Day 2, March’s Open Write with Dr. Kimberly Johnson
Kimberly Johnson, Ed.D., is a literacy coach and media specialist in a public school in rural Georgia. A former public school classroom teacher for 20 Years, she taught all grades except 4th and 12th, and she is the author of Father, Forgive Me: Confessions of a Southern Baptist Preacher’s Kid.
Inspiration
Sharing memories, moments, messages…taking the hand of the reader and saying, “Come with me. Have you ever….?” As writers, we are diviners of stories that need to be told. Stories validate, motivate, educate. They have the power to change, they tell the truth, they call out injustice, they conjure the past and take us back there, they bring back lost loved ones, and they sing the unsung heroes in ways that regular prose cannot – yet the prose poems and flash essays in You are No Longer in Trouble by Nicole Stellon O’Donnell burst wide open, exploding with vivid memories. The indoor recess story took me back to my own childhood, reaching deep for those indelible memories:
Second Grade Pain
From all of second grade, you remember only the day you had indoor recess. The cute boy picked five girls to do a puzzle at the table. Even in second grade he knew to pick the pretty identical twins. They sang We are the Champions as you hunched under your desk playing with glass animals you had stuffed in your pocket that morning. Even in second grade you knew to act like it didn’t matter that you weren’t picked. One cold afternoon, so small a thing, but your second grade pain still sings that song.
Process
The pantoum form is a repeating form that takes the format below. Choose a pantoum or any other form today that tells your story – a memory that evokes pain, fear, love, humor, or any other strong emotion.
- Begin by writing four original lines.
1 2 3 4 - REPEAT lines 2 and 4 and expand ideas in lines 5 and 6:
2 5 4 6 - REPEAT lines 5 and 6, expand ideas in lines 7 and 8:
5 7 6 8 - FINALLY, repeat lines 1, 3, 7 and 8 in the following order:
7 3 8 1
Kim’s Verse
A Blue Kazoo Pantoum
a kazoo?!?!
weightless blue musical flute
seized from your suitcase prior to
a family Christmas trip to New York City
weightless plastic toy
just who were you? the Pied Piper?
2004 tsunami zoom to The Big Apple
a simple kazoo- not illegal drugs or weapons
who were you now? the Pied Piper?
were you to groove and kazoo through the streets?
a kazoo – neither bong nor bazooka
booming voice scarring sweet souls, ruining memories
were you to flitter and flute-toot through the streets?
a kazoo – looted from your suitcase
his own too-heavy baggage ruled the truth of your doom
a kazoo?!?!
Your Turn to Write & Respond
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. See the image for commenting with care. 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.
He belonged with me
By: Emily Yamasaki
I never got to thank the stranger
“it would be better here”
as they dropped you into the neighbor’s yard
It was the best they could offer you then
“it would be better here”
A small, black mutt whimpers
It was the best they could offer you then
He wedges under the porch step
A small, black mutt whimpers
He wants what everyone wants
He wedges under the porch step
He dreams of belonging
He wants what everyone wants
as they dropped you into the neighbor’s yard
He dreams of belonging
I never got to thank the stranger
Starting my Monday with tears in my eyes. The phrase ‘cruel act of kindness’ comes to mind. When thinking, How could someone do such a thing? This line is the answer, “It was the best they could offer you then.” We can never really know what causes people to make some decisions in their lives, and this is a compassionate consideration. Strong visual detail, “He wedges under the porch step” along with the sound word “whimpers.” “He dreams of belonging” conveyed such sorrow throughout, while the first time “I never got to thank the stranger,” seemed foreshadowing, together as the final pair lines are the Hallmark moment. Niagara Falls.
I love the images that your poem evokes. How each stanza seems to build on the previous one and the first leaves the reader with a feeling melancholy.
Barefoot on a steamy day, my sweet girl, barely five years old
Dashing across burnt summer lawns, trying to keep pace with the big kids,
Discover neighbors trampoline, untested, springy and new, so inviting & innocuous we assume
Lemonade stand profits jingle in your tiny pockets as you jump, jump, jump
Dashing across burnt summer lawns, trying to keep pace with the big kids,
Mesh net encircles this newly erected contraption, shielding children from ejection, like a seatbelt we presume
Lemonade stand profits jingle in your tiny pockets as you jump, jump, jump
I didn’t protect you from popcorn game dangers inside
Mesh net encircles this newly erected contraption, shielding children from ejection, like a seatbelt we presume
A simple popcorn bounce brings you down, your sister crashing on top
I didn’t protect you from popcorn game dangers inside
My sweet girl, barely five, shrieks and shattered bone stalls her summer
A simple popcorn bounce brings you down, your sister crashing on top
Discover neighbors trampoline, untested, springy and new, so inviting & innocuous we assume
My sweet girl, barely five, shrieks, and shattered bone stalls her summer
Barefoot on a steamy day, my sweet girl, barely five years old
Bold long lines to describe both the mental and physical trappings of the contraption. That shift between perspectives from the child discovering to the parent evaluation of its ‘safety’ is subtle but powerful. “trying to keep pace with the big kids,” is an important element here as well, since it could be what brings such a small child into a play situation that is more dangerous for her than for her counterparts. LOVE the visual/tactile of “Barefoot” and “Dashing across burnt summer lawns.” I KNOW that kind of lawn! Favorite line: “Lemonade stand profits jingle in your tiny pockets as you jump, jump, jump.” BTW: NOT your (or the narrator’s) fault. Backyard trampolines are the devil. They are gymnastics equipment that should never be used without instruction, practice, and supervision. It’d be like putting in a pool for kids who don’t know how to swim and saying, “Just jump in. Have fun!” Which is why the law now says you have to put gates around pools! Hate those things. But, if a broken bone was all – lucky. And a great story to tell (or poems to write) later. Lucky.
I love how your words paint a picture of what started as a fun activity and later turned sour. I wonder how old she is now.
Tuesday at Waterloo Records
glad I stopped to see what the line looked like
there was a spot in the parking lot
the stars were aligned
I texted Sarah to let her know
there was a spot in the parking lot
a smile spread across my face – I love Austin
I texted Sarah to let her know
and joined the fans collecting
a smile spread across my face – I love Austin
caught a favorite musician on Tuesday afternoon
and joined the fans collecting
polite, excited, reverent
caught a favorite musician on Tuesday afternoon
the stars were aligned
polite, excited, reverent
glad I stopped to see what the line looked like
During the summer of 2018 John Prine visited Austin promoting his newest album Tree of Forgiveness. That afternoon in Waterloo Records his fans held on to every word. Felt like we were in the church of John Prine.
Jamie — I enjoyed the rhythm of this piece. Glad the “stars aligned” for you on this evening.
What a special memory! Your words fit so nice and neatly into this form, too!
Jaime,
Fantastic job setting the tone and taking us through the journey of meeting our favorite musician. thanks
Jamie – I just have to say, I wish I’d been there with you… JP is my favorite and I miss him so much. Your poem is such a perfect tribute to a hero. And so glad he was honored at the Grammy’s. He’s loving your poem from afar tonight. Thank you. Susie
I was recently at Waterloo Records and before you said Austin, I thought that’s where you were. What a great place. My son used the gift card he got for Christmas to buy some albums there. Nice memory.
sauerkraut
tang and sizzle on the tongue
fermented cabbage
bold and unafraid.
a taste not limited to tongue
she snaps against the sinuses and eyes
shy peas and corn demur, afraid
while sassy sauerkraut demands her place
the whole face feels the flavor
she commands the plate, the room
sad cauliflower casts a wary eye
but even kohlrabi (pretty name) cannot compete
she’s the loudest in the meal
drunken cabbage, center stage
while radish, root, and beet look on with envy
sauerkraut.
Allison, I love your use of personification in this poem. The sensory appeal is striking. I loved “while radish, root, and beet look on with envy”. Sauerkraut does demand attention. Very fun poem!
love your final stanza – loudest in the meal, drunken cabbage, while . . . look on with envy – the bold flavor of sauerkraut – an ode
Allison — I love this! You’ve given sauerkraut such a personality and it is truly apt. Sauerkraut does demand attention!
Allison,
I love the way you personalized a not so tasty food. My favorite line was “sad cauliflower casts a wary eye…”
I enjoyed the feelings each food item had. Excellent perspective! BRAVO
Hi, Allison! Kraut!!! What a dandy and sensory-rich centerpiece to a delicious poem. That you pronounced this delight with all its sass as a “she” gave me a giggle… how perfect! The choice of “snaps” and “sinuses” and “sassy” did a real number on “she” power against “shy peas” and “sad cauliflower “— that was funny. You made me hungry for a bedtime graze! Ha! Such a fun poem. Thank you! Susie
I Can Do Hard Things
Writing a pantoum is hard.
I don’t know about what to write.
I refuse to not at least try.
I won’t go down without a fight.
I don’t know about what to write.
There is too much noise all around.
I won’t go down without a fight.
This pantoum won’t win this round.
There is too much noise all around.
I could find a quiet place.
This pantoum won’t win this round.
The real problem is my head-space.
I could find a quiet place.
I refuse to not a least try.
The real problem is my head-space.
Writing a pantoum is hard.
There is not a more relatable poem on this page than this one to me right now. I started my poem out in a notebook, but line 7 messed me up. Then, I had to workshop it. There are so many scribbles, strike throughs, and arrows that nobody else would know what was going on in the notebook. Finally, I took it to the computer where I could copy and paste–which made a big difference 🙂 Thanks for sharing your process with us, Donnetta. You won; you wrote a pantoum!
Donetta, I could not agree more, writing a pantoum is hard! I Loved the line: “The real problem is my head-space”! Excellent poem and response!
I agree, Donnetta. For me the writing form is not hard but I need the head-space and a quite place. So true. Usually I think about this all day before I can write.
Donnetta — I can relate. I get stuck in my head-space often. It is so easy to get caught up in all the distractions, but you made this one work.
Sonnets – And here you are… BAM! A dandy pantoum. I wrestled with it as well. But you nailed it and the repetitions really worked to drive home the frustration of finding the right head space for the challenge! Well done! Susie
Love this, Donnetta! I’m so glad you tried writing one. To be honest, I am going to try writing some more. I really like this format and I think it will help me discover a lot of things that have been hidden for a long time, including happy and painful memories.
Thank you for the invite. I have never written one of these poems before, and it was a really good challenge. I could feel my brain stretching in every which way, trying to find what I am meaning to say!
After every scary, terrifying nighttime thunderstorm
sea shells washed up on the shores of Enemy Swim Lake,
which made me less afraid;
I was eager to collect the gifts the lake had made.
Sea shells washed up on the shores of Enemy Swim Lake–
they were (un)usually perfectly crafted, unchipped, and colorful.
I was eager to collect the gifts the lake had made.
I dreamed of combing our rocky shore in the morning.
They were (un)usually perfectly crafted, unchipped, and colorful–
like a reward for weathering the storm.
I dreamed of combing the rocky shore in the morning.
How was I supposed to know Grandma placed the shells there?
Like a reward for weathering the storm,
which made me less afraid.
How was I supposed to know Grandma placed the shells there
after every scary, terrifying nighttime thunderstorm?
I was thinking through most of the poem–why did the storm wash up the shells? Ah, Grandma. I love that she eased the fear of the storms with a beautiful gift. What started out as a reflection on storms became a smile on my face as I thought of how grandmothers are so good at softening the edges of life. Thank you for sharing!
Rachelle, I love this (and love finding you here!). Unlike Cara (below), I don’t know enough about storms and seashells to have experienced her questioning of the shells! What a wonderful grandma! <3 <3 You come from loving stock.
Rachelle, I love the flow of your poem. The shells, the storm, are all clearly etched through your words. Even the place “Enemy Swim Lake” has a rhythm of its own. The end though is so special and so sweet. To think your grandmother would do this to be sure you would find a beautiful shell. Awesome!
Rachelle — I love the surprise at the end. What a wonderful memory of your Grandma comforting you with beautiful shells.
I haven’t tried writing a pantoum in years! Because of that I didn’t mess with the form since I wanted to see if I could still make it work–strict rules are not usually how I write. 😉 This is less a specific memory than an amalgam of having been both a child and a parent on playgrounds in my life.
The Playground
Swinging and sliding and spinning around
The playground was full of happy noises
Children told secrets and parents told tales
Everyone learned how to share and be aware
The playground was full of happy noises
Screams of glee and short sharp laughs
Everyone learned how to share and be aware
The joys and the triumphs along with the falls
Screams of glee and short sharp laughs
Welcome to the soundtrack of growing up
The joys and the triumphs along with the falls
The parts of our beings that are shown to all
Welcome to the soundtrack of growing up
Children told secrets and parents told tales
The parts of our beings that are shown to all
Swinging and sliding and spinning around
Cara, I love the way your final two lines dance together so perfectly. You’ve crafted the perfect lines to generate exciting juxtapositions within the strict form! Thanks for bringing me back to the playground.
Cara, I really enjoyed the rhythm you’ve created throughout your poem: “Swinging and sliding and spinning around” and “Screams of glee and short sharp laughs.” You really have captured the soundtrack here. Thanks for sharing this!
What stood out to me, like the others, is the imagery here. You did a great job of tackling different perspectives in one single poem–which is not an easy task. It all came together so nicely in the last stanza. I am a sucker for alliteration, so the “swinging and sliding and spinning around” really got me. Thanks for sharing this!
Cara, Your topic just FITS the pantoum form as the repetition of actions on a playground are reinforced by the repetition of the lines. As each one comes around again, it offers another layer of meaning to the “soundtrack of growing up.” Lovely!
The pantoum is a perfect form for this poem. I feel the repetition of the lines adds to the movement present in the images your poem creates – swinging and sliding and spinning around – screams of glee, everyone learned how t share and be aware – so many simple, familiar images.
Cara — love the alliteration “Swinging and sliding and spinning around” and the rhythm. This poems makes me think of playground days with my own children and makes me smile.
Puffy Eyes
A “free day” in P.E.–
unmitigated chaos–
the dingy Nerf football
careened into my 8-year old eye socket.
Unmitigated chaos–
Nik Bungum’s spiral
careened into my already tear-prone eye
and I was fine but…
His twisted, unpleasant ways regularly
caused pangs of discomfort and irritation
and I was fine but…
he was always doing this kinda thing.
Causing aches of discomfort and irritation,
the dingy Nerf football today, but
he will continue his tradition for years to come.
A “free day” in P.E.
Laura, the resignation of “and I was fine but…” makes me very sad for that poor 8-year old! This Nik with his “twisted, unpleasant ways” sounds like a real “piece of work”! I also don’t like the fact that he was “always doing this kinda thing” and that it would “continue…for years to come.” Ugh. Thanks for writing this (and for inviting us into this “free day” in P.E.)!
Laura, I’ve read this a couple of times now and I am impressed how you were able to take this moment from a PE class and relate it to the adults kids become. It also made me think about how microaggressions, though “micro” add up and cause macro pain/damage. Thanks for sharing this piece of yourself with us today — I’m leaving with ideas and themes to chew on.
Laura, I FEEL this poem! That dirty nerf ball against your tender eye (already tear-prone!) was the physical manifestation of NB’s aggressive, hurtful attack on anything in his path. I know him. I’m afraid we all do.
I feel your simmering frustration with icky Nik Bungum. With a name like that, he probably had a fair bit of teasing, but that’s never an excuse. Thank you for taking me back to the perils of dodgeball, “unmitigated chaos” indeed.
A “free day” in P.E. – always the dreaded day as the teacher who received students after the unmitigated chaos, I was fine but . . . – right!
Laura — Wow! I’m with you in this P.E. class feeling your frustration and pain. Your last stanza “Causing aches of discomfort and irritation/the dingy Nerf football today, but/he will continue his tradition for years to come” really brings it home, reminding us that some things don’t change and the bullies remain bullies into adulthood.
Kim, thank you for this week’s prompts and inspirations. I have loved the trip down memory lane! The pantoum is one of my favorite forms–I love how the repetition can reveal deeper meaning or how one can reverse engineer the form so the ending informs the whole piece (which is what I did today). I look forward to the rest of the week!
A Memory Pantoum
Mrs. Hancock’s first grade class:
where I sat alone at the back table,
piles of books and notebooks and index cards surrounded me.
I spent the morning combing through the texts and workbook pages.
While I sat alone at the back table,
my classmates practiced letter shapes and sounds.
I spent some mornings reading aloud to my former kindergarten class.
Mrs. Hancock asked me questions about the sample materials.
My classmates colored letters and recited memorized syllables, and
I continued my previews and reviews of the proposed curriculum.
My parents asked questions about acceleration and differentiation.
I often wondered why the school sent me to a 3rd grade classroom twice a week.
As I continue my reviews of curriculum and pursuits as a reader/writer–
piles of books and notebooks and sticky notes cluttering my desk–
I often wonder who or what I’d be without
Mrs. Hancock’s first grade class.
I love the circle effect of this poem: seeing you then, seeing you now, still surrounded by your notebooks and sticky notes 🙂 I agree with your comment about the pantoum form: each repetition calls for another layer of thinking.
Betsy, I love how you show your advanced abilities and talent in this poem and the tribute you give to Mrs. Hancock. What a treasure she must have been to recognize you needed to be challenged. I also love how you connect this memory with the present, and how the materials you had then connect with the materials you use now. Your end is thought-provoking. Lovely poem!
Betsy — I’m so glad you had a teacher who saw your potential and sought ways to challenge you “sent me to a 3rd grade classroom.” I enjoyed the progression of child to adult in this narrative poem.
Betsy,
This poem is so full of the unexpected. At first I worried you were at the back table as punishment, then as a learner needing extra practice, but then you surprised me. I love how both child and adult you embody this poem. It’s quite wonderful.
I am loving these exercises of memory, Kim! Thank you so much for sharing these prompts with us!
Spring Literacy
This time of year
The smells, the colors, the humidity
Take me back to
The black El Camino
The smells, the colors, the humidity
The tale-tell sign that it was time to plant and
The bed of the El Camino would carry me (carefully) to
The garden and the fields
The dirt was ready – Papaw, how’d you always know
How deep to seed, how far apart for the rows
In the garden and the fields
We worked side by side, your steady voice and hands teaching me how.
That old Camino is long gone now
Hauled your right leg away with it
and
I can find the warmth of those lessons
But seem to have lost the particulars
How deep for an onion?
How far apart for the corn?
We still know when it’s time to plant.
Our fingers itch to get in the dirt
But neither of us can do it like
We used to
This time of year
Chea, wow, what a beautiful poem! Your opening is so striking. I could immediately visual the El Camino. The connection to family, and the pleasure of planting ring so true in your poem. I often think of questions I wish I had asked my dad, had written them down so I would never forget things like how deep to plant the seeds, etc. I adored your lines
Outstanding poem! Thanks for sharing!
Tommy G
In front of my fifth grade classroom
Just as the bell was to ring
A knife with an open blade
was flung at my feet!
Just as the bell was to ring
Tommy G was showing off.
A knife flung at my feet
missing me by an inch.
Tommy G was showing off.
A sharp, folding knife has no place at school
missing me by an inch.
Was he aiming at me?
A sharp, folding knife has no place at school
and I told him so.
Was he aiming at me?
He sure wanted my attention.
And I told him so.
A knife with an open blade.
He sure wanted my attention
in front of my fifth grade classroom.
Susan, I love the rhythm that you’ve established beyond the form itself. This sounds like a sinister nursery rhyme that at first might seem to speak to an older audience, yet your story shows that that’s simply not the case!
Yikes! In fifth grade no less! I teach high school and have seen my share of weapons, but since the district has a zero tolerance policy, I never see the kid again. The line, “He sure wanted my attention” really made me feel the (apparent?) calm you responded with. You created a tension that worked really well–I really wasn’t sure how it was going to end.
Cara, I hate to show how old I am but this was way back during the 1950’s. Weapons usually were not an issue like they are now and it was very unusual to come across one in school. I remember thinking he was a show off and an unruly boy that needed to be told off. Luckily, a few minutes later, the principle came by and took him off.
The Childhood Games We Played
Dedicated to the Hilltop Road Gang
Blue City and a sand pit
The creek, woods; a swimming pool
Our friendships so tightly knit
Play fair—our compass and rule
The creek, woods; a swimming pool
Roaming the streets; climbing trees
Play fair—our compass and rule
Forever free as a breeze
Roaming the streets; climbing trees
Playing baseball; red rover
Forever free as a breeze
“Send Annie Annie Over!”
Playing baseball; red rover
Every day until dark
“Send Annie Annie Over!”
Swimming for hours at the park
Every day until dark
Our friendships so tightly knit
Swimming for hours at the park
Blue City and a sand pit
Barb Edler
March 14, 2021
Barb — The first lines read like an honor code — so effective! I LOVE the first and last lines as the bookends of this memory. There’s a compactness here that fits a kid gang in the summer…. the kid days are replete with nostalgia…the kid-ness of it. It’s almost like a planted my face in a bale of alfalfa…something that brings me to my knees to this day, as it carries me instantly back to my days as a kid on the farm. Your poem did that! Cool! Hugs, Susie
I see that neighborhood and those kids in a hallowed, retro light; I feel the love of people and place in every line. Makes me remember all the games we made up and how we played for hours outside. “Forever free as a breeze” – oh yes, even when we didn’t know. Just lovely.
“Blue City and a sand pit” sounds like the stuff of childhood dreams! I played many of those same neighborhood games, though I think we could have done better with “Play fair—our compass and rule”. Since the pandemic began, I’ve seen a bit more of the neighborhood kids riding bikes, tossing balls, and such, but I don’t think any of them are playing these fabulous group games. Thanks for taking me down memory lane!
Barb, you beautifully capture the freedom of childhood–the unstructured time, the roaming activities, the simple rule of “play fair.” I was just reminiscing with a colleague about how independent and free-flowing my afternoons and weekends were…a similar band of neighbors and siblings playing in yards and woods and driveways. Thank you for sharing your memory with us and taking us on a reciprocal journey!
OTHER LIVES
In life number two
I remember standing there
on day one,
the minister in front of me,
I remember standing there,
my family behind me in the pews,
the minister in front of me,
as he asked, “Do you take this man…”
my family behind me in the pews,
my mind trailed off,
as he asked, “Do you take this man…”
I paused, ruminating,
my mind trailed off,
on day one,
well, I’d “take” him I reckoned,
I paused, ruminating,
he’d do,
number two
was anxious to be tethered to this new life,
buying a house in a neighborhood close to the U,
number two
he was decent enough,
buying a house in a neighborhood close to the U,
a routine kind of man
he was decent enough,
followed preset pathways,
a routine kind of man,
didn’t require much grooming,
followed preset pathways,
was anxious to be tethered to this new life,
didn’t require much grooming,
number two
didn’t seem to detect
that my heart was somewhere else.
Susie, “Do you take…?”
“Um, I guess so.”
my heart was somewhere else,
and I erased the next decade
“Um, I guess so”
from a life
and I erased the next decade,
settled
for a life
unsettled.
by Susie Morice, March 13, 2021©
Oh my, Susie, I feel as though you’ve channeled my first married life. The repetition of “tethered” emphasizes the constraints of being bound to the wrong man. We settle but should remember a house that settles too much is unstable. I chuckled at “I guess so.” I so wish women didn’t settle. Even now I know many who do. Love this poem w/ all my heart.
Susie, this form allows for indecisiveness to come through in ways that it would not in other poems. I can feel the debate, the hesitancy, as thoughts swirl and reform and resurface. Never quite settling. You’ve captured the unsettling beautifully here.
Susie, your poem is so rich with emotion through a few choice words. The sense of erasing a decade seems intertwined with your own personal identity which increases the power of your final lines. Your poem makes me think of the things we accept even when they make us so deeply unhappy. I hope you’ve found your way now to feeling more self-satisfied; more settled. Either way, thanks for sharing such a heart-wrenching poem. Hugs, friend! Barb
So many words jump out at me: paused, settle, routine, preset, tether, erase, decent enough – oh my! The repetition of these words conveys the emptiness of this marriage choice…a decent enough man isn’t enough when your “heart was somewhere else.” Great poem! Loved reading it aloud, it really flows.
I never quite understand how this poetry writing always takes me somewhere unexpected! Here’s a memory of when my family moved to/lived on a Navy base and I started at a brand new high school my senior year. I played around with the pantoum a bit . . .
The Shortcut
the shortcut:
walk past the Marines at the base gate
immediate turn wander sneak through the woods
to the back entrance of my new high school
after I walk past the Marines I find
fringe kids there they sat on fallen trees smoking weed
right outside the back door of my new high school
another world indeed
free spirited fallen forgotten fringe there they sat
seeing me, welcoming me to join them too
another world indeed
me, rule-follower new friendless alone
welcoming me to join them, seeing me
sneaking through the overgrown weedy woods
me, rule-follower sitting smokeless with my first friends
the shortcut
Maureen,
I love the duality of meaning in “the shortcut,” both to school and to friendship. I hope you found your crew of rule followers w/out having to spend too much time w/ the potheads. Boy, this brings back memories of my high school, which had a designated smoking section for students out behind the building,
Maureen, I love the way this poem moves to its final end: “the shortcut”. It is amazing where our poems can take us, and I could immediately relate to this poem. At my high school, there were plenty of smokers outside. I love how you show that you made friends, but remained the “rule-follower”. I enjoyed the emotions shared through the line: “free spirited fallen forgotten fringe there they sat”. Great poem!
Ooo, Maureen, the alliterations really carry the flow of this “shortcut” journey. This repetition, whether full-blown pantoum or not, has really worked here, letting us watch you look and think about what it’d mean to join in a new set of friends so unlike what you’d known. The tug of “rule-follower” really works. I loved the word choices: fringe kids…fallen trees…follower…friendless… and ending in “shortcut”… oh yeah, that’s a loaded ending! Great poem! You made this form really work-it! Thank you! Susie
We Never Knew
We never knew till we were older.
Why was Mom in the hospital for five long years?
She was just a face in the window. That’s all that we could see.
They didn’t let us visit, so we just lived in fear.
Why was Mom was in the hospital for those five long years?
“She broke her back. She’s in a brace. That’s why she can’t come home.”
They didn’t let us kids visit, so we just lived in fear.
And we waited and waited and waited for our mother to come home.
“She broke her back. She’s in a brace. That’s why she can’t come home.”
Some said, “You stepped on a crack and broke your mother’s back.”
And we waited and waited and waited for our mother to come home.
For years, I walked fearfully, “It’s my fault Mom’s stuck on that rack.”
Some said, “You stepped on a crack and broke your mother’s back.”
She was just a face in a window. That’s all that we could see.
For years, I walked fearfully, “It’s my fault Mom’s stuck on that rack.”
We never knew till we were older. Our mother had had TB.
Oh my! It must have been so hurtful to be on the receiving end of the taunt, “you stepped on a crack and broke your mother’s back.” I hope we have learned a thing or two about how to have hard conversations with kids!
So, right, Maureen. Mother went into the hospital when I was three years old and remained until I was eight years old. She returned a year later for another year. Thankfully, we four children were in a loving “foster” home on a small farm…no inside toilets or running water…but lots of love.
When mother got out of the hospital, our family lived in the city with sidewalks laid out in grids. We walked to school! Even after all these decades, I still watch and avoid cracks when I walk on sidewalks like those! You’re so right. What we teach kids stays in their minds…even when they know better.
The other “lie” we were told is that Mom swallowed a chicken bone! That’s another “poem”!
The repetition of waiting within the one line adds impact to the emotional frustration, and then to see that line repeated compounds that effect. The idea that walking fearfully would last “for years” has such a heavy weight, and the alliteration with “stuck” and “rack” hits like a thump on the chest, along with the word “that” – that over there, that thing, that other. I am always awed by what can seem such ‘simple’ word choices, but that convey complex meaning and experience. I agree with Maureen’s comments. I can’t imagine not being told, but even today, I understand there are people who hide the fact that they have tested positive for Covid. We wind so much fear around the unknowns of disease, but do we make it worse to try to hide it? I didn’t know people were kept hospitalized for so long for TB. I would like to know more about your experiences during that time. I hope it reappears in some future poems. Thank you!
Anna, this poem is incredible. My mother was hospitalized for over a year and then in a nursing home for quite a long time. I remember sneaking to her room at least once while she was in the hospital, and I know the sense of loss and the dread of wondering if she would ever come home. However, I never had to deal with taunts, and I cannot even begin to imagine the pain of that type of emotional abuse. I was particularly touched by the line: “She was just a face in a window”…so powerful and gut-punching! Thanks for sharing such a personal trauma. Hugs to you, Anna!
Oh wow, Anna — What a poem! This is such a real story…so loaded with the anxiety of a kid and yet eerie in the looking through a window to see something that was so misunderstood. I think this might be my favorite poem of yours. It is fraught with a child’s misplaced guilt shown through those images of “waiting” and “face in the window” and the killa repetition of “broke your mother’s back” from the childhood rhyme. Ooo! This is really poignant. Terrific poem! Thank you for sharing such a personal piece of your history. Susie
Oh, so sad her condition was not explained to you and that you had to carry that guilt based on others’ superstition. The repetition of “For years I walked fearfully…” emphasizes the weight of the burden you carried. So sad you could only see your mom through a window for so long!
Anna, Anna, Anna
This speaks to me on so many levels. It is what my mom and uncle experienced as children. You eloquently explained the pain and curiosity children feel when adults don’t explain scary things to them. Its true that children believe those crazy superstitions too. Bravo ???? I enjoyed the sad journey and was hoping you would reveal the ailment at the end.
The Subway Station
I wait against the wall of the subway station.
I wonder about the private lives of the people making their way through the turnstiles.
I stare at some of the more intriguing faces.
Then, I spot my mom.
I wonder about the private lives of the people making their way through the turnstiles.
Are they happy?
Then, I spot my mom.
I am happy to see her because I know we’re going to go shopping!
Are they happy?
I look at each face as they walk past trying to imagine their lives.
I am happy to see her because I know we’re going to go shopping!
Is that all my mom meant to me: a shopping companion?
I look at each face as they walk past trying to imagine their lives.
I stare at some of the more intriguing faces.
Is that all my mom meant to me: a shopping companion?
I wait against the wall of the subway station.
I really like the way you use questions here. It has me thinking about how often I hear students told not to write and include them, and I always wonder why that’s done. These questions give your readers a way in to your head, your heart. To you then, and also you now – looking back. They remind us that we should be asking questions…that our questions help us navigate and forage through moments and memory.
Thank you for your comment, Erin. I love to use questions in my writing so thank you for noticing that.
Subways can be so anonymous – and there, in the midst, is your mom! I suspect she is far more than a shopping companion. This is lovely!
Thank you, Maureen. Yes, she was much more than a shopping companion. I’m just getting to discover the tip of that iceberg!
I really like the way tone shifts in this poem from a happy feeling to inquisitive self-examination about your motives in wanting to see your mom. You’ve taken something normal and shown it’s myriad complications.
Thank you, Glenda.
I like looking “at each face as they walk past trying to imagine their lives.” I feel a lot of introspection in these words and throughout your poem as you try to figure out relationships with people. Of course that was not all that mom meant to you, I am sure. But at that moment, she was probably helping with the shopping payment too. Mine was.
LOL! Yes, she was Susan.
I really enjoyed reading this poem.
I like these two lines. “I wonder about the private lives of the people making their way through the turnstiles.
I stare at some of the more intriguing faces”
I have never been on a subway, but I’ve seen one on TV (lol). I can imagine there are people from all walks of life with intriguing storries.
Subways are really interesting places, especially subways in NY. So many different people from all walks of life. One of my favourite places to be.
This form is a challenge, one I’ve never tried before. What was interesting to me is that my mind went immediately to this memory. There was no other option – this story needed to be told today. I feel like I could tinker more, and I may, but now that the words are on the page, it feels a bit like I’m doing a postmortem, and seeing the whys and hows of me. Something I’ve been working up the courage to do, and glad for this opportunity to get started on a project that has been simmering for months.
Your Cruelty
I’ll never forget
How you made up that song
And tortured me with it’s lyrics
Through most of third grade
Your made-up song, my name the first two words
told everyone who would listen
During the longest third grade year in history
That I was on welfare
Everyone who listened learned
Something I didn’t even know others saw as shameful
That my mom needed to use food stamps to feed us
Until you sang it like an accusation
I didn’t feel shame
Until you tortured me with those words
Sang your accusation
I’ll never forget
Your cruelty
Dear readers – please know that as an adult, I feel no shame about my mother doing everything she could to take care of her girls. I’m grateful for it, and I hope my poem expresses how words can bring shame even when we don’t start from a place of shame.
This poem speaks a truth we’re often hesitant to share. The cruelty is palpable. Who is the “you” is something I want to know. How can we take our childhood shame into our adult lives is a paradox I struggle to understand. I do it, too, and have done it my entire life. I think there’s an inherent fear we’ll only be seen as our childhood selves.
This kind of teasing/taunting is so cruel, really cuts at you – takes away something precious. I am struck by the line “Something I didn’t even know others saw as shameful” I hope if this cruelness was from a classmate, a teacher set them straight . This is a powerful poem, really shows how words can make or break us.
Am I wrong that your mom was on her own? I, too, had a single mom most of my childhood. It was so normal for me that I didn’t realize the differences between my life and those of my classmates for years–until other kids pointed things out. I know the cruelty of kids and I wonder where the adults in this were–I’d nail a kid in my classroom (high school) to the wall for this kind of behavior. That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right?
Erin, I have been the victim of cruel words, and I have spoken them as well. Thank you for reminding us how deep our words can cut. As a teacher, I am intentional with ensuring my Scholars speak to one another. My mom was “on the system” until I was in 7th grade. I, like you, am grateful that she did what she had to do to feed her babies.
Erin, I applaud your mom’s strength and clearly she raised an amazing daughter in you. I have often told new teachers that inside of every child is a monster. Our job is to help them recognize when the monster is there and when the human child is there. You were definitely in the midst of monsters. Smh.
I’m sure you are the protector for many who may be teased or taunted for any reason. I am that way because of the bullies of my childhood.
Thank you for sharing this memory.
What an amazing share. Thank you so much for giving us this glimpse into that third grade year. “Accusation” “tortured” “shame” – this poem is jumping off of my screen!
Erin, thanks for sharing this hard experience. Shaming others is such a cowardly thing to do even when you’re in grade three. I hope that child has been able to look back on that experience from a different perspective and realizes how horrible that must have been for you.
Thank you, Kim. What a story of a kazoo that was confiscated. So funny! Afraid of someone being a Pied Piper really is a great image and what a great line–
Thank you for the childhood memory poems today and yesterday. When I saw O’Donnell’s poignant “Second Grade Pain,” I remembered a second grade story myself, one of love and feeling singularly special.
Homemade Dresses
Homemade dresses with rickrack trim
Love from my mother’s hands and heart
Seven new dresses for her seven-year-old daughter
I started second grade in style
Love from my mother’s hands and heart
Even though she was busy with six other children
I started second grade in style
Proudly chose which to wear on the first day
Even though she was busy with six other children
My mom, without a husband to help, did her best
Proudly chose which to wear on the first day
Proud to tell my teachers who made my dresses
My mom, without a husband, to help, did her best
Seven new dresses for her seven-year-old daughter
Proud to tell my teacher who made my dresses
Homemade dresses with rickrack trim
What a testament to the strength, resilience, creativity of your mother. I can almost see you spinning in front of a mirror basking in your reflection – with so much pride and joy. This reminded me so much of my grandmother, who made my junior prom dress. I vividly remember being proud of every detail and so excited to show it off and let everyone know that it was made just for me. Thanks for taking me back!
This is a lovely tribute to your mom. I love that you remember your rickrack dresses fondly. You’ve sparked a memory of a homemade dress an aunt made me years ago. The Pantoum is a wonderful form for this memory of your mom’s love and your pride in her.
Now cannot stop remembering all that rickrack trim! These two lines hit me hard, “Love from my mother’s hands and heart” and “Proud to tell my teacher who made my dresses.” At that age, clothes did matter, and kids could be so kind and so cruel about what others wore – or had no choice but to wear. Similarly, with eight kids, my mom was at that sewing machine regularly, and hand-me-downs were the order of the day. Seven new dresses would have been like winning the lottery. Your mother is a saint!
Gosh, Denise — I love this. The nostalgia of the mother-daughter love…the love language of a gifted gesture…what a great mom. You took me directly to my mom’s sewing all my clothes until I hit high school and learned to sew myself (making everything I ever wore until I got my first teaching job and swore about 5 years in that I’d finally buy clothes! HA! The repetitions of your lines really work for you in building the affection and admiration that comes stitch by stitch…that sewing, itself an extremely repetitive action truly reflects in the form of the poem. What a great mom! What a great daughter! Love it! Susie
Oh, I know this was very, very special for you! What a sweet ‘back to school’ gift – “Seven new dresses for her seven-year-old daughter” . . . I imagine there was a similar effort for your siblings; my goodness, she must have been up late into the wee hours every night for months on end, just getting you ready for the new year! Sweet memory, Denise!
My mom sewed everything for me as well! Even as a young adult she made a lovely travel wardrobe of clothes for me to take on my first European trip. I really miss her love and skill. Love rickrack!
Denise, I love how this poem’s form opens and ends with the image…so simple, so clear…and it expands until the poem collects all those memories and feelings, and displays the contrast of how we felt in the moment of the memory and how we feel now as adults. What a beautiful tribute to your mom! Thank you for sharing it with us!
This reminds me of watching my grandmother cut patterns for blouses or dresses she made for herself. She was very creative and always looked good. You express such fond memories here.
Hi Denise,
What an honor to have moms like yours! This is unforgettable for me:
Your mom and all moms like her should have special places in heaven because earth sure makes it hard.
May in Oklahoma
The sky smelled through the window screen.
The window screen smelled like the sky.
As we looked close through a film of green,
All was still but the wind on the fly.
The window screen smelled like the sky.
Then debris came out of hiding.
All was still but the wind on the fly,
As the finest of grit tapped the siding.
Then debris came out of hiding.
Straws, paper, plastic scurried around.
As the finest of grit tapped the siding,
The plump sprinkles plopped on the ground.
Straws, paper, plastic scurried around,
As we looked close through a film of green,
The plump sprinkles plopped on the ground.
The sky smelled through the window screen.
Katrina! After composing several pantoums since first learning about them from Anna over a year ago, I know how important those first four lines are, and you crafted a gorgeous first stanza. I love, love the rhyme as I feel like I am sitting with you for story time, and this is a lovely tune to wish for and welcome May in Oklahoma!
Thank you!
Sarah
Katrina, your use of personfication gives your poem another evocative element. You’ve made the wind seem at time like a playful menace with elements viewed from inside!
I spent one May living in Oklahoma when I was in middle school, and this took me right back. Your sensory images transported me to a memory I didn’t even know I had!
The flurry of activity I sense here could have so many applications. I see the teeming of life, little ants carrying bits of debris or the microscopic lens looking Through the top of a lake where the surface is the window. Very intriguing – like an abstract painting where everyone will see something beautiful yet all so different.
Thank you, Kim, for encouraging us to use the pantoum form. I love it!
Second Grade Horrors
At my new school, I went outside to play
and on that exciting beautiful day
I heard two little girls say,
“we’re not jumping rope with those ni**ers”
On that cloudless sunny California day in 1970
I was part of the last forced school integration
“you girls jump with your own kind”
At six years old, I wasn’t even fully aware I’d been disrespected
This hadn’t been a problem at my other school, both races had gotten along easily
Mommie had told me that morning not to pay attention to the “news station people” and cameras
My comrades hung their heads, one cried and a boy yelled back at the racists
That’s when I knew my dinnertime chat with my parents would be eventful
I saw a glimpse of myself on the TV news that night and called myself a movie star
The ugly-mouthed girls were probably just repeating what they’d heard at home
I learned of my parents’ attempt to flee Southern ignorance that night over dinner
All I wanted from my new school was to play, read, color, swing, and laugh.
Seana,
Thank you for allowing us to bear witness to this second grade scene. I am so sorry you had to carry the voices of these racists for so many years. I want to know about the other school. I want to see the girl play, read, color, swing, and laugh now. I wish it could be so for second graders everywhere. I want us to all jump rope together.
Peace,
Sarah
Seana,
I am so sorry this happened to you. I want to bitch-slap those girls’ mouths. There’s no excuse for what they did. I want to “play, read, color, swing, and laugh” with second grade you and adult you. We need an Ethical ELA virtual painting party. Thank you for trusting us w/ your memory. In it I see a call to action and a responsibility to do all I can to make sure children don’t have these kinds of memories when they are adults.
So glad you had parents who helped you “cope” with the issues of being an unwanted “other”. So sad, that a simple move from one area of the country to another did not solve the problem of living with “the others”.
Seana, that kind of pain that takes readers of every race straight to the hearts of the victims who felt shunned, who felt deep sorrow, who felt angry – is the kind of wake up call that our nation and our world needs to do the work of dynamic change. Thank you for sharing this with us today.
Oh my goodness! What a horrible thing to happen. A rude and hard introduction of racism for a six year old. I am so sorry this happened. I am sure this made a life long impression.
Dang. I instantly thought about how not until recently did I fully understand the reasons why Brown v. Bd of Ed didn’t equal a win for us. Fast forward to integration via magnet programs and permits, same old bull####. I hope you eventually found a place to “play, read, color, swing, and laugh” without harm.
Love your poem, hate our struggle.
I am stunned by how the title of O’Donnell’s book – You are no longer in trouble – is blowing me open. Between that and some guidance on form (which I love in poetry), my writing brain is working overtime. THANK YOU to Kim for these prompts. Wow.
In the playroom
You no longer need to hide
with me behind the old blue chair,
holding each other so tight our memories mix
as the storm blows through.
With me behind the old blue chair,
our words creating worlds where little girls reign
until the storm blows through,
until we can come out and play again.
Our words creating worlds where little girls reign,
your emotions are mine, mine yours
until we can come out and play again
I hold your fear.
Your emotions are mine, mine yours
holding each other so tight our memories mix.
I hold your fear.
You no longer need to hide.
Amanda,
The hiding and the holding are tugging at me here. This poem is gorgeous and the anchor — this blue chair- centers my thinking as the two “holding each other so tight our memories mix” and while “the storm blows through.” Such a comfort at the end with “You no longer need to hide” — the “n” sound is lovely.
Sarah
Oh, Amanda. I feel like your poem cracked me wide open today. This took me right back to so many moments of holding and guarding my younger sisters through some tough times when we were young. Your line “holding each other so tight our memories mix” – I’ve BEEN there. Your poem took me back there.
Amanda, your poem highlights so well the value of a friend with whom to share our fears.
Have you read SWING by Kwame Alexander? Believe it or not, some of these issues are described poetically about friends in high schools.
Others here…I highly recommend the book. It’s written as a poem…lots of white space…but lots going on all over the place.
I hold your fear and you no longer need to hide are my two favorite lines in your Pantoum, and you positioned them so strategically. I feel the little girl safety behind the chair, the magic of reassurance. Beautiful! I have an image of 2 little girls in princess dresses running with bare feet down a wood floor hallway, barely escaping a dragon on their heels.
Your poem took me straight back to the room I shared with my older sister until I was in fourth grade. We were close then (sadly less so now), and that’s what your poem brought back. That’s what a good poem does, right? It connects and extends at the same time.
I felt afraid to read each line of this poem. Every phrase is beating into my chest. I felt like I was in a storm.
This was my favorite line. Thank you so much for sharing.
Thank you, Kim, for providing a wonderful format. I’ve already written several poems using it – what FUN! The one I’m posting is a very simple thank you to a dear friend.
Suki
The world would be a darker place without you in it
With your endless love you have enveloped my heart
With your words you inspired my human soul
With your understanding you helped bring me out of darkness
With your endless love you have enveloped my heart
You have healed wounds you didn’t even know existed
With your understanding you helped bring me out of darkness
And gave me hope in my hopeless world
You have healed wounds you didn’t even know existed
You weren’t afraid to reach out your hand to me
And gave me hope in my hopeless world
You gently showed me how to see light once again
You weren’t afraid to reach out your hand to me
With your words you inspired my human soul
You gently showed me how to see light once again
The world would be a darker place without you in it
Judi, this is a beautiful thank you. Each line is simultaneously general enough to apply to many people and specific enough to be for your friend. Simply reading this makes me long to reach out to those who have done this for me and thank them. Thank YOU for sharing this.
Judi! I hope you shared this with Suki. And I hope this poem inspires others to write such a thank you poem. This line sings, ” With your endless love you have enveloped my heart” and offers such an understanding for what friendship can do.
Peace,
Sarah
Judi, she must be a dear friend. Such a beautiful tribute to Suki. I love the idea of light and darkness in these lines:
Lovely!
Judi, what a way to pay tribute to a friendship! This is beautiful – it deserves framing with pressed flowers and fern fronds, and gift wrapping for Suki. What a blessing she is!
Judi, I hope you shared this with your friend! I pray all people have a friend like this in their lives. Marvelous tribute! I loved this stanza because it opens with what makes a real friend the true medicine for our wounds:
Love it.
I used the online pantoum form generator but didn’t like the ending, so I took freedom to add one extra line. I will preface this poem with the fact that before going to summer camp, I had NEVER been camping nor away from home for 2 weeks. It was pretty tragic. ?
Summer Camp Blues
Two weeks of sleep-away summer camp
Cold showers with grimy grout
Teen leaders with acne and attitude
Eleven years old and alone
Cold showers with grimy grout
My body not yet budding
Eleven years old and alone
My best friend starts her period
My body not yet budding
Two weeks of sleep-away summer camp
My best friend starts her period
Teen leaders with acne and attitude
gave her the secret bag.
©Stacey L. Joy, March 14, 2021
Oh! I’m right there with you. “Teen leaders with acne and attitude.” I remember them – and their kindness when we inevitably needed them anyway. The “secret bag” – yes. I’m glad you added that as the ending; it really completes the poem.
Stacey, you capture the essence of summer camp with its loneliness, “Eleven years old and alone.”
Stacey,
Thanks for sharing the pantoum generator. I will certainly share it with students. I am brought directly to the moment when I camped as an adult and never have since — this cold shower and grimy grout with bodies budding is everything I can’t get into with the camping. The secret bag has me thinking about periods and this public/privacy/personal/universal sense of bodies. Also, I would love more poems about your sleep-away camp. I’ve never been and would love a middle grade verse novel on this, please!
Peace,
Sarah
Stacey,
The line of “Eleven years old and alone” is so poignant and sad. I remember my first daughter who was always so homesick whenever she went away from home. It made me sad for you being at that camp for two weeks, but you learned so much, I’m sure! Like about the secret bag and periods. I agree with Sarah. A verse novel about an eleven year old at camp would be delightful and real.
Thanks Sarah! I probably would need to get hypnosis to recall details. It was the worst!! Love your encouraging words though so I need to dig into my memories.
Stacey, this takes me straight back to Judy Blume….such anticipation of that first time – oh, and to be at camp when that happened. At least she had you – her best friend. And the secret bag….how we tried to hide it and show it off all at once! This is kind of strong emotional story draws us all in to listen closely!
Others have addressed the issue of lonliness. I’m so glad you took poetic license and added an extra line. It’s the gifting that helps us deal with the lonlies. Thanks. I’m tearing up. My how powerful these poems are today!
Stacey, I’m right there with you. While I do enjoy camping, I never could understand summer camps. The line “Eleven years old and alone” takes me right back to those solitary nights in the bunk bed, so far from home, so afraid of the daddy long legs hovering 12″ from your face, so not into the sleep-away thing.
OHHHHH yikes, I forgot all about the sounds at night that made me think animals were in the bed with me.
That secret bag! Looks like sleep away camp definitely holds so many memories for us. I remember those cold, uncomfortable showers and your poem smacks us right back into that awkward teen space. Sometimes I think of memories like these ones before I face my sixth graders. Thank you for writing this beauty and sharing it with us!
I love the liberties you took w/ the form. There’s nothing left to say after “gave her the secret bag.” Every female here knows what that means. Love it!
Kim, I’m so happy that you chose pantoum today! I haven’t written one in a while. I saw this link to a pantoum writing tool that makes it super easy to keep to the form. Thought I’d share in case anyone might need more guidance with the form.
http://jacobjans.com/pantoum.html?fbclid=IwAR1n8E1dh9ON4s7sdmslY-u5cm2Uz_9d-v7F0BKm20D2s8U-AevhYL00FH4
I love this line:
You rock!
OMG Stacey! This is fabulous – – I LOVE LOVE LOVE this generator. It’s magic! You just type and it puts your lines where they go. I love all that we share in this group – this form is a wonderful tool.
I’m glad! It helped me today because my brain has too many tabs open! ?
I’ve been having fun with the pantoum generator now too. And this comment about your brain having too many tabs open made me laugh out loud! Thanks for sharing your treasure with us today!
Totally agree with Kim! Thank you for passing this on, Stacey! I’ve been playing with this Pantoum Generator for the last 45 minutes! (And after following some links, I landed on The Poetry Marathon — 24 poems in 24 hours…What madness is this!? Lol. That makes me tired just thinking about that…I think I’m just going to lie down for a nap now….)
Scott, well let me check that out! I am trying to finish my weekly lesson plans but sure could use a Poetry Marathon distraction right now. I know I will regret it later. ?
Thanks for these prompts, Kim. I’ve really enjoyed your mentor poems, too. You make this look so easy! From yesterday’s “he perked up: / playfully goofed-up his gaze / eyebrows raised / mouth ablaze with a smile” to today’s “who were you now? the Pied Piper? / were you to groove and kazoo through the streets? / a kazoo — neither bong nor bazooka.” For myself, in terms of today’s challenge, I would say, “I’ve never written a pantoum that I didn’t like, but, you know, the opposite of that.” I did, however, try to access an early memory. (It didn’t quite reach as far back as the second grade, though. So, really, what I’m realizing is that I, ultimately, “failed” twice today. Lol.)
______________________________________
Sometimes I think about
when I was little,
circa fifth grade and
then into sixth,
we would write these
stories on Fridays
and if they were
good enough,
the “best”
in the class, we
were taken to
the principal’s office
and asked to
read the story
to her.
I loved that.
I would tell the
harrowing tales
of Space Ace.
I don’t remember
anything of the
actual adventures
just that he wore
a helmet, and
and I shamelessly
stole the intro
from the Twilight
Zone. (I’m talking
wholesale theft;
I would even write
the theme song:
do do do do, do
do do — you really
had to “sell” that
part in the recitation.)
I think of this sometimes
when reading senior
contrast essays (between
the epic heroes Gilgamesh
and Beowulf) and I
stumble upon a passage
that has a beautifully
phrased appositive
embedded, correctly, into
a masterfully written
complex sentence, one
with four dependent
clauses (not to mention
the fact that the
hyperlinks are still active,
blue and underlined).
So, yes, I think of this
sometimes, when I
feed the essay through
Turnitin and make a note
that will, effectively,
send the senior to the
principal’s office,
knowing that they
might not enjoy
the experience
as much as I did.
Or do.
Scott, thank you – I am glad you have enjoyed the prompts and the writing experiences. I’m even happier when writers in our group write to the beat of their own rules and rhythms. That’s who we are – – you are a leader of style! This memory you have of your own early creative writing and the ability to take literary license and strong inspiration , situated against those same inspirations that are today unfortunately considered plagiarism, punishable, is such a strong illustration of why students lose their love of writing if they manage to find it in the first place. The rules are not designed to perpetuate the love. I also love the helmet that appears and wonder if, subconsciously, you remember it because it’s a way to protect the joy that is sometimes lost along the way for writers whose ideas are lost on others without the ability to appreciate our gifts. We all need writers’ helmets from time to time.
I was reading along, having fun, enjoying your story, laughing at your Twilight Zone theft, and then… the appositive. “Oh,” I thought, “lucky him” until the hyperlinks, when I snorted out loud. Ha! I love the way the poem twists back to the principal’s office & I hope that your writers eventually find their own inspiration.
Scott, you have brought up such a great issue here, and as always with lightness and love. I cracked up with those amazing sentences, complete with blue hyperlinks. We’ve all seen it. I am dealing with a grade 11 plagiarism issue right now, so I am going to bed thinking about your poem.
Scott — AHAHAHAHA! This is soooo funny! I’m here hee-hawing! This
Geez, this is just a stitch! And I love the humility of the end…understanding …teachers know …they’ve been there, done that…literally! AHAHAHA! While you set pantoum aside, you certainly did not set aside another terrific poem. Love it. Susie
Thank you for the inspiration, Kim. I love playing with the pantoum form!
Kindergarten
By Mo Daley 3-14-21
Sister was very concerned about you
She called me in for a special meeting
“Your son,” she reported, “only colors with a red crayon.”
I struggled to suppress a smile and attempted to feign shock
She called me in for a special meeting
To let me know how willful you were
I struggled to suppress a smile and attempted to feign shock
Clearly, she didn’t get you
To let me know how willful you were
She provided evidence—red picture after red picture neatly colored within the lines
Clearly, she didn’t get you
My five-year-old self-confident genius
She provided evidence—red picture after red picture neatly colored within the lines
“Your son,” she reported, “only colors with a red crayon.”
My five-year-old self-confident genius
Sister was very concerned about you. Mom was not.
I guess I should pay more attention to autofill! My husband, Steven, did not, in fact, write this poem!
Mo, this is so rich with layers of identity – – the family relationships of your sister, you as Mom, and your own mother and your son. And a child’s affinity for knowing his love and proclaiming it with his red crayon. My favorite line: clearly, she didn’t get you. Unfortunately, the truth of your message is such a prime example of what happens in classes all over the world. Teachers don’t get students. They see one red flag (no pun intended here) and that becomes the focus instead of seeing the genius. You remind us to look beyond!
“My five-year-old self-confident genius” I notice how strongly your love for your child comes through. Line after line, as a reader I know that he is supported and that the Sister (Catholic school, I presume?) will not prevail. Oh, for more teachers who value our children’s individuality – and thank goodness for moms.
You are correct. Mike went to Catholic school
for preschool and kindergarten.
Hi Mo,
I have always had so many issues with teachers who draw conclusions from their ridiculous theories related to how children draw or what they draw. Wondering what would happen if every time a child wrote in red they would think something insane too. I love that “Mom was not” concerned. Thank goodness for Moms like you and our bright geniuses who don’t change their colors for anyone. ❤️
Bravo! Red is a fine color. I love the way you handled the situation and validated your son’s choice to color only w/ red. I love the way “special meeting” turns to show us a special child. Very cool poem.
My father spent all but thirty days of the last year and a half of his life in the hospital. He was 39 when he died. I was 16 and the last family member to see him alive.
After Receiving News of My Father’s Death
You asked, Where are you going?
Why don’t you stay a little longer?
The night before the knock
Bringing news of your death.
Why don’t you stay a little longer?
I should have known you were
Bringing news of your death
I kissed your cheek with promises to return.
I should have known you were
Saying your goodbyes in a question.
I kissed your cheek with promises to return
Tomorrow. I’d stay a little longer.
Saying your goodbyes in a question
The night before the knock—
Tomorrow I’d stay a little longer. Still
You asked, where are you going?
—Glenda Funk
Glenda. I feel your loss and sadness. If only… so heartbreaking, last goodbyes. Your poem in it’s simplicity evokes all those feelings.
A parent’s death is so difficult. There are so many emotions to wrestle with. The line that really got me was, “I should have known you were saying your goodbyes in a question.” It feels like you’ve captured your emotions and you dad’s so beautifully here.
Glenda, this power of the moment in the reflection of your interactions is such a gripping experience that you wrote today. The Pantoum form and its repetition for this kind of painful memory, though hard to write, brought me right into your heart to feel the tenderness. You masterfully used the line “I should have known you were…” to complete it differently two times, and that technique is one I want to experiment with in Pantoum writing. I also love your choice of first/last lines – – it really sticks with me.
For me, this poem highlights the brilliance of the pantoum form. The repetition brings us deeper and deeper into the emotion. The form makes his death inevitable. The simple diction – combined with your use of enjambment – gives me space to inhabit the poem. In short, this is gorgeous. It gave me shivers.
I agree with Amanda here. Every repetition took us a little deeper into the memory. It feels almost like descending stairs, looking around, and then taking a few more steps. Powerful.
Oh, Glenda, my heart is breaking over here for that sixteen year old girl and the memory she carries. You were there on his last day, the one he saw last. That is a good memory, I pray. The image of the knock bringing news of his death is haunting. This is a beautiful pantoum.
Oh my, Glenda, this is beautiful. So precious. These last moments with your father! This line gave me shivers down my neck, “Saying your goodbyes in a question.” How hard it must have been to lose your father at such a young age!
Oh gosh, Glenda — This is downright haunting and still raw after so many years. The repetitions bring that knocking sound, that question posed again and again, the promises. What a heart crushing time for you. This is a poem that really hits hard the sense of loss and the absence of our ability to change any of it. The question “where are you going” works on so many levels… what a fine poem. Hugs to you this Sunday evening. Thank you for writing such a beautiful piece. Susie
Oh Glenda…this poem made my heart hurt, burning my throat. I almost couldn’t breath after I read it. It is so sad and so strong and so beautiful. The repetition of the questions, the revolving nature of the lines. I don’t know how to respond is a way that eloquently and effectively describes how the simplicity of the poem resonates so deeply with me. Just heart in throat. Thank you for sharing your memory with us.
Oh my, Glenda. There’s so much to take in here. This really hit me:
When we don’t know it’s the last time, the way we leave is always more permanently marked in our memories than any staying we could have done.
Hugs!
Pantoum Penny Drop Wish
Iron anchor
Wooden-chip landing
Sunset promise
Penny drop wish
Wooden-chip landing
Momentum kick
Penny drop wish
Fireflies cheer
Momentum kick
Eyes moon-catch
Fireflies cheer
Dismount brave
Eyes moon-catch
Sunset promise
Dismount brave
Iron anchor
How very beautiful….I feel the summer in this. Those fireflies, that eye-catching moon, the sunset. All so evocative without explanation. This really shows and doesn’t tell in the very best way.
I have read this several times through the morning, and when I read your words, so simple and yet so powerful, I see everything from a wish for the day from the sunrise to the dusk to the moonrise and sunset. It’s a stunning snapshot – – the passage of time in warmer days when fireflies cheer. Perfect for the day of the time change.
Thank you for reminding us of the freedom, that flying through the air feeling, that comes after the dismount from the iron anchor. Nothing compares!
The Organist Makes a Mistake
By Nancy White
I was the organist.
I played at all the weddings.
How did I mix up the start time for this wedding?
I received a dreaded phone call, “Where are you?”
I played at all the weddings.
I got nervous every time and wanted it to be perfect.
I received a dreaded phone call, “Where are you?”
The pastor was not pleased — everyone was frantically waiting to start and I was home, dripping wet just out of the shower.
I played at all the weddings.
But this was my worst nightmare and the church was a half an hour drive away—oh SHIT!
I got nervous every time and wanted it to be perfect.
And now I’m arriving with wet hair sneaking past the angry glares, people checking their watches, and the bride waiting to go down the aisle.
I received a dreaded phone call, “Where are you?”
How did I mix up the start time for this wedding?
The pastor was not pleased — everyone was frantically waiting to start and I was home, dripping wet just out of the shower.
I was the organist.
Oh, Nancy! Dreaded phone call indeed! I can feel the scrambling and the chaos, and the overall panic, which the pantoum format assists in creating. The line, “I was the organist,” speaks with a finality, as if your role ended as well (I hope not!).
Nancy, my favorite line is “I was the organist,” because I love that you separate your title – “organist” – from who you are as a human being who wants it to be “perfect” but who is just as likely to make a mistake as any other human on the face of the planet. Your Pantoum form and the placement of each line is so effective in helping us visualize the waiting wedding party, and your arrival with wet hair. There was too much love in that room to not offer forgiveness :). And I’m sure that timing was the only note you missed!
Nancy, wow, I was sort of hoping your narrative was a bad dream. I can only imagine how awful this would be. I love how the repetition adds to the emotion, the embarrassment, and anxiety of this event. Well played!
Nancy,
My heart hurt for you, but I admit I giggled, too. Forgive me if you’re not yet able to laugh about this experience. Your telling of the story is so matter of fact, so deadpan. It’s perfect.
I don’t remember
Second Grade
First Grade? Perhaps
Third Grade? Sort of
Second Grade
disappeared into memory
Third Grade? Sort of
balanced on Mrs. Abbott’s nose glasses
Disappeared into memory
like notecards with stories and colors
balanced on Mrs. Abbott’s nose glasses
obscured by everything else
Like notecards with stories and colors
First Grade? Perhaps
obscured by everything else
I don’t remember
I love the details we remember from way back. Yet, how much we forget! “ Mrs. Abbott’s nose glasses” is perfect in describing the things we never forget. It’s funny, but for me the things I remember most about early school days are smells. The smell of classrooms, mimeograph machines, and kids’ lunchboxes.
Kevin — Your poem really does justice to the repetitions bringing us right along a loopy sense of forgetting…perfection! And the “nose glasses” are priceless. Neat poem and an honest sense of stuff many have long since set aside in the “obscured” closet. Susie
Kevin, your poem touches me deeply because I struggle with specific childhood memories but find those “Mrs. Abbott’s nose glasses” are the kinds of memories that stick. You chose a really powerful path for the repetition too.
Oh, I remember kazoos! I loved mine! How sad to have yours taken!
I’ve never tried pantoum before…it was interesting to see where this took me. I hope this experience I’m relating comes across…I was inspired by the word “pain” in the prompt’s title, although this is actual physical pain (well, and injured pride as well).
Bloody tinsel
Clutched in my hand
As I ran to the school bathroom
Past the glare of Mr. Hochevar
Clutched in my hand
The tinsel I had pulled from the tree
Beyond the glare of Mr. Hochevar
Dared by two cute boys
The tinsel I had pulled from the tree
Was supposed to make a whistle
Pranked by two cute boys
I ran the tinsel between pursed lips
I thought the tinsel would whistle
Like it did for Chuck and Jeff
I ran the tinsel between pursed lips
And watched the boys’ eyes widen
I’d been had by Chuck and Jeff
My lip sliced open by the tiny blade
The boys’ eyes silently laughed
As the blood spurted through my fingers
Under the glare of Mr. Hochevar
I ran to the school bathroom
Dared by two cute boys
Bloody tinsel
OMG, Julie, this was unexpected! Tinsel used for such unholy purposes– it’s hard to imagine! Good job, because I really dislike Chuck and Jeff, the little jerks!
Oh! Those horrible cute boys – how terrible. The images of bloody tinsel and the way you use blood, blade, whistles… this whole thing feels like a sexual awakening to me, especially when you add in Mr. Hochevar’s disapproval. Harumph. Stupid Chuck and Jeff. Jerks.
Chuck and Jeff – – tinsel challenge bullies. I wonder what that Karma was like when it got back around to them. I’m smiling a wicked grin. Thanks for sharing a relatable painful memory of prank meanness and those last two words are hanging with me.
Well, growing up with four older brothers – no surprise here with Chuck and Jeff! I like Amanda’s comments about the subtle sexual awakening, most especially because of the male adult figure who shows no compassion for the young girl’s plight. Young girls can be cruel to one another just as well as these young boys had been, but when the adult compounds the impact, that’s a doubling down that sticks. It’s almost a rite of passage all young girls go through, developing a sense of distrust early that makes them wary of that ‘cuteness’ for life. Tinsel pranking in my youth was my brothers telling me to rub a strand above my lip and the static would make it float. Alas, it did not float, but thanks to what was probably toxic lead, I was left with a grey moustache. Hardy-har-har.
Thank you for the form today, Kim. I need some structure to rein me in and keep me focused, and I am up for the challenge this month! I actually went to first grade for this memory, though it was my memory of gobbling up all the SRAs in second grade that make me think of this.
Back When I Couldn’t Read
I don’t remember but have been told
I couldn’t read by first grade
teacher said I wouldn’t listen
but I heard every word she said
By first grade I couldn’t read
but would recite whole books from memory
I heard every word my siblings said
as they sat and read to me
I had each book they read memorized
I was alive inside those story worlds
begged my siblings read me more
I loved the sound of every word
I have lived whole lives through story worlds
though one teacher said I wouldn’t listen
I am in love with the sound of words
And remember what I have been told
Oh, I remember SRAs! I love the idea in your poem of memorizing entire books as you listen to them…I remember my daughter doing this and then “reading” the book back to us. You’ve really captured the warmth and joy of shared reading. This is how true readers are born.
SRAs! I loved them. But, I was competitive enough to start skimming and cheating. Those little stories were so great. I truly would have spent my entire fifth-grade reading SRAs. There is no explicit reference to pain in this….but gosh, the pain of wanting the story, of not being able to get it yourself. That is one good story poem.
Skimming IS a reading skill! LOL! I think the pain was more my mother’s when she learned – after preparing six older siblings for school – that I truly could not read by first grade. Needless to say, I was an advanced reader by third grade!
The best part about SRAs was moving up a color tab and being able to use the color pencils to shade in the progress when I finished a card. The joy of reading was not in the SRAs – but in the shared reading you describe. I love your repeating lines – and “I was alive inside those story worlds”
Pure bliss!
“I was alive in those story worlds” – that line grabs my heart. And teachers are not always right – thank goodness!
Oh, I love a pantoum! Kim…that’s crazy. A kazoo? I love that the title is anyone’s reaction to that incident. How strange. Thanks for these prompts. I have loads of good free-write stuff in my journal now.
The S Word
One October, home from school
I told Mom about the collage I made
magazine words cut up and glued
words I learned in second-grade
I told Mom about the collage I made
and I asked about a word I didn’t know
of words I learned in second grade
I said the word — she swallowed, oh!
I told Mom all about the collage I made
of words I learned in second grade
and I asked about a word I didn’t know
I said the word — she swallowed, oh!
Words I learned in second-grade
magazine words cut up and glued
I said the word — she swallowed, oh!
One October, home from school
I can just picture this moment, and it’s funny to have the dichotomy of picturing it as both the child and the parent simultaneously. The tight structure of this poem makes it feel just like a children’s story, which is perfect!
Linda, the format and rhythm are perfect for your topic. It absolutely sounds like a child telling a story. It made me smile.
Linda, I’m so glad I landed on your poem today. The repeating structure of this poem adds to the humor and the feeling that you were both scrambling to make sense of the situation and the word, as if you were going over and over it to sort out how and why this happened.
It’s just such a great rhyming word. In a sense, it was a Seussical move with the nonsense words, made up as kids will do. And for 2020, it really defines the times. This is priceless – what a fun memory of some humorous pain. Love the Pantoum for your memory, too! It drives home the reaction of your mother.
I love that you never tell what the word was. Of course you don’t need to, but it’s subtly censored from being said. It could have gone either way, but it makes this its own kind of fun mentor poem: “Write a poem about a word without using that word.” You met that challenge!
This is so much fun, Linda – and realistic; how many of us recall the first time we said a certain word to our parents? Or when our children did? Once at school a small student tattled on another: “He said the ‘s’ word!” With fear and trepidation, I got to the bottom of it: the “word” was “shut up.” Which, I said, is very bad indeed (as I exhaled).
Linda, how cute is this! I would love to have witnessed your mom’s reaction. Too cute. I was also fond of the S word. LOL.
Kim – seriously? A kazoo was confiscated? What a framing here, the relative absurdity of a kazoo itself and as a symbol for the absurdity of this moment. I have fond childhood memories of kazoos and I feel this booming voice scarring your soul and ruining your memories, so perfectly captured here.
2nd grade… scarring… here we go:
2nd Grade Trouble Pantoum
I’m in trouble for reading
My little heart bleeding
For I hid during math with a book
When Teacher came to look
My little heart bleeding
To numbers, conceding
When Teacher came to look
In my cloakroom nook
To numbers, conceding
Warrior Teacher, succeeding
In my cloakroom nook
Oh, treasured book, that the pillager took!
Warrior Teacher, succeeding
For I hid during math with a book
Oh, treasured book, that the pillager took!
I’m in trouble for reading.
I’m also guilty of that charge! I hated math…still don’t like it and still am not good at it. I would sneak my reading book during math time. It was far more interesting! I always wanted the next story before reading time. Oh, my look at what memories your poem brought back.
That was me too, Fran. There’s more to love about words! Oh treasured book, that the pillager took is such a fun sentence to say! I wish all the “trouble” boiled down to reading books. What a wonderful world that would be. Love the Pantoum for this trouble you got in!
Fran, I can just see you hiding away with your book, the teacher looming largely and scolding. The pantoum works so well here to share the teacher’s actions and the idea that one can be in trouble for reading! Very fun poem to read!
What a treat this would be to children who hide to read. I would venture to use Rep. John Lewis’s words and say you “got in good trouble.” I love this but it makes me so mad to think about how so many children don’t get to spend quality time with the books they love.
our severing
on Valentine’s Day
a bloody massacre
of the heart
February 14, 1985
exactly one year
from the heart
that we began
365 days
one full circle
from our beginning
we ended
our birth circling
to the death of us
we became me
split wide open
Jennifer, I’m so sorry for your heartache.
Your writing is beautiful! It’s always fascinating to me that the pain in writing reveals a blessing of some sort – that we had a person we lost, that we no longer have a person we managed to shake free, that we overcame a tragedy, that we learned a truth we have carried….that we moved on.
oh, that pain. I can feel it…the worst kind.
Jennifer, I can feel it. “Split wide open” sums it all up. The short clipped lines of your poem create the sense of barely being able to speak, that breathless punch in the gut. Well done, but so sorry you had to go through this.
DANG, Jennifer, this is a punch in the heart. Geez, V-day is pretty cruel… “a bloody massacre” indeed. It is amazing how 36 years later you can, in so few words, hammer home the “death” of a relationship so clearly. You are a master at getting the right words to carry huge impact. Whew! (birth, death, severing, massacre, split wide open). Whoof! I applaud how solidly you nailed this hurt … bam. Hugs to you, my friend! Susie
This is profound in its brevity and power. It makes me mourn the pain and loss, all against the bloodied backdrop of Valentine’s day. So much symbolism.
Jennifer, whew, what a punch in the gut! I felt this in my core:
This poem deserved the graphic descriptions. “a bloody massacre/of the heart” Wow.
Kim, making new from the same was a good challenge this morning. You did it so effortlessly, or at least it seemed so. Your questioning of “just who were you?” as the pied piper draws from a childhood imagination and deepens the image of you marching through the streets of New York. I feel for the child whose kazoo was seized.
Jennifer, yes – I changed my original lines up just a little bit. I think Anna Roseboro had a super graphic organizer for the Pantoum form a few years ago.