
A wonderful story. and, as always, your phrasing and word choice is elegant. “I squeezed Mama till we both agreed to let go, Dad distant in the doorway —
he hadn’t known of my leaving till that morning.” is painful in his loneliness and your love for your mom.
I relate to so much of this leaving, Susie, but it wasn’t my father who stood in the way. He wanted me to attend college. It was my stepmother. She refused to relinquish her tax refund so I could apply for financial aide. Her family intervened on my behalf. I, too, drove to college w/out a class schedule.
The list of all those things you did (waitressing, typing, etc.) make your leaving all the more real. I love the way Joey colluded, too, and the faith he showed in you that in turn gave you faith in yourself.
Susie, “I squeezed Mama til we both agreed to let go.” Wow! So much emotion there. This is an incredible testament to your determination. All of your details (thin bedspread, $3 boarding room bed) show us that determination especially in the face of the adversity from your father. You end this so powerfully with your brother’s loss of his shot and recognition – he knew that you knew. Another wow!
Sheer determination. I love the suitcase with a bedspread, a towel, and a pillowcase – – geared. It makes me think of the mission that minimalists have to pare down all of their earthly belongings to a shoebox filled with memories. That’s also a great way to begin – – without a lot of baggage weighing us down. Your story is filled with emotions. I feel not only determination, but also your father’s (maybe) fear, your brother’s regret and reassurance, your own doubt even in the face of determination. The hug goodbye is tender and heartfelt. I love the sound devices here:
in front of a ramshackle 3-story frame,
a hive of students huddled on the front porch jabbering,
buzzing in and out, letting the front screen door thwap shut.
Your poem is alive with feelings, with sounds, with hope for you – making your readers your cheerleaders who already know that your outcome was successful in your completion of college.
Thank you for this glimpse into your memory box!
Andy, what a clever way to reveal this son to us. I was certain it was a father leaving. My favorite line is “my voice created a pause in him like the moment of his birth.” The beauty of a newborn suddenly quieted by a parent’s voice. If only they’d grow up and still get quiet and listen to us. Lol! Thank you Andy! I’m looking forward to today’s writing. I have many moments of leaving and being left. Have to find the perfect one to share.
Andy, you brought tears to my eyes with “But will they love you?”. The entire poem is contained in that last line. Your love shines bright.
There’s nothing like a bright bouquet
of flowers on the kitchen table.
— But when cut from the earth,
they begin
to wilt and die.
The weather is changing,
the vase is saving these blooms.
— But for what,
life on a table trapped,
watching you eat your toast?
Change the water every 2 days
and Zinnias live for 24.
— But I am no Zinnia. I am a
Mexican shell flower
I grow from a bulb
reaching 24 inches tall
tri-petal blooms in vivid shades
a speckled pattern at the base
able to sway in
wide crescent bends
No! Maybe people will see
your shades and specks now,
but by night, your petals will close
never to open again.
Stay with us, we can keep you
alive.
— It’s the “keep” part
that I resist, not you,
my daughter. Come,
watch me live a day
my way in full sun.
You can bring your toast.
Sarah, my guilt hit on this line: — But for what,
life on a table trapped,
watching you eat your toast?
Then I felt relief and beautiful inside from: able to sway in
wide crescent bends… ahhhh the images!
Now I want some toast!
Thank you!
Sarah — This flower imagery is lovely and so poignant. The invitation to “come, watch me live a day my way in full sun./You can bring your toast” rings with voice and how we spend our time. I was smitten right off, as Is have a pitcher of spent zinnias on the kitchen table with beautiful ones still blooming full-on in the yard. When I went to tend drooping blooms and the pitcher, I’d found that the flowers had gulped down all the water, my having been neglectful. It gave me pause to deal with the “keep” word… I love what you did there… what we try to keep, when, in fact, there is no keeping a flower alive once we’ve cut it off at the knees. You have such a way with finding the depth in something seemingly simple. Wonderful. Thank you, Sarah! Susie
Sarah,
I love the metaphor in your poem, the subtle hint that it’s not a vase of flowers expected to watch but women who are often required to sit like lovely flowers and watch others do the work we can do better.
My favorite part:
— But for what,
life on a table trapped,
watching you eat your toast?
I love your reading of this. I struggled this morning as I wrote. I wanted to write about my father leaving us. He was sick and was living in filth. We made him come live with us, but he was fiercely independent, so we got him a senior apartment, one step below assisted living. He called it a prison. Declared he was too young and refused to live with the old people. He checked himself out and returned to his condo even though it was foreclosed. He said he wanted to live his way even if that meant he wouldn’t live long. He died just a month later. Rereading the poem, I see that the vase of flowers has layers of meaning and that it can represent women, even students who feel restricted.. Maybe I need another metaphor for my father.
Sarah, my favorite parts are
— But for what,
life on a table trapped,
watching you eat your toast?
It reminds me of a conversation that I had with my brother. He and I have always known that we will inherit the collections of two hoarders, but our conversation about having “things of value” held hostage in boxes where nobody ever enjoys them is so much like your trapped flowers watching the toast eater. I love that you brought a once-living and now terminal flower with a voice to the table to offer another perspective on things we “keep.” Powerful.
Come,
watch me live a day
my way in full sun.
You can bring your toast.
The idea that the flower can continue to thrive and enjoy life outdoors where we can also enjoy it makes floral arrangements indoors seem so illogical. I love how you twist our thinking on changing OUR position of enjoyment and not taking the flower’s life by changing its location. Genius.
But I am no zinnia! Such strength in this. We cannot keep those we love despite our best efforts. It’s the keeping that is tempting as we try to capture a perfect moment. Your metaphor delves deep. I responded with different emotions with each reading – the first time I thought it was referring to you. But then I read your response to Glenda and am so grateful to have had that information when I reread the piece. The second reading allows for the twist, much like we saw in Andy’s piece from our initial thought to our end surprise.
Sarah, how powerfully you employed the poetic extended metaphor that so successfully captures what it’s like to observe the slow passing of a loved one. And the closing lines,
— It’s the “keep” part
that I resist, not you,
remind us of those times it’s been difficult to let a loved one leave. We want to hold them, and they sometimes wonder “Why?”
Andy, this didn’t end in the direction I thought it was going. Which made me love it all the more! The snippets of the child, from baby to soccer game dancer and ending with the pause similar to at his birth – beautifully done! Thank you for capturing the love that parents have for every moment of their child’s life.
Do you think
I’m
Satisfied with your choice of
A
Pious widow who
Prides herself
On enabling her 3 bragging children and 11
perfect grandchildren?
I’m
Not
Thinking
Mom would
Ever have
Nodded yes
To this for you.
Oh, Kim, there’s some real sparks flying in this one. Disappointment indeed! I love the voice that chops hard with each short burst of a line. In so few words you have conveyed a heap of stuff. The words “enabling” and “pious” and “perfect” and “ever” and “prides” are utterly replete with tone. You have unleashed in a remarkably poignant way your own hurt in watching someone you love make what may well be painful choices…and yet, what can we do but watch…if only our moms could speak again, could “nod” in guidance. I’ve felt this as I’ve watched in my own life, cringing at turns that I knew couldn’t be undone…yet wishing they could. Relationships that shifted from bonded to broken with disappointment. When the emotion is so solidly embedded, like you’ve captured here, I can’t help but marvel at how powerful it lays out on the page. Well done! Thank you for sharing something so very close to your heart. Susie
Kim,
The direct address in this is so powerful. The capital letters for each line are fierce declarations, and the short lines add a staccato of emphasis that speaks volumes without lengthy utterances. Thank you for sharing this powerful rhetorical question and your declarative response, which makes me wonder if you have kept this to yourself or shared it in verbal or nonverbal ways.
Sarah
I also appreciate the brevity of each line and, like Sarah noticed, the capital letters which give voice to the emotion you are feeling. It feels short, tight, with tone punctuating each line. I can hear this being said aloud as I read it.
Your voice in this is strong and precise. The clipped lines, the “pious widow”. I can hear the last lines in my head. Beautiful.
That was a delightful twist, Andy! I love this. I enjoyed the roller coaster ride of thinking a spouse was leaving and then the humor at the end realizing that wasn’t the case. You have had a fun week of prompts. I look forward to reading all the emotions today.
Andy, I read your poem at first like Kim did, then enjoyed the turn as I saw the child appear. This made me think about how loss is loss, and we see it across a range of experiences. Loved this line: “My voice created a pause in him like the moment of his birth.”
Great prompts this week! Thank you!