Day 3, Inspiration
Receive. A verb. Gerund or past participle: receiving.
To be given, presented with, or paid (something). In this case, there is an implication of acceptance or collection.
To suffer, experience, or be subjected to (specified treatment). In this case, one is met with, encounters, experiences, undergoes– perhaps without asking for, wanting, seeking, accepting.
In light of day 1, thanks and day 2, giving, I would like us to think about receiving in the sense of being open to, welcoming in, holding space for (something) that we need, want, wish.
Process
To begin, I’d like to share an image from the New York Times that I have used in several writing workshops, which is wonderful for so many ideas. You may be wondering what this has to do with receiving. Well, imagine that the reason this person is not manipulating the cube physically is because if she did, the cube would open, and in it would be what she needs most in her life.
I ask you: If you touched that cube, if it could give you what you need most in your life right now, 1) what would that be– concrete or abstract– and 2) how would that change things for you?
By welcoming, accepting the idea of this in your life, you might just be manifesting it — or at least receiving it during the time you craft your poem today.
For the form, think about two stanzas: 1) a stanza of before you received what you manifested, and 2) a stanza after – of your receiving, of its impact on your being.
We again turn to Native American poets for inspiration this month. If you haven’t read anything by Sara Littlecrow-Russell, please receive “I Will Take Anyone to Bed (Poetically Speaking of Course).” I love this poem for so many reasons, but I use it as a mentor text in the way it beings with the past and then shifts to “tonight” and the present. Source: The Secret Powers of Naming (University of Arizona Press, 2006)
Sarah’s Poem
I have co-conspired with E.R
on ABAR for Voices.
I drank vanilla-lavender lattes
with J.T. translanguaging for Middle.
I traced lifelines of story
on benches with A.C. for EJ.
I have held headings hostage
and citation spacing vacant
with R.W. revising over and over
until dry eyes bled and
Zoom hips cramped
joy into labor.
Tonight, balm quenches
my eyes, gears unhinge
somatic spasms, an antidote
to anhedonia awakens
cheer
delight
gaiety
jubilance
merriment
bliss
And tonight’s kiss
tonight’s kiss is gonna be gooood…
Your Turn
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
I don’t want jewelry
I don’t want trips
or gifts wrapped with
bows. I don’t want
money. I don’t want
words, or actions.
I don’t want it.
I want all consuming,
happiness filled
with giggling, sometimes
tears, smiles, pain,
silence, noise.
I want company. I
want time. 5 minutes. 10?
Whatever you can give,
I will take.
What do we really need?
We always need a hug
Someone who can heal our fears
At least for a few seconds
We always need support
Someone that can cheer us up
At least once a month
But at the end of the day
what do we really need?
someone who can tell us
everything is going to be fine
Carolina, this is something I feel close. I’ve felt a hug like this before, it is a place I’ve always wished to stay. Beautiful words!
My body is a receptacle
Tension fills.
My Shoulders rise,
Hold tight with its overflow.
My body is a receptacle
Touch fills.
My shoulders lower,
Not rupture but release.
I am late sharing again, thanks to parent conferences and too many school requirements. I NEED NEXT WEEK’S TIME OFF!!
Sarah, thank you for another heart-warming poem and prompt. I regret that I’ve written my poem so late. It’s not good for me or my craft and tomorrow doesn’t look any better due to morning parent conferences BEFORE class. ho hummmmmmm.
My poem speaks to one of my incontrollable urges.
Seduction
They say:
It’s going to change your life
It’s revolutionary
It’s what we’ve been waiting for
It’s on backorder
It’s on your summer reading list
It’s the Oprah Book Club’s latest selection
I say:
Order from an independent seller
Buy Black, Recycle Black Dollars
Pay for shipping, it’s worth it
I’ll read it immediately
I’ll journal about it
I’ll use pink highlighter on special passages
I’ll be forever changed
The books (all 8 of them) arrive
I read a few because I’m captivated
I read a few because they feel “promisy”
I shelve a few because they’re special
I put a few on my desk, stacked for later
I highlight pages of unbelievable brilliance
I slide a fancy bookmark in one or two
I consume two or three like potato chips
I read, whether it’s today or 1,000 tomorrows later
I read.
Stacey – yes!!!! I connect to this feeling of anticipating books, of the need/thirst for them. I love the symmetry in your verses, the repetition is effective. “I consume two or three like potato chips” captures that book binge, craving feeling… I have the feeling of a kid sorting their Halloween candy in your second verse, planning how you’ll love and appreciate all the different books. As someone who just blew a small bonus from my retail job on books, I dig this.
I have sludged 14-minute miles
when I was ashamed to call it running.
I watched my heavy feet
slap the gravel.
I felt thick thighs resist
forward motion.
I logged miles
on days I didn’t have it in me
until Runkeeper clicked
to mile 3
or 4
or (on Sundays) 6
and gently patted
my sweaty back.
I used the trail
to keep me sane
through days of COVID’s
crippling stain.
Tonight, I see
my labor as my joy.
Each day this aging body
gives me gifts
of movement
motion
good ache
of muscles well used.
I know
tomorrow’s run
is gonna be hard
but also
goooood….
Allison, I really like these lines:
You’ve captured that runner’s high, that rush of gratitude and endorphins that push through the tough moments.
Allison, your poem is a lesson to me. I dragged myself out yesterday, after the lethargy of way too many days, and at least walked…but it’s my bike that I crave. I so want to feel that “good ache/of muscles well used.” I NEED your poem now. I’m glad I came back this morning to find it. I was worried that you weren’t here. So relieved that you are. Thank you, Susie
Allison, I am doggone proud and envious! What an amazing woman you are! I love:
I love that you saw this last night and not right before you run. Something extra valuable in night-time reflections of our treacherous days that has given me nothing short of frustration, and here you’ve shown me how to see it (whatever the struggle may be) as a labor of joy. I’m going to keep that in my heart. Thank you, sweet, strong, resilient Allison!
I am a mess
Dark circles, sallow skin craving Vitamin D
Short tempered and frustrated
Stumbling to the couch daily at 2:35
Falling asleep before I can even pull the blankie over my cold toes
At night I don’t have Restless Leg Syndrome,
I have Restless Mo Syndrome- waking to urgent thoughts that demand my attention NOW!
What I need is sleep
The sleep of innocents (innocence?)
I need to drift off, unperturbed by the day’s events
I need to let it all go
Understand that perfection is unattainable
But more than anything,
I need to wake up feeling refreshed rather than beat up
I revitalizing hope
Oops! The last line should be “I need revitalizing hope”
Mo—. ‘Restless Mo syndrome” made me laugh. And I love th play between innocents/innocence. And most of all, i understand, adn I hope you find that revitalizing hope. You deserve it!
Mo, I am confident you will soon be able to rest more peacefully. One of the powerful results of our writing in this group is that we can be honest. Being honest about ourselves reduces the weight we sometimes carry. You have two more days to write! All right? Then…total peace….we pray…okay?
I loved this so much. You yanked me in with “cold toes”!
Your cry for sleep (sleep that weaves up the raveled sleeve of care) is desperate.
I recently used EB White’s words on poetry to help my students understand why we sometimes turn to poetry to write about hard/difficult experiences:
“A poem compresses much in a small space and adds music, thus heightening its meaning.”
You have compressed your experience, then used your gift of music (poetry) to lift up its meaning.
Thank you.
Mo, I hope you find rest soon. I know the feeling. I am quick to be in bed before 9 and when I’m adventurous it’s 10! But between 1a.m. and 3 a.m. I am bound to awaken and feel like it’s time to get busy. WRONG! ALL WRONG!
You’re not alone, although it may feel like you are. Imagine the day when this is behind us and we can tell the stories. Oh, the stories. Let’s hope we see this new day soon.
Hugs!!
I connect to this poem right now! You describe that physical and mental state of wired exhaustion really well with the blank and the toes, the couch stumble, I am right there with you! I hope you got a good night’s sleep.
Oh oh, Mo, I know ye! We could’ve cloned this poem today… and way too many of all these days. I know, I know, I know these feelings. Especially do I feel that anxiety of “Restless Mo Syndrome” (Mo/Maureen = Mo/rice). And it was ten times worse when I was in the classroom… now it’s the democracy, the pandemic, the dog, the… I am feeling so much for you right now. Know that you are not alone in these nights. Hugs, Susie
The Wish Box
I need need need
to slow down
to forgive
to be forgiven
to breathe
to appreciate
to express gratitude
to share joy
Wait
I can do that
now, tonight, tomorrow
Inhale deeply and exhale longer
Mean “I’m so very sorry”
Remind “I’ll always love you and you can’t change that”
Say “Thank you”
Offer “You are a gift”
Smile with your eyes (especially these days)
As it turns out
I don’t need to open the box
or blow out the candles
or click my heels
I have what I need
I always have what I truly need
LIbby, our poems seem to start out in a similar way. I like your more positive spin at the end. I thought mine might go there, but it didn’t. I adore the images in your final stanza.
Libby—Your last stanza is perfect. Love the allusion, love the sentiment, and love the truth it holds!
Libby, your poem emits the positive vibes and truth we need to sense today. We are all we need. (Now Christians, because I believe the Scriptures that say we have the Holy Spirit with us all the time, when I say “all we need”, I’m saying we each come with our faith. We share it with one another. True, we come from different faith practices, so our wording may different. But that’s okay. ) That’s why I say with such confidence that Libby’s poem speaks truth to me. We, (with our faith) are all we need.)
I love the theme in this poem, Libby. Every day is a choice, but you capture it well. I like “I don’t need to open the box / or blow out the candles / or click my heels” because.your rejecting that outer magic for inner magic. Beauty!
Libby, I love the list of things to do you give us. It provides feelings we all feel, wanting to forgive, be forgiven, express emotions, to feel emotions. Love it.
Call Me Grammy
By Nancy White
“What’s this?” I asked, puzzled by the gift bag being extended to me by my 34 year old daughter
who was giggling.
“It’s your anniversary gift”, she replied with a sly smile
as my husband and I exchanged perplexed glances
because we don’t usually get an anniversary gift from anyone.
“Do we open it now?” I asked, still confused.
“Yes!” She nervously smiled at her husband.
We pulled out what felt like a 5 x 7 inch picture frame
and carefully unwrapped it from the white tissue that held it like a secret.
And there staring at us in black and white
was an ultrasound photo of…
OUR GRANDBABY!
I burst into tears. Happy/sad tears.
We had recently lost our only son
In a tragic hit and run and we were still reeling.
You see, I had held this space in my heart for a grandchild,
but wasn’t holding my breath.
Waited ten years and never nagged them.
I never wanted to be that annoying mom.
They had showed no interest in having a child
and I was convincing myself that was OK…it’s fine.
The space in my heart grew smaller each day.
And suddenly, in the sweetest of all surprises,
My heart-space grew to be the size of a big baby boy..
“I am a grandmother”, I thought.
“You can call me Grammy!”
Congratulations! I’ve gotten that gift before and it’s so special. I am now awaiting grandbaby number 3 and the excitement, the love never grows old. It’s the best gift in the world!
Nancy,
What a feel-good poem! I love the title and final line.
I’m so sorry for the tragic loss of your son.
I’m so glad that your “heart-space” has someone to fill it.
What a beautiful, unexpected treasure! Being a grandmother is such a gift. I’m so happy your heart held this space for your grandchild and for you to heal from your loss.
Congratulations! (I am in the waiting with my mouth shut mode myself, so I totally GET it!) love this!!
Hi, Grammy! Thanks for sharing your poem. We receive the joy in your poem with receptive hearts.
All I Need Today
I found what I needed this morning
at the bottom of the drawer
Where there’s two spare rubber bands and it smells like mints.
I blew a bit of dust off the top
Pulled the sticky hinges free.
Peering inside, I saw
Everything I needed!
A little extra rope
Spicy tea
A spare candle
A rip in the space-time continuum
And a square of Ritter Sport Hazelnut.
I tucked the box away for later, when I had a minute.
At the end of the day,
I found a quiet spot
I braided the rope til I remembered patience
Sipped the tea and my mind glowed sweetly like lightning bugs
I lit a candle and watched it bounce merrily as the wind whipped the windows
Hugged Dad from Maine
And shared a little chocolate with him.
oh, my…braided the rope until finding patience, mind glowing sweetly like lightning bugs…really beautiful language for the visit.
Oh, Em, this is so touching. The rooting through stuff to find the right touch to connect you with you dad. And the waiting between the first half and the last half… that made this so intentional and dear. So beautiful! Your relationship with your dad reminds me of my relationship with my mama. Hugs, Susie
Emily—every bit of this is perfection. I so wish I’d written this. I was digging in the desk drawer with ou, and loving the detritus you used to pull it all together. Love love love.
Emily, this is a treasure! I can see it all so vividly.
I especially loved:
Such a beautiful ending of a sweet poem!
Emily, your poem is beautiful, gentle, and peaceful. I love how you gathered all what you needed for your ritual and “I tucked the box away for later, when I had a minute.” I can feel you looking forward to having a quiet moment to think of your father. I especially liked the lines, “Sipped the tea and my mind glowed sweetly like lightning bug”, “Hugged Dad from Maine”, and “And shared a little chocolate with him.”
Emily, my favorite line in your poem is “I lit a candle and watched in bounce merrily as the wind whipped the window.” Beautiful language.
ELA 5 Day Write
A communion of
Poets, sharing journeys of
Sorrow, Joy, Pain
Creating friendships
Supporting, inspiring all
To share treasured gifts
Barb Edler
November 16, 2020
?
Barb, you’ve captured what we each wait to receive each month in this community.
Short and to the point, with such a lovely message! Love the image of “A communion of Poets…” Thank you!
Truth – plain and simple!
Barb- The perfect definition for who we are here. I love this community! Hugs, Susie
Barb, yessss! This is who we are and what we do! How brilliant! Love it.
Barb, your poem is inspiring. I especially like “A communion of poets.” So beautiful, I love it!
I sat alongside you
in mask and face shield
your last three weeks
holding and stroking your hand
listening to the playlist
I made for you
on the long car drive to your bedside
I sat alongside you
whispering love and comfort
reminding of our childhood antics
reassuring you of this life well lived
imagining Mom, Grandpa, Ed
waiting on the other side
I sat alongside you
in the nursing home
in this pandemic
thankful for this precious time together
I asked you
is there more?
how might you let me know?
come back to me somehow?
would you try?
will there be a sign?
I sit now
waiting to receive.
Moon or sun?
Wind or rain?
Bird or butterfly?
Fallen tree on the forest path?
you
alongside
me
Maureen, oh my gosh, I totally love your poem. I can feel your desire for that sign. What a wonderful gift you gave in being there for your beloved (grandmother?). The beauty of the end is heart-wrenching, and your final three words are so powerful! Tears! I hope you receive your sign!!! Hugs!
My father died. Thank you for this!
Maureen, thanks for your note. I’m so sorry for your loss!
Maureen,
Your words are so ethereal, and I know cathartic for you. Your poem is a lovely companion to Susie’s. There’s an inherent peacefulness to this time w/ your father, and to the waiting. Sending love and light to you.
Maureen—You alongside me. Beauty and love. Your soft, loving poem for your grandmother touched me. So glad you could be there for her—and for you.
This one got me “right in the feels” as the kids would say. I really connected with your last two stanzas, and that hope/wish for a sign, a connection. Really beautifully done.
Oh, Maureen – losing your dad .. and now during these crappy Covid months is just a heartbreaker. The gentle holding of his hand was the most poignant image. The questions in the last half are very real as we make sense of the loss. The sense that loss feels final but our hearts carry so much more. Those signs sneak up in us. It always surprises me, and I kinda like that. I sure am sorry you had this loss during this crummy isolating time. Hugs, Susie
Maureen, my heart is breaking. I know what loss is and the waiting to receive a sign. “ I sit now
waiting to receive.
Moon or sun?
Wind or rain?
Bird or butterfly?
Fallen tree on the forest path?”
This struck a deep chord in me. Signs do come along the way; I think you will see them. Blessings and peace to you!
Whew, Maureen, this is a powerful poem. I feel so many emotions in the first stanza that reminded me of the end of days with my loved ones. But your second stanza is magical and special because it calls for supernatural power. It can happen. I believe. Thank you for sharing such an intimate time with us.
Maureen, such beauty, power, and, emotion in your poem. I relate to your words because I lost my mother a little over a year ago. I remember waiting for signs. I love your whole poem, but “Moon or sun? Wind or rain? Bird or butterfly?
Fallen tree on the forest path? you alongside me” goes right to my heart. Wow.
Maureen, I also want to say I am sorry for the loss of your father. I also want to say thank you for your sharing healing poem.
Sarah,
You sure are presenting us with dynamite inspirations.
I’ve toiled with writing about receiving forgiveness all day and I can’t even pretend to accept it in a poem. 🙂
understanding forgiveness
harsh words
broken promises
inconsiderate acts
sins, venial and mortal . . .
shrouding me
like a too-heavy
jacket on a warm day
the weight
uncomfortable
but shedding
it just doesn’t
seem right.
the “I’m sorry” or
“Please forgive me” or
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned”
said with true contrition
followed by
“That’s okay” or
“Don’t worry about it” or
“My child, say three Hail Marys”
forgiveness
grace
absolution
needed and wanted
but feeling undeserving.
someone can
grant me any of those things
but I struggle to accept,
to receive.
and what I really want
is understanding
anyway.
~Susan Ahlbrand
16 November 2020
Susan, wow, what an incredibly powerful poem. Your words are straight forth, honest, and raw. The uncomfortable feelings you share come across vividly I can relate to feeling undeserving, and the struggle to find a way to even forgive one’s self at times. Your final stanza says it all as sometimes it takes a lot for others to understand, and if they could, I believe, it would lead to empathy and a deeper understanding. Thanks for sharing such an honest reflection of how important it is to be understood and the fact that forgiveness can be difficult to give as well as to receive.
This poem is raw and clear, you can ‘feel’ the pain you are holding…these religious images of “shrouding me”, “say three Hail Marys”, “Forgive me Father…” increase the pain, I think, because there is this sense that you are supposed to receive forgiveness and give forgiveness as per tenets of the church. The closing three lines are a beautiful request:
I like the way that you acknowledge that being forgiven isn’t the same as being understood. That is such an honest expression.
Sarah, such wise words. It’s not always enough to be forgiven; we long to be understood. I get it. Love this: “sins, venial and mortal . . .
shrouding me
like a too-heavy
jacket on a warm day“
Susan, as your minister or priest will probably tell you, it is only with the help of the Lord that we can let go of the hurt and offer forgiveness. It’s tough. For many of us, it has been years and we still are learning to let go and receive the peace that forgiveness brings. Mainly, it’s ourselves we have a hard time forgiving!
One of my pastors taught us that holding grudges (unforgiveness) is like taking poison and expecting the other person(s) to die. That shocked me. Then, I began to consider the weight I carried because I refused to forgive family members against whom I’d been holding grudges for decades! Then I started feeling bad about feeling bad! I can’t say, it’s all gone, yet, but I recommend doing what you have begun in your poem. Acknowledged the issue and then seek the solution. It’s there…in prayer.
Susan, it was like I could hear you reading your powerful poem to me. I felt your raw honesty and pain. I was brought up Catholic so your words are relatable. We didn’t bring our children up Catholic for many reasons. My mother thought it was a sin. I told her my God was loving. I feel like you have made therapeutic steps here especially in the line “and what I really want is understanding anyway.” Thank you for sharing your brave poem. I hope I didn’t offend you in any way.
In dreams
I visit bars
hip propped
on a stool
tucked away
in dark corners
and alcoves
knees touching
under tables
angling close
to hear
over the din
ice melts
in whiskey
martinis slosh
out of shakers
red wine draws
legs and panes
In dreams
I visit restaurants
(not the greasy dive
of my last supper)
modern, sleak eateries
chrome fixtures
and soft lighting
buzz of staff–
wine lists and
dinner specials–
clink
of metal silverware
on real plates
slurp
of ramen
licked fingers
(soy, ginger, sambal)
the last of the
chocolate crumbs
washed down
with decaf
In dreams
I visit the West Coast
toes scrunched
on pebbles
cold sand
and
colder waves
blanket spread
in Golden Gate Park
bluegrass echoes
through the eucalyptus
Zin-stained teeth and
dry tongue
sip of cider
to quench the thirst
of a Sunday sunset
quarters in a jukebox
needle dropped
on a record
In dreams
I don’t remember
how
I arrive
no car ride
no subway
no baggage claim
I am just there
I relive the moments
relish the memories
renew my spirit
and then
I awake
Betsy, the process of this poem is truly a beautiful journey. I love how you pull so many sensory details into this piece. The specific details make me want to be in those places, too; especially the bar as it sounds so promising, ahhh, the good old days. I am so enamored by:
“I am just there
I relive the moments
relish the memories
renew my spirit”
Wish the dream didn’t have to end! Those last two words carry a sort of darkness for me. Terrific poem!
red wine draws
legs and panes
I love those lines—and the rest of this sense-filled poem.
Yes! I am right there with you. Thanks for the sensory images – reminds me of the children’s book, Fredrick the Field Mouse who saves images of summer to remind the other mice during winter. Really beautiful and totally relatable.
Betsy, WOW, love your imagery, especially “ cold sand
and
colder waves
blanket spread
in Golden Gate Park
bluegrass echoes
through the eucalyptus
Zin-stained teeth”
Would love to have your dreams!
Your visual imagery really describes my visual dreaming. How we long to be in places remembered and in dreaming we manifest them. Being a Californian you put me right in Golden Gate Park and also my toes scrunching in the pebbles. Your words in awaking feel that you will won’t return to those places but I know better. You will!
To Give and To Receive
It was a dilemma
My brand new baby girl
Had not yet been baptized,
as is the tradition of our family,
and my heart’s desire
My Jewish husband does not really understand
the significance of the event
Although he has no objection because
He already had two children by his first wife.
What to do, what to do.
I didn’t belong to any Lutheran Church
Nor subscribe to only one religion
But tradition is important and so are my beliefs.
As I watched my precious baby sleep snugly with Puff in her crib
I could not deny the overwhelming need I had to baptize her.
It engulfed me so I almost couldn’t breathe.
I grabbed my old bible and a Dixie cup of water
And gently crawled into the crib with my darling
She woke and looked at me
with all the trust in the world
All the love in the universe
I began to cry
And recite the Lord’s Prayer,
and I prayed to my Father
Talking to Him just as I would speak to my earthly Dad
Father, I need help.
I feel so compelled to baptize my baby girl
But I don’t know where to start
I only know that I want her to know You the way I do
In that moment,
a strange tingling overcame me
from the top of my head down to my toes
And I prayed with all my heart and with all my soul
That the Lord accept my child into His fold –
to care for and look after all of her life.
I took some water out of the Dixie Cup and dabbed her little head
And made the sign of the cross on her forehead
as if it were the most holy water on earth.
I offered her again to our Father
to have and hold as his own child.
Tears were flowing freely down my face,
although I didn’t feel them.
I felt such profound gratitude
for the gift I gave to the Lord
and what I received in return.
Seven years later when we belonged to a real Lutheran Church
I asked Pastor Paul to baptize Jacklyn
and told him my whole story
He said, “I can’t baptize her any more than you have already done, but
I will acknowledge her as a child of the Lord”
And that’s how we come to have an official Baptisimal Certificate from the church
And it says, “This Child was Baptized by her Mother”.
Judi Opager
November 16, 2020
Beautiful.
Judi, what an amazing poem. I can relate to the desire for the baby baptism. To do this yourself, and to have it acknowledged by the church seems rather incredible and extra-special to me. I love the tenderness in this poem, and how you show your fervent love for your daughter. Thanks for sharing this beautiful special event!
Nothing more sacred than a mother’s tears. This is a precious, precious piece. The emotion of knowing what you were doing is very intense. What a fortunate family you are.
You are so vulnerable in this poem, awaiting confirmation (yes, I chose that word on purpose) that your method of baptism was real.
Virtually Invisible
I have researched the lesson,
studied mentor texts,
found craft moves
to master the muddled mind.
Yet
your screen shuts down,
the volume mutes,
pixels pull apart.
We disconnect.
In this virtual space,
we don’t know what is real,
what is imagined.
I catch my breath,
stifle a scream,
smile superficially.
Maybe tomorrow
you’ll tune in,
and I’ll smile for real.
Maybe tomorrow
We can be learners
together.
You got me to smile in the “yet” shift here as I immediately recognize it, and then, I drifted into a bit of despair at not knowing what is real. I feel so blinded by this online teaching — not being able to see, realizing how much I relied on my vision to be a teacher. Still, love the final lines where you still have hope with the “maybe” — still welcoming.
Margaret, this is so really now! I love the double meaning of the “we disconnect” here. It’s right where we all are in these moments.
Margaret– I have been on a pretty good streak with my virtual lessons until today…and I crashed for a bit and then muddled my way through it–reloading screens, broken links, virtual and literal frustration. Your poem says it better than I can… the disconnection (on so many levels), the muted reaction “I catch my breath,/ stifle a scream,/smile superficially” (how often I worry about my face projected on their screen…I rarely mask my disappointment in person). ..and yet it ends with hope, with a “maybe” with an opportunity to do better tomorrow (for you, your students, all of us). Thank you for sharing your poem!
And I want to tune in too…to see what happens next. Does she show up?
I can feel your sadness and frustration with the lack of in person communication. You express it so well here and your words feel like they could easily be mine, too.
Margaret,
This captures so much and it all starts with the title. Love it!
Waiting for the World
I have walked through this
Oyster, grasped its
Treasure and traversed the
Forbidden City, Tiananmen Square, &
The Great Wall where
Huns roamed. I marched with
Terracotta Warriors & peddled
Along bumpy cobblestones in
Xi’an’s Walled fortress. I
Siezed the Pearl on the
Wild Atlantic Way,
My eyes drunk on
Nature’s nectar & Guinness. On
The Cliffs of Moher
Like a Twitcher, I observed
Osprey & puffins
Glide across azure seas & said
I do ambling through the
Dark Thrushes after
Kissing the Blarney Stone
The way Aeneas made
Love to Dido. The
Ancient Agora’s siren
Song serenaded me, & I
Wondered like Odysseus
Searching for home,
Dipping my imagination into
Roman Baths, slipping on
Cinderella’s glass slipper at
Neuschwanstein Castle,
Never forgetting a fuhrer’s
Evil. Perched above the
Eagle’s Nest
I moved through & with earth
Until
Our oyster world
Clamped its shell shut,
Closed its doors to
Wanderlust and
Beckoned all who
Wander to pause,
Wait,
Dream,
Imagine the
Blue Lagoon,
Cleansing
Our Bodies of
Stasis, and
Stagnation,
Pandemic’s
Dust and
Detritus.
—Glenda Funk
Glenda,
I was thinking a lot about all your travels last year — so in awe of your exploration and grateful to see the world through you shared snapshots. This poem celebrates that, well, in the first stanza — “until” — that shift is so powerful taking us through to “Pandemic’s/Dust and/Detritus.” The capital letters here are just so stunning — how these ways of being have replace the structures of awe!
Sarah
Glenda, the shift in this oyster world is fabulous! From wanderlust and traveling to the clamped down and tightened shell. Your use of the single word on its own line
Until
Works beautifully here to show the shift.
Glenda, I am in total awe! What an incredible poem. The beauty of the poem’s journey, really gets a slam dunk at the end…..love the final alliteration and word choice: “Dust and/ Detritus” Fantastic! I would love to use your poem in the classroom, if you would allow me to. I’m going to be an adjunct this spring, and I think your poem shares so many wonderful allusions. and would be an superior model text. Anyway, what a masterful poem! I am just shaking my head in amazement.
I absolutely love the image of the world as oyster – and I have enjoyed hearing about all the pearls you have found throughout, on your travels! – and then the oyster “Clamped its shell shut,” – such a great metaphor for these past many months. I have always loved the word “wander” and these two lines are so beautiful:
Not to be a pollyanna, but I suspect you have had at least one pearl at home in this time of pause.
Glenda- you describe the glorious so beautifully in the first half that the second half hits all the more powerfully … all we can NOT see nor touch thanks to pandemic “dust and detritus.” That’s a wallop! So effectively constructed! You used a phrase I’ve never seen — “like a Twitcher” — tell me what that is. I love the ospreys and puffins… I’m a serious birder. Super poem… you had me on those journeys! All the more striking as it provokes my frustration with where we all are right now. Damn! Thank heavens for poetry! Susie
Hi Susie, I wanted to find a word for bird watching other than birder and stumbled on “Twitcher,” a birder who us more serious and specific than by a hobbyist. As a serious birder you’re a Twitcher. My vision is too poor for birding, but when in Ireland I was determined to see puffins.
GF
Glenda–thank you for sharing your travels and adventures with us. I, too, am charmed by the oyster imagery/conceit:
And the “until”….wow, the until. The poem hinges on it (like your oyster shell…am I overthinking this?). I do love the hopeful tone at the end, the new beginning, the new adventures that await us.
Can I get you anything?
A text back
A shower
To finish my degree
A new toothbrush
A hug
A buttload of caffeine
A thank you card
Money for food
The world to be COVID free
/
A smile
Feeling clean
Finally accomplishing my dream
No cavities
Warmth, interaction
Definite satisfaction
I feel good,
Light on my feet,
Shaking your hand as we walk down the street.
Madison,
You have me looking at these lines:
Cavities before warmth and then the lovely rhyme of interaction and satisfaction — -the music here that leads into being light on your feet, shaking a hand. Like a dance.
Sarah
Madison, what a joyful poem. I love the way this flows; the rhythm and rhyme adds so much! I have to smile at the ideas of having no cavities and “a buttload of caffeine”!
Hello, Sarah,
I had to read your poem a couple of times before I understood some of the code in your job. It was fun figuring out the things that are keeping you busy, and then tonight, the lovely receiving of rest and bliss and that lovely kiss. It was so refreshing to read. I often need a tab open for my dictionary too, and I learned anhedonia 🙁 — Yes we need antidotes for that! Thank you!
I couldn’t stop long enough today to get into my own need and what was in that box for me today, so I am going to post another poem I wrote today for The Isolation Journals, inspired by some other poems about Death. So, maybe my need is to be ready to say goodbye (in a healthy way, I mean.) Anyway, here is my Death poem.
Death
For you, the pandemic is only a
history lesson owned by
old folks who shudder about
having gone to Zoom school
when they were kids.
The fear of fundamentalism
was in its prime back then
And it happened at a time when some
in our country were so poor
they didn’t have
homes, enough food or health care.
Do you believe it?
I am your ancestor and you know little about me
No reason for you to imagine the problems I helpfully solved
or my taste for sweet juicy mango
No reason for you to know that I was a storyteller
and a story writer or that I tried
to help children
own their learning
You will live your life well without knowing how I
could bake chocolate chip cookies as good as Mrs. Field,
nurture sourdough for years without killing it, and
edit videos for online church services.
All my digital files were
put into the Recycle Bin
with one click of
a mouse,
(do you still call them that?)
maybe two clicks.
I remember how I died,
and because I couldn’t stop myself,
Death kindly came for me.
He slowed down for me to smell the
jasmine in the garden,
to eat the spicy rice,
ignoring the chicken.
He let me say goodbye to the butterflies
and cheetahs, the puffins and the elephants
He let me hold a newborn baby, pet a fluffy puppy,
and write once more with a fine pen.
He let me listen to favorites by
Simon and Garfunkel,
Gordon Lightfoot,
and Carole King,
like an old person.
He told me
the unfinished paper piles,
collections of “important” stuff,
unfinished to-do lists
could all be left behind
and no one,
really, no one,
would care.
All those things I had spent decades counting as gain,
I finally was able to count as loss
Looking back,
I can see how
taking Him by the hand
gave me more than
I could ever imagine
This made me smile-cry—for the memories and for the loss. Thank you.
Denise!
This is amazing! I am captivated by the narration and imagery here. Such powerful contrast of what to slow down for and what to leave behind. I will now to Simon & Garfunkel to listen to my favorite tunes.
So love this welcoming treatment of death — oddly comforting even given its subject matter. So delicately crafted.
Sarah
Denise,
Your allusions are wonderful. I especially like this nod to Emily Dickinson:
The first two lines really set the tone for how we’ll view this March toward and with death after the pandemic ends, “it was all just a history lesson.” Love this.
Thank you, Glenda. Yes, her “Because I Could Not Stop Death” poem is exquisite.
Other mentor texts were:
“Mummy of a Lady Named Jemutesonekh” by Thomas James
“Our Dust” by C.D. Wright
“To Whom It May Concern” by Mark Wunderlich
and a Bible verse: Philippians 3:8
This is a fascinating poem, Denise…this pandemic has been such a time of grieving, it is hauntingly beautiful to think of it through the lens of Death. This image of a last wish being fulfilled is perhaps my favorite, “and write once more with a fine pen.” Every writer’s wish! Thank you!
Denise,
This is brilliant. What a concept created with deep ideas and very concrete images. I especially love
“All those things I had spent decades counting as gain,
I finally was able to count as loss”
But for the Grace
After a Sunday morning jaunt
to visit with Mama and Dad —
we’d jabbered for a half hour,
Mama tired in the recliner,
crossword in her lap,
giving me that gentle grin,
glad always to see my face,
Dad dog-earing his latest Louis L’Amour —
I pulled into the garage,
bumbled in my back door,
the phone ringing off the kitchen wall,
I ran for the receiver;
Dad’s voice out of context —
I’d just been there and he’d been reading —
“What? Dad, slow down, what?!”
I had never ever heard
Dad choking back his words;
a strong often joking,
always totally in control
voice with a mighty presence
no matter where he was,
till that Sunday.
And I dropped
the receiver,
and “Mama”
was all I could say,
“Mama.”
I shot out the door,
hit the flasher button on the dashboard
and drove blinded through sobs
at manic speeds
to the cold, stainless steel,
white and greyed ER
where I, falling away from myself,
received
the words:
“She’s gone.”
Thirty-three years ago
I pretty much quit
answering the phone;
even picking up the receiver
felt like clutching
razor blades.
Time,
though,
curbs the cut,
and Mama
calls regularly
to remind me,
that she’s here
still listening,
a quiet presence,
offering her ear,
grinning from the mirror,
handing me the crossword,
prompting me
to live the grace
to give and
receive.
by Susie Morice©
Susie-I have no words. Just tears. The love, the loss…
Susie,
those memories of panic and shock and disbelief – they come so out of the blue. Those moments you describe in knowing that she is still here bring peace and reassurance that parting with loved ones is never final. We always hear their voices, always see their grins – – at the most unexpected times. This is heartbreaking and heartwarming all at the same time.
Susie,
After these many months meeting your mama through your poetry I bear witness of you receiving her wisdom and passing it on to us so we too can “live the grace / to give and / receive.” I’m touched by the multi-faceted approach to “receive” you’ve taken here. We have no choice but to receive death and the news of death, but what comfort it is to receive those memories, too. Peace.
Wow, Susie! Again you take the inspiration word to layers of meaning with this:
Resisting the “receiver”– and then later accepting the crossword.
And the last lines “to live the grace/to give and/receive” — ah! Mama calls with a “quiet presence.” Thank you for allowing us to bear witness in this way.
Sarah
Susie, tears! I love how you show this event so clearly. The shock, the reaction, the pain, the finding your mother’s voice all over again, is incredibly moving. Your final lines are echoing for me “to live the grace/ to give and/receive. Stunning and beautiful! Big hugs, Susie, big hugs!
Wow, Susie. I wrote my receive poem on the loss of my Dad…this is a lovely find, after my writing. These lines are so gorgeous and soothing to me:
Thank you for this!
Oh, Susie. So beautiful and also gut-wrenching. That aversion to the phone . . . I totally get. I love, though, how you go on to say,
“Time,
though,
curbs the cut,”
You capture loss and remembrance so well.
I do not get to read and respond to all the poems here. But I’m glad I searched for your poem tonight:
“picking up the receiver
felt like clutching
razor blades”
I recently found these words of E.B. White: ““A poem compresses much in a small space and adds music, thus heightening its meaning.”
Your poem does just that. You transform one of life’s hardest events using the music of your words to uplift the experience and create a poem that gives me a sense of connection to you–and the universal condition.
xo,
Allison
“Summon”
What if I could summon pop-tarts
Or a ticket to the coast
Or books to spend the night with
Or a bottle of rose`
Or a Sunday afternoon,
The windows open just a crack
With breezes drifting over me
As worries fade away
What if I could call on fate
To grant me riches never known
Or beauty that’s unparalleled
With legs that stretch for miles
I could build a closet tower
To hold all my lovely dresses,
All my silk and velvet flowing gowns
Of all the latest styles
But the fates would laugh and jeer
Because they know this wouldn’t work
To satisfy my deepest wants
To end the cravings that I feel
So instead, I’ll save my voice
And I’ll trek the course uncharted
Finding hope along the way
So at last, I’ll learn to heal.
Wow. Just wow. This is so well written. I love the subtle rhymes on the end of every stanza, it really feels lyrical to me. That last line “So at last, I’ll learn to heal.” is so powerful- changing this mood of the poem. Thanks for sharing.
Having read the final stanza, I could go back and have fun reading the things that would give you and imagining your receiving them along the way as you heal. I love the combination of pop tarts and rose’! Thanks for making me smile on a dull dreary day.
Ann,
That fifth stanza says so much. It’s how I felt as I imagine what it was in that box in the picture in our prompt today. What is my greatest need? I wondered all day. LIke you wisely say in your poem, the “fates” laugh and jeer when we try to fill our deepest wants with external cravings. (And yours in the opening stanzas as varied, fun, rich and tempting.) You could summon them, but you:
Beautiful!
Living a Paradox
Receiving from others can be tough for me.
I like to think of myself as the giver,
Even when I learned the Golden Rule.
Giving like that seemed dishonest.
Giving to get like the act of a fool.
“How does it work? I wanted to know.
Who could I trust as the one to show
That receiving is a way of blessing.
It’s more blessed to give than receive.
That concept was hard to believe.
Then, thinking of how much I like to give,
I longed to give others the joy that I live.
So, putting my pride to the side,
I decided that I would try to abide
By Golden Rule more often.
Guess what my dear friend!
Guess what I learned when I yearned
and then decided to do.
It’s true. When you give, it will be given unto you!
I encourage you now to give it a try
Being a giver makes receiving much easier.
Not because you’re a people-pleaser,
Or just trying to be cool.
Being a generous receiver works
Because of the Golden Rule.
“Then, thinking of how much I like to give,
I longed to give others the joy that I live.
So, putting my pride to the side,
I decided that I would try to abide
By Golden Rule more often.”
Right there—that’s what it’s about.
Anna,
I love the direct address here to your friends! I have really struggled with receiving because of trust but also because I struggle to ask for or accept just about everything — from help to gifts. But as you eloquently express here, the receiving is the other part of giving, the other side of the Golden Rule. We must experience both/and. Love how you compassionately unveil this for us.
Sarah
What a lesson you have taught me today, Anna. Of course I know all about the Golden Rule but never thought of giving and receiving being so closely tied together. Yes, every time we give, the joy comes back to us and we receive. What a wonderful thing!
There is truth in this poem. Why is is hard? I find that too. I’d much rather give and feel good about that.
Getting on a Jet Plane
Being cloistered so long
I yearn for the freedom of waking before the sun
grabbing my bag and heading off west
to the airport
catching a plane to see my family
a thousand miles away.
I would anticipate their greeting
skipping to faces full of smiles
finally get a warm embrace.
My spirit would soar higher than the plane could fly
reaching above clouds into the heavens
elation and joy boosting me like an angel with wings.
I really enjoyed the analogy between your spirit and the plane. Spirits can soar, land, be somewhere they shouldn’t. I was touched by the lines “finally a warm embrace” that word ‘finally’ lays so heavy on the heart. Thank you for sharing.
Love the elation and joy boosting! This is a lovely sentiment ending with angels with wings. Oh, I would love to be a passenger.
Sarah
Susan, you’re articulating so poetically what most of us are feeling now. As holiday time comes for almost every cultural group, we each are feeling the confinement due to COVID! At the same time, as your poem expresses, we have family and friends we love enough to stay away until it’s safe to gather again.
Yes! That kind of joy…it’s wonderful!
Sarah, Thank you for the prompts this week. they keep hitting harder and harder, but I find myself sitting with them and trying to be honest with myself about each one. There is healing in this practice.
Reception
The dark is stifling,
hot and cold
at once, together
skin on fire
blood frozen in my veins.
The weight of its ice floe
presses me ever downward
spiraling downward.
It keeps shoveling dirt over
my future corpse,
my living body
sucking in the mulch
choking on the dust
trapped in chains
inside this hole–
No coffin or black bag or
white shroud to
keep me from the muddy mess
I have made of
my life.
The stars refuse to offer their light
when I am without
reception–
God!
When I tune in to you,
plug in to your light,
turn my soul toward your Voice
Jesus,
offer words of praise in return
seek your forgiveness
know only your Face,
Lord
King
Father
Creator
Master
Sustainer
Redeemer
Savior
(Have Mercy, Christ)
You alone grant me peace
Raise me from the grave of my
own making
Break the chains of my transgressions
Purify my soul–
Deliver me!
You make the famine of my singularity
a Feast at the wedding
When you cry out into the void
of my soul and
call me your own
Beloved.
Receive me, O Lord,
into your presence
That I may know no other
home than
You–
Love without end.
Andrea,
Thank you for joining me on this journey. I worked through these 5 days from a personal place but also from what I have been hearing and seeing with colleagues and students. It has been tough for me to sit with these sentiments, but working through them as be therapeutic. I want to heal and appreciate that you are moving us toward Love!
Sarah
Andrea, half way through your poem, you had dragged me down with you, then, thankfully, as I kept reading, I began to rise towards the LIGHT! Once again, the power of poetry is shown in your writing; you take us in and bring us out in a few carefully selected images. Thanks so much for sharing how you’re feeling sometimes AND for showing us how a talented poet can take readers along for the ride.
Sarah,
I love the mentor poem. WOW! Can’t wait to share it w/ some former students, one on an LDS mission who asked me to send him poems. Your poem is wonderful. I know those journals and the difficult review process making acceptance a challenge. My hips hurt at the thought of sitting in a chair hour after hour writing, collaborating, feeling my eyes dry out looking at flat Zoom screens and squiggly letters.
This idea of leaving space for citations is something I suggested to students. The relief that arrives when we lie down next to the one who supports our “labor” is such a “anecdote to anhedonia.” There is pleasure to receive from the work. ❤️
—Glenda
Sarah, thank you for your prompts over the last three days. I haven’t been able to pull it together to write much, even today was a challenge, but I appreciate this space you’ve created for us. I think it was day 1 where wrote a sort of “meta” poem and I took that as an additional tool today. Thank you!
Creative blockage
Poetic ponderings of procrastination
Rhyme to find time
Reason to allow a space
Ethical, social motivation
Everyday habits
Loyalty to self, growth
All fingers set, scaffolded musings
Thank you, Stefani, for being here however you need, for using this space in whatever ways serves you.
I so appreciate these lines of honest exploration, of naming what you are experiencing. That last line is so great “All fingers set, scaffolded musings.” I am lingering on this turn today.
Hugs,
Sarah
Stefani, thanks for writing and sharing today! I’m with you: “Creative blockage” is the worst! We all suffer from it. (Notice how I used “we” to make myself feel better, trying to encompass everyone on this site. Lol. Because, again, I agree with you, I really do believe that this site, this “Ethical, social motivation” helps me write, at least a few times a month.) And I think “scaffolded musings” is such a cool way to describe poetry!
I love alliteration anytime, anywhere. “Poetic ponderings of procrastination”
I relate to this as well. “loyalty to self’ I am glad you posses that, it is something I myself need to work on. Thanks for sharing, and you’re doing great.
Sarah—you continue to expand my vocabulary even as you stretch my poetic thinking. Somatic? Anhedonia? I decided to move to a more light-hearted place this morning. We adopted a rescue pup (an incredibly bad idea, maybe!) last week, and I am awake early—again—to write this poem…
The Rolling Stones Were Right
We had been without a dog for a while.
An empty place in our lives—
I envisioned myself taking a large, elegant friend on my walks.
She would trot sedately beside me as I ran
(I never had taken up running, but I could start).
A greyhound, perhaps. That would be nice.
I liked the idea of elegance, for a change.
I sent my request into the universe.
I received
An abused, frightened Bichon boy. Terrified of men, terrified of life.
Named Cassius, in order to build his courage,
he scuttled from room to room to avoid kicks we did not give him—
truly safe only when cuddled in my arms.
He filled my soul, and after time, filled our lives.
And he left us—suddenly, sadly.
He broke my heart.
Parts of it remain broken.
Fill the hole.
I’ve got this now.
Small works. Fuzzy and white works.
Elegance is overrated.
And then, in the shelter, there was Molly.
Small, yes. White, no. Cuddly, not.
I received
a sad little black dachshund, a bred-out refugee from a puppy mill.
A wiry ball of my-way-or-else.
Virtually untrainable (a dachshund, you know…).
She owns us.
One more time into the breach.
Covid madness.
One more.
Last one.
This time, I KNOW what I need.
(You‘d think I would learn my lesson…),
I reach out into the world.
Visions of fuzzy, well-behaved lap dogs dancing in my head.
This morning, I chased a seven pound ball of
10 week old chihuahua-terrier energy around the table
to retrieve whatever Cassiopeia Bagel Sands was chewing this time.
Molly Doodle Sands joined in the chase.
Fuzz and cuddle—oh, well…
You can’t always get what you want.
But if you try sometimes, you get what you need…
Gayle Sands
November, 2020
Gayle, I was smiling and heart broken in equal measures throughout this! I loved the Stones (and Shakespeare!) references. And this is a very funny aside: “She would trot sedately beside me as I ran /
(I never had taken up running, but I could start).” Thanks for writing and sharing!
Gayle,
You know I’m all about a celebratory dog poem, and this one is a flurry of loving woofs to our best friends. I marveled in each pup’s personality, and, yes, The Rolling Stones were right:
Love this one the many allusions throughout the poem.
Gayle – I am SUCH a dog person and your li’l buddies are so uplifting to experience here. I list my old boy in September and every single day I think about how to fill that hole. Covid life making it a real “madness.” Every part of your poem resonated with me. I just loved the names!!! Cassius really gave me chuckle. Ha! And the “want” /“need” ending is spot on. Right now I’m taking care of a friend’s dog, helping me through the “breach.” Hugs, Susie
There’s a line in
the Bare Naked
Ladies song “If
I Had a $1000000”
about a dress
(“but not a real green
dress, that’s cruel”).
It’s a call back
to an earlier
line in the song,
and I use it here
to demonstrate
that what I need
most in life
right now is
time. I don’t
want a million
dollars. I don’t
want a green dress.
I want more time.
If I had this precious
commodity, I would
have been able to
craft my own joke
to start this poem,
would have added
internal rhyme
and checked the meter
of each passage,
but, instead, you have
this rambling mess
of borrowed lyrics
and uneven lines.
So, now, if I had some
magical golden goose
that crapped out
increments of time
(I may be misremembering
the fairytale — which is
what happened last
night in the kitchen.
We were completing
our bedtime ritual — Teeth,
Pills, Bed — when you held
up a pomegranate,
this very large and very
red “not apple,” and
said, just six seeds? And
I stared at you,
asking, that’s a thing,
right? That’s an allusion
to something that I’m
not getting. And you
blanched in mock despair
(and a little disgust, too),
explaining the story of
Persephone and her
marriage to Hades
in the Underworld,
and why the seasons
are what they are,
and I kept coming
back to the fact
that it looked like
an apple, which
lead us to talking
and laughing about
the Elizabethans and
their “love apples,”
how they would
place a peeled
apple in their arm
pits to soak up
all the “juices” only
to give said apple —
not the pomegranate —
to their beloved,
so the lover could
inhale the scent.
Yes, we agreed,
they were gross.)
it’s moments like
this that I want more
of. I don’t need more
time to grade
essays (although
I kinda do)
nor do I need more
time to sleep
(although that
would be nice, too)
I’d like more time for
the seemingly little,
inconsequential moments
where we stand in
the kitchen, laughing,
you telling me that
you would risk staining
your fingers and nails
pink to cut and deseed
this pomegranate
because
you love me,
and me saying,
with all seriousness,
full of intent and
earnestness,
that this really does
look like an apple.
Scott, the “golden goose that crapped out increments of time” is so fantastically hilarious…can you also turn this into a meme:)?
I appreciate your pop culture references and romantic undertones of this poem. Thank you for sharing.
Scott—two things I love about this (although there are more than two!!)
1. Your tiny little lines drawing me down the page
2. The stream of consciousness of your poetry—from one thought to another, seamless
3. (I knew I couldn’t stop at 2!) the vivid window into your life you provide. I feel like I know you and your partner—and I would love to be hanging out with you!!
Scott — Holy cow, man, you are on a roll here and it speaks volumes to all of us with never enough time… to smell the roses… or the pomegranates or even our stinky socks from not having time to get the laundry done. Just reminding me of the Barenaked Ladies $1,000,000 song made me so glad I’m reading this… that’s on my playlist and I sing it loud in the car when I should be using my time to think deeply about the day’s prompt or the deadlines or the poem I half-assed cranked out or even the traffic that has me wedged between a Mini-Cooper that thinks it’s an Escalade and a pickup that has a rifle in the gun rack. Egads. Time. Yes, time. The description of the whole scene between the two of you (“you” and “me”) is utterly beautiful… worth all the time it takes. Thanks for posting even when you knew you “barely” had time. Susie
Scott, I have been inspired by your swift and skinny poems this week. I took a chance and formed my own poem into a similar form. I am struck by the way you weave your allusions in with the present moment, how the then/now and earnestness/humorous and high/low brow take turns. You shift deftly between tone and topics (I’m trying to find a metaphor here…not just the familiar “layers” comparison…I keep coming back to a braid). Anyways, I enjoyed reading the poem! Thank you for sharing!
Sarah, I see a definite theme with this five day write. Wow, I love the end of your poem! Enjoy those great kisses! I’m crazy busy today so I hope to be back with something, but I will carry your poem with me today, a gift in itself! Best, Barb
I just can be still.
Constantly moving, never resting
Always looking for the next thing
Frantically and frenetically passing the time
Continuously searching for something
That I cant see to find.
But the moment I find it,
I stop.
I breathe.
I live.
I am still.
Peace.
Kate, I appreciate how your format in the second stanza brings your reader to what you are in search of, a moment to breathe. Thank you for this short gem today.
Oh, Kate, I so love and appreciate that shift from stanza one to two with the opportunity to move toward peace. The repetition of I at the beginning of these line strikes me a so powerful in part because It is like the speaker standing up, rising.
Sarah
Kate—the first stanza conveys your anxiety perfectly—a rush to everything. Then, the second stanza slows. Down. And. Relaxes. Your format and your words are perfect!
Kate, your words “Frantically and frenetically passing the time” describes most of my days. I seem to fill time by looking for things to do and need to learn to use be still. Thank you.
Kate, your shift from frantic to peaceful is brought about by the breath – the stillness and peace. I love the simple notion of taking a breath and all the difference it makes.
oooooooh! That kiss! That kiss! I hope you know I feel like I should be paying you a therapy fee. Whoah! What a journal entry this morning. Didn’t want to stop writing….but alas, the school day calls.
For months
The canvas lay in her lap
each stitch a tiny cross
of thread into the weave.
Mathematically
It made sense
every bud, heart
and border
perfectly pushed
and pulled
against the knots
Christmas was coming soon
it was time to cut
thread from the needle.
Framing also an art
of the precise.
Her father’s
carpenter instructions
could not be unlearned.
As she stretched cloth
to fit the frame
every taught thread asked
am I enough?
are you proud?
will this suffice
as a gift?
Linda,
The image of the canvas is so powerful — the possibility waiting. The concept is concrete, the thread, the instructions, the making of something is so tangible and yet the metaphor here of the abstract has taken hold of me — “every taught thread asked”!
Wow,
Sarah
Linda!!!!! This is amazing! Your care and your craft shows in both the embroidery and your words. And the anxiety at the end is palpable—am I enough? Are you proud? Will this suffice as a gift? Handmade gifts are wonderful and frightening to give and to receive. There is so much weight to them!
Linda, I love the imagery in your poem! It really felt like I was sitting and watching the whole process. I especially loved the lines “every bud, heart, and border perfectly pushed and pulled…” The alliteration is so nice here.
Linda,
I can’t help but read this nod to making and seeing as a metaphor for a life well lived: our lives a canvas, each stitch a life thread stretched to fit. We know the math, the probabilities, yet that too takes some manipulation over time. I love the personification I’m the last stanza. Really a marvelous poem. H/T to you.
Sarah, I learned a new word today – anhedonia. Your writing speaks to me – and that feeling of exhaustion that comes to all of us. That kiss at the end is the best! The prompt seems simple at first, but looking for the root of what we need takes some digging. I appreciate the challenge of quiet reflection today.
Nothingness
all sorts
of vise grips
tightening freedom
hindering lingering
clamping rest
choking life
keep me on the move
doing something else
to check another box:
done!
I want some
nothingness
and with it
I’ll take
a cup of hot tea
a book
a journal
a pen
a comfy chair
and two wet noses
by a blazing fireplace
savoring each moment
of simple pleasures
cherishing the warmth
of the deep
peace
“I want some/nothingness” Me too! I love the picture you paint of the nothingness, which is exactly the something that I want too
Kim,
I always appreciate how often your dogs make their ways into your poems…”two wet noses.” I love the idea of thinking what all our definitions of “nothingness” might include. Thank you for sharing and I hope you found extra time today for nothingness.
The same line that Kate notes is what struck me, too. “I want some/nothingness” — and yet the list that follows are powerful somethings but really quite different from the box checking we seem to be doing each day. Of course, our box checking does help others, checks in on people, makes sure we are attending, but that is really never ending, isn’t it. In some ways, I would like an ending and then a break before another beginning. The final lines here are so important and feel like a hug, “cherishing the warmth/ of the deep/peace.” YES!
May I join you in the last stanza? Please? The imagery there makes me happy, just reading about the tea, the book, the journal and pen, the chair the noses 🙂 and the fireplace. Please, may I join you?
Yes, Kim, the “nothingness” is so much of SOMETHING! I love the rejection of the rat race to the “wet noses” and the “savoring.” May this Monday be all about peace! We need it! Thanks, Susie
I love how your nothingness includes something that brings that deep peace. What a beautiful scene you painted there. Here’s to more nothingness for you to enjoy those quiet peaceful times with Boo and Fitz.
Kim, I don’t know how anyone can read this insightful poem w/ out nodding in recognition at
Then you take us into peaceful quiet w/ a cup of tea, a book, and of course dogs, always books and dogs. I love the way you honor the things most important in life. You know some Mary Oliver has rubbed off.
Oh, this sounds perfectly lovely. A big slice of nothingness. The details of the two wet noses by the fire and the deep peace are the best.
There was a time
when the crowd hushed,
when all of our eyes watched
the ball flung into motion
with such beautiful flight,
its shape slightly wobbled
in the air flow imbalance
of impossibility
It’s that breath before
that I remember the most,
the beauty of the possibility
of perfect reception,
and not the drop,
when the world stopped,
and the magic
of the moment, broken
open
Kevin,
As a lover of sports, I am in awe of how you painted a beautifully detailed picture in so few words. That moment of expectation when all hold their breath. I especially love these lines:
“In the air flow imbalance
of impossibilit
Kevin, it’s like Christmas morning here in your words! The anticipation “the beauty of the possibility” and the sudden breath that are more exciting than the certainty of what’s actually in the box. Such hope here!
Ahhhh—the tension! “It’s that breath before… “ You made me hold my breath with you. We join you in that magic moment. Wow.
Kevin — I really am drawn to your poem… “the magic/of the moment” — in music it’s the sweet spot…. that perfect moment with “the beauty of possibility” is really incredible. I love this. You’ve really captured that slice of time through the slo-mo of “wobble.” Really cool! Susie
Oh, my goodness. I read this a few hours ago, and I’ve been thinking about it all day. Another kind of receiving–or failure to receive it and so the magic faded. This is a beautiful moment caught with words. Magical poem that we get to receive today from you. Thank you.