Welcome to the 2021-2022 Open Write Series. Subscribe (on the right) to receive notices of new prompts. And subscribe here to join the Ethical ELA newsletters. Learn more about the Open Write here including upcoming Open Write dates.
Our Host
Denise Krebs is enjoying writing poetry with this community–the teacher-poets here inspired her to find her voice. Denise has taught kindergarten through grade 8 in California, Iowa, Arizona and Bahrain. She is volunteering at her school now and enjoying more time to cook, bake, create, write, and tell stories. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram at @mrsdkrebs. She co-authored The Genius Hour Guidebook and blogs at Dare to Care.
Inspiration
Today we are going to choose a mentor poem to help us craft. These mentors can come from anywhere you have read them, but I’d like to encourage you to choose a mentor from a writing community you are a part of–with students, peers, colleagues, someone here in this Ethical ELA community. For those who have been here writing, I know you have been inspired by fellow teacher-poets in this group. Today I chose a poem by Stacey Joy that struck me. Stacey wrote a sweet and beautiful poem called Love…. I was touched with the beauty and simplicity of her lines of similes.
Love…
Your love is tender
Enveloping like a patchwork quilt
Deep love like a poem
Sweet love like butter cookies
Golden love like sunshine
An agape kind of love
©Stacey L. Joy, April 24, 2021
Used with permission by the poet. All rights reserved.
Process
Look back in your memory for poems or poets that have touched you from this or other writing communities. Find a mentor you want to use and be inspired.
Ideas:
- Write a poem with your mentor’s poem as a guide. Go back to the prompts and poems from Saturday, Sunday, last April or anytime to find a mentor. Choose your own topic and try using their form.
- Try choosing a poem from today’s offerings that inspires you. You will be writing a third-generation inspired poem!
- Instead of a full form mentor, choose just one favorite line from another poem and incorporate that into your own poem.
- Use Stacey’s mentor form on your own topic. Here is a form for her “Love…” poem.
- Please share a link or information about what mentor you used, so we can enjoy your inspiration too.
- As usual, feel free to write anything you need to today.
Original Poem
Denise’s Poem
Alcohol…
Your alcohol is wounding
burying our family
in a wet shroud
Penetrating alcohol like the coyote’s yip-howl
Bountiful alcohol like a wake of vultures at dusk
Choking alcohol like a heart attack
A ravaging kind of alcohol
©Denise Krebs, April 24, 2021
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.
You gotta get you a man like mine-
one who will slip you a note
during a Zoom saying,
“There is a deer at the lilac bush.”
Oh Mo, I just happened by today for look for something, and I saw this gem. Yes, indeed. That is a special man. And a deer at the lilac bush is a beautiful image. I’m glad you got to see it.
Shadows
You created a world in which you are right-
The universe is wrong.
You are good-
All others are bad.
You try so hard-
But no one understands.
Your truth is the only one-
(the only one that matters).
Everyone is out to get you-
Anger is justified.
What happened didn’t happen-
It’s someone else’s fault.
You spun your web-
Tended it with care.
It’s your home-
You lie.
Sent from my iPhone
Wow, Donna, that poem is full of shadows. I like the way that last “You lie” has an extra space before it.
That is painful to live with this lie.
My mentor poem for today is Samson by Regina Spektor—and a nod to Stacy Joy on the theme of love.
Undertow
She sings
“You are my
sweetest downfall.
I loved you first;
I loved you first.”
And she’s right.
Kind of.
You are not a downfall.
But I have loved you
during all the others.
Underneath.
Forever it seems.
Without fail.
M. Shaffner
Oh, Michelle, I love that:
It could be a heartbreaking love from a distance or a love cemented together after all the others and finally fulfilled. A powerful poem with questions lingering.
Denise—thank you for the lovely feedback. I’ve written many poems on this topic over the past six months, but I’ve only been able to share them with whom the poem is for. Another below that answers a few questions, but probably raises even more. The ocean can be a great tormentor when it comes to love. The power of poetry <3
Locked-Away Love
I cried when I got in the shower this morning.
And when I drove away from the house.
I didn’t plan it that way, but
there aren’t many places I can cry for you.
How can grief and love
mingle so casually?
In my writing group, Teach Write’s Time to Write, we are challenged monthly to stretch our writing/genre muscles. In September, we wrote Elfchen poems (11 word poems) centered around “Comfort”.
Random Comfort – 9/2020 – Donnetta Norris
Slippers
Hot Tea
Peanut Butter Cookies
Lazy Days in Pajamas
Food
I am using my our poem as a mentor to write about “Summer”.
Summer – 6/21-22/2021 – Donnetta Norris
Relaxation
Longer Days
Walks at Dusk
Time to Get Away
Refreshing
Donnetta, fun! I heard about a new poem today, the Elfchen! Sweet. I love that these two go together in a way, both have to do with care for yourself. I love the comfort that comes from both poems.
Love this form and never heard of it before so thank you! I love that your September poem is all things autumn/winter and your summer poem is all things summer. I must save this form to my list of faves. 11 is my number so of course I want to write one now.
Thankful for this moment to be in summer! Enjoy your time off!
☀️
One Summer Night
Laughter flies through the
hot, humid, air
As voices join together with the songs of the crickets
Fireflies dance in the distance
And we chase them with jelly jars
Hoping for the prize
Capturing the light
Apollo barks joyfully
As he joins the chase
We flock to the porch
To sit on the steps
While grown-ups’ talk swirls around
When everyone leaves
Grandma tucks me in under cool yellow sheets
And softly kisses my forehead
Donna Aulenta
What a beautiful poem of love. You have captured the very essence of comfort and love in so few words! I especially like the stanza about the Fireflies “and we chase them with jelly jars – hoping for the prize – capturing the light” – that says it all!
Donna, I’m living that one summer night with you through your sweet simple words and images. It really is like I’m there–seeing and experiencing as the “Fireflies dance in the distance” and the “cool yellow sheets” plus everything in between. Beautiful!
Hello, everyone! I may not have made it over the weekend, but I couldn’t stay away any longer. This is the start of our last week of school – and with it, well, you know how it is. Today’s poem was inspired by Allison Berryhill from the last day of our Verselove 2021. I loved so many parts of her poem. Some of the lines below (see italicized) were lifted right out of her poem, a beautiful mentor text.
6/21/2021
Scary Things
By: Emily Yamasaki
The scary thing:
Picking a new year planner
Relocating to a new classroom
Adding a line on my resume
Before
the next school year
the grade level change
the new role
is only silence
(and failure’s sneering face
waiting with his foot in the aisle
to trip me flat)
Safer is to withhold
the effort, the sweat
hiding deeper in the folds
of my familiar
The scary thing is
to jump
before seeing what awaits
knowing my best
in any given
moment
is good enough
(but not that great)
The scary thing
is to
try.
Wow, Emily, so glad you came back to Allison’s mentor. To confront failure with his sneer and outstretched foot is a win for you. It’s scary but you will do your best, and that’s good. So glad you snuck in during this oh, so busy week to write a poem! Welcome, and hopefully we can see you again the next two days! Summer will come soon! Yay! All the best in your new position.
Great poem, Emily! Loved the use of the italics and so many of the lines rang true!
Hi Emily! So happy you had time to write last night after such a grueling time of year. I know how you feel. I was a wreck two weeks ago. Just know, it’s almost over.
Congratulations on your new endeavor. I’d love to hear more about it. Whatever it is, you’ll be amazing because that’s how you are. I feel for you. I am not one for career changes or new adventures within education. Thus, I’m still in room 37 doing 4th or 5th grade, nothing else. LOL. There’s much to be said about doing Scary Things. It speaks of your courage in spite of your fear of what awaits. It speaks of your will to do more and be better and serve more people. Don’t doubt that it will be right. If you do it, it’ll be right for you and them.
You selected the right lines to lift from Allison’s mentor poem. They seem to be meant for your poem, precisely.
I love that you opened with what seems so easy to some but I know how hard all of this is:
Go forth, shine, my friend! You’re a badass, always and forever!
Emily, I am touched to think my poem lingered with you. Thank you for hearing me. Your adaptation in looking at your coming year was compelling. I am scared along with you–while cheering you on! Bravo!
Denise, thank you for this prompt! The teacher-mentor poem that immediately came to mind was Allison Berryhill’s poem called Spring Break 1981. The imagery of the cigarette has always struck me. You can read her poem here: http://www.ethicalela.com/out-back-a-form/
January 2010
Washing dishes, I peeked out the frosty window and
I saw her resting against the red shed.
Two fingers purses the filter of
a slender Marlboro light.
The forbidden fruit, which had been quit,
was tempting her once again:
smack the pack
pick the perfect cylinder
pucker lips, gently
kiss its poison and
light its glowing eye
I couldn’t blame her. After all, her sister
(my aunt)
had just died and
for an evaporating moment
I pictured myself lighting one up with her.
Two glowing eyes in the
cold and dark Iowa January.
At what point does what you do
become who you are?
Rachelle,
Powerful imagery! I can just picture a woman leaning against a red shed lighting up a cigarette.
Oh, Rachelle, I can see why that line stayed with you. So many amazing images here. The whole stanza starting with “smack the pack” comes from doing and/or observing intimately the steps of lighting up a cigarette. “gently kiss its poison” “glowing eye” wow. So many powerful images. The starkness of those “two glowing eyes in the / cold and dark Iowa January” has me in awe of your writing in this poem, Rachelle.
Rachelle,
Even before the third stanza I could feel the pain in this poem. Your words were so rich with emotion before the picture was completely clear. Brilliant!
Rachelle, Its absolutely impressive all the emotions conjured up by describing this simple thing – lighting up a cigarette. Well done, I love this.
Oh, Rachelle! No wonder the cigarette image stuck with you: it mirrored your own cigarette moment. This poem is so hard and tender: a beautiful combination. I sense your disappointment in your mother and then your empathy, as you are tugged toward her pain. Beautiful.
Wow, Rachelle—beautiful. “Resting against the red shed” and “Two glowing eyes” certainly stay with me!
Denise,
Another great prompt. Loved revisiting everyone’s beautiful poems. I decided to go with Stacey’s form.
Your anxiety is cavernous
Engulfing life like a tidal wave
Stealing breath like paralysis
Immobilizing like a scorpion sting
A protracted kind of demise
Tammi–powerful and shocking imagery. The tone shakes the room. Nice work with such a short, yet pungent, poem.
Tammi, thank you for sharing your poem about anxiety. Those words and similes are few, as the form suggests, but they are rich and full of meaning–cavernous, tidal wave, paralysis and scorpion sting–and then leading to that slow death. Awfully jarring and sad. After reading these poems today, I am finding myself praying for all those with lingering illnesses, addictions, and anxiety. They can be devastating.
Tammi, ouch! I felt the sting in every line! Anxiety is a monster for sure. You’ve captured the personality and “bite” of it well. I hope this person with anxiety gets the help needed. I wrote my poem yesterday after spending time with yours about walking on Lake Eerie. Thank you!
?
Denise, I love the idea of turning to each other as mentors. As I read others’ poems tonight, I’m remembering so many poems I have loved!
A car wreck out on our gravel road today was something I needed to write about, so I returned to Rex Muston’s “Out and Back” poem as a mentor. He referenced William Stafford’s “Traveling through the Dark,” which I used (very loosely) to guide me in recording today’s scary time.
9 Lives
My husband called:
The Huddleson girl from up the road had put her car in the ditch
just south of the red shed.
I pulled up to see the side airbag waving limp surrender,
having given its all to protect the trembling teen
from so much as a scratch.
I wrapped my arm around the child’s shoulders.
A vicious chomp in the ditch weeds marked
where the Honda had swerved from gravel,
lurched against the culvert,
then breached the grassy ditch
before landing (somehow?) upright in tender June soybeans.
The girl’s parents arrived with ashen faces
we’d seen before: our neighbors’ and our own.
As we relinquished the scene to the family,
my husband and I ticked off the road’s 20-year tally of teen near-tragedies:
Remember when–
and when–
oh, and when–
Memory compounded memory,
demanding we once again surrender
to a grace that
spares us.
Allison, your poem is riveting! I could visualize this accident so well. But your end is absolutely compelling! “Memory compounded memory,
demanding we once again surrender
to a grace that
spares us.”
WOW! I sure hope Rex sees your poem! Outstanding poem!
Allison, gravel roads scare me to pieces. I strive to write narrative poetry like you, powerful and thought-provoking. The title of your poem really helps me understand more about the theme. Thank you for writing this today! PS: How coincidental that I also used “red shed” in my poem today? We’re on the same wavelength!
We are kindred. <3
Allison,
Thank you for sharing you poem today. Gravel roads can be scary. Glad you are counting near tragedies and not actual tragedies.
Allison, I love the title “9 Lives”–and then your shoutout “to a grace that / spares us” is beautiful. With beautiful images (“vicious chomp in the ditch weeds” “upright in tender June soybeans” you paint a picture of this scene. I can go on…the “airbag waving limp surrender, having given its all…” Oh my! As always I love your poem!
The vivid scene that you paint with your poem are so powerful! A gravel road, how terrifying!
Allison, I loved this! You had me at the first stanza and kept me with:
“waving limp surrender,
having given its all to protect the trembling teen”
“A vicious chomp in the ditch weeds “
“before landing (somehow?) upright in tender June soybeans.”
“Memory compounded memory,
demanding we once again surrender
to a grace that
spares us.”
That last stanza, especially! <3
Holy cow, Allison! I somehow missed this poem altogether this week. What a breath-halting sequence of descriptors. You so precisely led our eyes and our hearts with each detail that it was hard to look away— much as accidents are as they pull us in and as you pulled us with you. The tracks through the ditch… oh my gosh! The ashen faces of the parents… it just scares the daylights out of us. The airbag waving… oh good grief, I stopped breathing. To think of Iowa soybeans as the backdrop… always a thing of beautiful green when I’m on those roads… that’s a perfect juxtaposition… that pastoral vs nightmarish horror. Oh wow! That this was one “grace” among so many others not so lucky… those ending lines are the gift of exhaling, despite the title that told me this would end well. This is a poignant poem. You might share this in the county newspaper…or even with the Huddleson family. You have such a poetic gift. Thank you! Susie
Hi, Denise! Great prompt!
I used a line from Emily Yamasaki’s “Barista’s Romance,” which was her response to the “Secret Connoisseur” poem from 4/27 of Verse Love, and my inspiration for the poem was my 14-year-old daughter. I didn’t follow Stacey’s exact form–got sidetracked as I wrote. 🙂
From Emily Yamasaki’s “Barista’s Romance”
(I borrowed the line “coaxed into existence”)
“Trust” (to Emily
Your trust is reticent
Coaxed into existence — like that time
during the thunderstorm
when our Sprout hid under the dining room table —
Tail between his legs,
Afraid of what he couldn’t see,
Tasting the tang of lightning on the air
Smelling the possibility of thunder —
And unable to understand
That flowers follow rain.
Wendy,
I really love the way you compare Sprout’s fear of the thunderstorm to the fear of trusting. and just love these lines “Tasting the tang of lightning on the air” and the last line “that flowers follow rain” is a perfect ending to this beautiful poem.
Wendy, I love the juxtaposition in your poem. The fear and beauty radiates in this poem! Really love the line: “Smelling the possibility of thunder —”. Very accessible images and feelings here! Wonderful!
Oh, what a lovely poem.
I love how you barely mention it is a poem to your daughter, then proceed with a dog story (<3 <3) that is the perfect extended metaphor for coaching children’s trust.
Wow.
Coaxed into existence — like that time
during the thunderstorm
I love the story of the dog, but that it’s really about your daughter. So much beauty in this poem. Thank you for using my poem as your mentor text!
Loved your poem! 🙂
Oh, Wendy! Wow, this is such a lovely poem. Reticent trust, like that time…
It is such a beautiful story you tell, intimate and about a loved one, Sprout. You both remember and understand, and it can help her now trust perhaps when a hard decision had to be made she didn’t agree with. I think of raising my own teens when I read your poem. And of course, that last line speaks volumes of hope and love and trust well-placed.
I recently discovered a poetic form that I’ve been wanting to try and this prompt gave me a good opportunity (Thank you, Denise!). A Golden Shovel poem uses a quote of any kind or a line from a poem with each word of the excerpt being the last word of each line in the new poem. The poem I borrowed from is “Piute Creek” by Gary Snyder. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47181/piute-creek
The quote I used is: “A clear attentive mind / Has no meaning but that / Which sees is truly seen.”
In the woods, in the meadow, in a
valley, I venture out under the clear
sky, where I must be attentive
and work to see with my whole mind.
When I walk in the woods, it has
become my place of renewal. No
cars, no people, no greater meaning
beyond allowing my soul to refresh. But
I wait, and listen and will finally hear that
sweet silence wash over my stresses which
pull at my spirit and slow me down. My eye sees
the wonders in each season’s rhythms. It is
a way to bring peace to a world truly
overwrought and where the truth is seldom seen.
Cara,
Golden Shovel suits you well, thank you for teaching me yet another poem style. I enjoyed your poem, I can see how you truly get lost on your walks, which helps you reset.
Cool form!!
By the way, Cara, I’m a walker, too, and I could so totally relate to the feeling you get when this moment finally, blessedly, sets in:
“But
I wait, and listen and will finally hear that
sweet silence wash over my stresses which
pull at my spirit and slow me down”
🙂
–Wendy
Cara,
I love Golden Shovel poems and your choice works really well to convey your emotions and the feeling of peace that one finds nature. Love this line: “My eye sees/the wonders in each season’s rhythms”.
Cara, you’ve captured the healing power of nature so well here. Loved “sweet silence”! Gorgeous poem!
Holy smokes! This is a great poem, Cara! I love the style, but you really knocked it out of the park with the borrowed line. Everything played so well together: the message, the imagery, and the style. Here’s a line I loved: “the wonders in each season’s rhythms”. This is a poem that must be read aloud!
Cara, I love your Golden Shovel here. You chose a beautiful line from Snyder’s poem, and have written a new poem of serenity and wonder. I like how you have divided it into stanzas according to the lines of his poem, but the lines and stanzas flow together with enjambment. “sweet silence” is lovely.
Cara,
This is marvelous! I had never heard of this kind of poem, it sounds intriguing. The quote you started with sure is one to ponder as well!
I love ” I must be attentive/and work to see with my whole mind.” and ” a world truly overwrought and where the truth is seldom seen.”
Before this week, I haven’t written any poetry lately and when I do, I rarely follow a mentor. But I found this book shelved that my husband gave me once upon a time. It is Mother: A Cradle to Hold Me by Maya Angelou (https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/mother-a-cradle-to-hold-me-by-maya-angelou). But, in honor of Father’s Day, I want to use my father. We have a close, but loose relationship if that makes sense. I am a Daddy’s girl at heart though. I’m just like him, short and direct, but when I want to say something, give me my minutes, lol.
Father: Lessons in Parables
Mama almost died
During my birth,
But I never asked how you felt.
After all these years
I just assumed you cried and prayed.
I was Theia, no one else could call me
By my middle name.
That sacred right I let slide
Because Mama’s brother does it now.
I was the last of the Bell girls
With the greatest gap in age.
My sisters were long gone
By the time I was in high school.
Living life’s lessons,
I was scared to ask to go or do anything.
I learned from my sisters
About what not to do.
I was the “good, girl” “quiet girl”
The girl who wished
Someone would’ve told how to navigate life.
You sort of did.
I never really knew why
You told me these stories.
I wanted you to just tell me
What I needed to know.
Later in life, I now realize
Why you told me these stories.
Our visit to Chicago that summer to see Grandpa
Explained it all.
I get it now.
Your parables connecting
Godly principles to my life’s lessons
That you wanted me to interpret on my own.
There is a fascinating story here, isn’t there? What a gift he gave you as a young person—parables that you were given the freedom to make your own.
I can feel the affection you have for your father in this story. The best lessons truly are the ones we must interpret for ourselves.
Jess, I really appreciate your return to family and the memories of childhood. The line that struck me most was “I was Theia, no one else could call me/by my middle name.” That detail all alone signifies the closeness of your relationship with your mother. Thank you.
Jess, your poem really sheds light on that “close, but loose relationship” you have with your father. It is neat to think of you understanding now more about what he taught you–the “parables…to interpret on my own.” Wow, he sounds like a wise man.
I recently read and loved the poem “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47536/one-art). I started thinking about losses beginning with a recent loss and headed, as I often do, in a strange direction without arriving anywhere in particular.
Ants at a picnic, loss nibbles away.
Yes, we made it home with all of
Our cookie cutter plaster of Paris
Mayan calendars in tact. Not one
Was broken or chipped by
The rough handling of airline
Employees or the housing suitcase’s leap from
The Highlander when we popped
The trunk with the press
Of a little black button.
Our chachkies’ victory was marred though.
We cannot lay hands on the
Magical, plastic debit card whose
Chip we finally learned to insert
Just so. The one that boasted a
College logo (Go Pokes!) every time we withdrew
It from the knock-off, pink pleather
Michael Kors coin purse.
But the card, our first-world visa,
Was not in its place between the
Lesser used Chase bank card and
The rarely, if ever, used American Express,
“Don’t leave home without it.”
The card was not in pockets
Of capris or shorts or sandy swimsuits.
It had not lodged itself in cracks
Or crevices of cushions or under floor mats or
In dryer vents or between the pages
Of the New Yorker, which we almost finished.
My God, the worry over a valuable,
Worthless piece of plastic
From the First American Bank of Entitlement.
Katrina, your direction meandered into a lovely description of our plastic lifeline. When we lose this card, it’s a life altering experience. We go through so many emotions, but then are relieved when we find it in between crevice of the gear shift and car seat sprinkled with salt from day old French fries and crispy dirty white napkins. Your last lines, “My God, the worry over a valuable, Worthless piece of plastic From the First American Bank of Entitlement.” captivated me because it is so true. First American Bank of Entitlement is where our minds reside. Thank you for sharing.
The First American Bank of Entitlement—what a wonderful concept!
Katrina,
I love the direction this poem headed. At first is seemed like this was a vacation vignette but then the pace and urgency picks up with the realization that the “magical, plastic debit card” … “was not in its place”. I felt that sinking feeling. And the juxtaposition of “valuable” and “worthless piece of plastic/From the First American Bank of Entitlement” was just perfect.
Wow, well I think you landed in quite a significant and thought-provoking place, Katrina. Even if you didn’t the lines you wrote are a wonderful place to travel with you. “Our cookie cutter plaster of Paris / Mayan calendars” and “the housing suitcase’s leap from / The Highlander when we popped / The trunk…” Images that jump from the page to reality.
Then to describe the basically worthless, but so valuable card is an amazing topic for a poem. That First American Bank of Entitlement says soooo much!
WASHED UP
I keep grinding words
like seeds through a millstone this afternoon,
never snagging grains that satisfy the cogs
of a poem;
too busy fussing
over so many mentors
every one shimmering
more than the one before;
words sloshing in Allison’s Maytag,
never coming out cleanly my own;
words laid out on the lawn
under Barb’s lemony Iowa light
all looking so dandy
yet never knitting together
into a lucid line;
words that want to scream
with the strength of Stacey’s voice or the
the magical metaphors of Jennifer’s crows,
scrawl dyslexic out,
mispelled, imprecise,
flailing on the page
like a trout on the bank
knowing water beats dirt;
my words whirling in the eddy
of a poem
down the drain.
by Susie Morice, June 21, 2021©
Well. This is just perfect. So precise in its “whirling” and “flailing” and especially “shimmering” through it all “down the drain” into this space for us to swim in. A swim in the truth of a poem.
Thank you!
Sarah
Susie—you honor all of these poets in your beautiful poem—certainly NOT going down the drain!!
Susie, wow, I love the water images here. I can relate to the frustration of “grinding words”! I feel “like a trout on the bank”. The ending of your poem is especially visceral and poignant “my words whirling in the eddy
of a poem/
down the drain.”
So moving!
Love how you tied in a variety of writers from this space! Hugs:)
Susie, you are amazing! It took me a moment to remember “sloshing in the Maytag”– and then I was all in to remember lines and images from the hundreds (hundreds!) of poems we have shared in this space.
That said, while your poem rages against comparison, it shines in its own glorious light! You have written a fine and beautiful poem today, my friend. Bless you.
Susie, Yes! You captured the difficulty of this so poetically! “Flailing on the page / like a trout on the bank / knowing water beats dirt” sums it up perfectly. And I’m with Gayle on this (and everyone else who has read this); this was most definitely not a “poem / down the drain.” Lol.
Susie, I love the way you used these mentors, even if it was a winding road of balled up first drafts to get here. Wow! it is so beautiful. I am going to go back now and try to find these. (I remember most of them!) Thank you for your lovely, creative way to honor these mentors’ work.
Susie,
Your words never “whirl in an eddy/of a poem/down the drain,” at least not for those on the receiving end of them. You almost always capture in words what I’m thinking or wish I’d thought. Today I felt so overwhelmed by the mere thought of wading through past poems to find inspiration, and here you are saying what words do in the lines of others’ poems. I love every word.
Soooooze!!! I missed this last night! Goodness, goodness, goodness. First, thank you for including me in your poem that not only exudes the beauty of those you named, but it’s the usual grandness and phenomelocity (a new word that I’ve created for writing that’s too phenomenal to be just phenomenal).
This opening is all phenomelocity!
Totally incredible! I can’t wait for your writing session. ??Hoping you’re planning one!
?
For my mentor poem, I choose the poem written by Maureen young Ingram and posted for the prompt yesterday. Her poem begins “how precious it would be…” I began with the same line! Thank you for the lovely poem, Maureen. This is mine, on a different topic:
how precious it would be
if you and I could
sit and talk
none of your meth-induced
hallucinations butting in
none of my wariness
or irritations invading
we’d talk about Bobbie
was it an accident, or did he mean it?
and mom
did we abandon her?
but she left us with so many battles to fight
and dad
damn, you look like him
especially now
knowing how precious
each is to the other
the only ones left
Emily,
Thank you for trusting us to share your truth. Yes, that would be precious.
Emily,
This is such a powerful poem. I feel the yearning for peace and connection. Families are so complicated–thank you for sharing and trusting.
Wow, time is precious, talking is precious, and taking the time to spend with loved ones to focus on healing wounds is precious. So many questions to be answered. When you wrote, “but she left us with so many battles to fight and dad damn, you look like him especially now” I felt the heart beat slowness of words, as it a memory not wanting to fade. Thank you for sharing.
Emily. Each day I am blown away by you! I love how you give us enough to know a little bit about this situation, but not quite enough. It makes me curious. I love the space between the unknown and the known. Thank you for sharing this, Emily. You make me a better writer.
Thank you for sharing this beauty of a poem. The haunting bits of it are still echoing in my mind. That first line is such an inspiration – I may save it for another write sometime!
Emily, what a beautiful poem of hope and longing. I do pray and hope you will get to have that precious sit down talk with your brother. I just re-read it, and wow, just wow, for your honesty and vulnerability.
Oh, wow, wow, wow.
I just found your poem and I am stunned by the beauty with which you share such pain. You remind me how language (especially poetry) helps us turn anguish into connection and hope. Thank you.
Denise,
Thank you for the wonderful prompts these past three days. You really captured the essence of alcohol abuse in your poem today.
I just finished reading “Circe” by Madeline Miller. I took two grad-level mythology classes while working on my MA but had not read Margaret Atwood’s “Circe/Mud Poems” until today when Professor Robin Bates shared a blog post featuring them w/ me. They are my mentor text today.
Q
Right-wingers clothed in
Betsy Ross threads
no longer interest me,
nor those who shout
conspiracies against a
backdrop of iron forged
to rip flesh from bone
under shrouds of 2AC,
nor those who wax
free speech platitudes
with vipered tongues
spilt by talking-head factions,
nor those behind
thin blue lines
whose cowardice compels
murder in the name
of self-defense cowardice,
nor those anti-vaxxer
flatlanders, whose selfish
independence knows nothing
of the social contract.
All these swine swirl in
hog latrines like a
whirlpool sucking,
dividing, conquering,
churning hate into policy.
I search for the Cassandras,
those who prophecy and
warn idlers of the
mythology they whisper
from history books.
We are to blame for
our silent tongues,
our go along to get along
wait a little longer privilege
tied to other sideisms,
these words resurrected
like zombies walk
among the living dead,
burning in a parched,
sun-baked,waterless
hell of other people’s dying.
—Glenda Funk
This is powerful, Glenda! I am particularly struck by these lines, “ selfish
independence knows nothing
of the social contract” – I am agin wondering, how do we teach good citizenship? What it means to work together in a democracy? Thank you for this poem.
Dang! Girl, you are on fire here! Glenda, this is masterful and so loud a voice that needs to be heard. Especially these lines:
Wowza! And this:
This is a powerhouse poem. Send this in to the editorial page of the Pocotello newspaper! Or as a former Missourian, send it to the Post-Dispatch here in STL! I love this poem…the message is so strong. And I feel so strong in synch with the sentiments. Susie
I listened to Circe on Audible…such a wonderful, wonderful story. Oh, my goodness. I loved all of it. And, the actress that read did a marvelous job. This poem is very much in the tone of Circe. She’s gone through so much…she’s “over it, done, finished” with so much. I love the turn in your poem where she searches for Cassandra’s. That’s where the power picks up. Wonderful words.
Glenda, your poem is riveting. I hear you, and I feel the same. I was especially moved by the image shared in “All these swine swirl in
hog latrines like a
whirlpool sucking, “
The vile smell, sound, and image resonate with the horror of all the divisiveness occurring in politics today. Incredibly powerful and honest reflection of our current state of affairs. Incredible poem!
Ok, Cassandra, preach it! Poetry and storytelling are definitely powerful ways to prophecy, and you have done so today. This poem is on fire.
Oh, I just read about Cassandra, and she cursed to not be believed. Hmmm…What are we to do?
Today I picked one of my favorite Tupac Shakur poems If I Fail, the line I like the most from this is “I only follow my voice inside.” He is taking ownership of his failures along with his successes. *Note he uses 2 for to in his hand written works, so I’ve done the same today
I only follow my voice inside 2 choose my path each day
Do I work around the house or play
Knowing 2 put off working doesn’t mean it goes away
Do I knit or read 2 relax today
Knowing projects have deadlines I need 2 meet
I only follow my voice inside
Do I do some yoga at home or go for a walk with my friend
Knowing how hard it is for me 2 stand up my friends
Do I stay up late or get plenty of zzzs
Know 2 some I can seem cranky without enough rest
I only follow my voice inside
Love his line, “I only follow my voice inside” – and I love that you use it to open and close this clever poem. My favorite line, “Knowing 2 put off working doesn’t mean it goes away” – so true!
This is fun to read, DeAnna! I love the idea of taking the concept from Tupac’s poem and applying it to the every-day questions we sort though!
DeAnna! I find this so fascinating to read and then even more so out loud. I keep saying the “2” with a perhaps unnecessary emphasis. And then it has me thinking about how all the items listed in the speaker’s questions are perhaps “second” to what the speaker’s truth in some way. Brilliant.
Peace,
Sarah
DeAnna,
I love that you are not only doing a cool homage to Tupak, but also to your sons–who would be so proud. I, like Sarah, found myself unconsciously emphasizing the 2s, too. The form elevates the ordinary to a new level.
DeAnna, your poem mentored me. During summer break, I often struggle with the freedom that comes from not having a regular schedule. “Do I do some yoga at home or go for a walk with my [dog].” You own the struggle by saying, “I only follow my voice inside” I need to commit that to memory. Thank you.
I LOVE that you picked 2pac as your inspiration today, DeAnna. I think it’s a really clever poem, and I feel like I can hear the beat/rhythm that belongs to this poem. You make me a better writer, and I am so glad you wrote this today!
DeAnna, fun inspiration today. I like what you did with the 2s, and the repetition of Tupac’s line “I only follow my voice inside” It’s sweet that the voice inside doesn’t want to disappoint your friends. 🙂 I like the rhyming you chose for the first four lines. Brava!
Denise, thank you, again! I remember when I took the photo of the buttercup and how quickly that poem came to me. I am honored that it resonated with you and that you chose to use it today. Your poem still brings chills because it’s the raw and honest pain of what alcoholism does to families.
I chose my inspiration today from Tammi. She wrote a gorgeous poem on 4/24 “Rest For Awhile” about her favorite place to rest by Lake Eerie. I borrowed her line:
“I think I may rest here for awhile” and I wrote a “forward and reverse” Golden Shovel in honor of my mother’s birthday today. She would’ve been 87. I don’t know if Golden Shovels have a special name when you don’t use the words at the end so I just called it “forward and reverse” so please correct me if anyone knows.
Rest
I picture Mom toasting her birthday, smiling and
Think it must be bubbly in heaven
I imagine angels all encompassing her
May she glow and radiate and
Rest in the peace and power of God
Here I sit, feeling her presence
For her special day. I hope she stays for
Awhile and I can rest in her arms.
Picturing Mom toasting her birthday, smiling, and I
See the bubbles from heaven and think
Angels must be singing her song, and I
Imagine glowing and radiating love may
Be inconceivable where we have no rest
We miss heaven’s peace and power here
In the chaos of living for
The future. I’ll rest and be present for awhile.
© Stacey L. Joy, June 21, 2021
Stacey,
I love this forward and reverse style!! You poem flows well whatever the actual name of this style is. Beautifully written as always.
Stacey, this is breathtakingly beautiful. What a precious line to capture and create new wonder with, “think I may rest here for awhile.” I imagine you thought deeply about your Mom while writing this gem; I bet it felt like a gift to do so. I am toasting your Mom now, too!
Such a lovely way to show appreciation for another poem in the careful borrowing of words to inspire and inform another…poem. I so appreciate this photo of your mother showing her beauty and inner light in this pose. And I love the image paired with your words “glowing and radiating love” and your promise to “rest and be present”!
Peace,
Sarah
Stacey — Hats off to your mom and to you with your mom. This is a beautiful tribute…love that picture! And the “forward and reverse” structure of the poem carries us right along smoothly. I felt the bigness of the love here. Susie
Stacey, I’m late in the game, so I will definitely go back and find the mentor text. This is a loving tribute where I see what you expect how your Mom in Heaven to be celebrating. The phrase “In the chaos of living for The future.” makes me think of how much peaceful Heaven is instead of living in this crazy world. Peace, love, and joy. Thank you for letting us share in the celebration of your mother.
Stacey—I am tearing up right now. So much love, and such a beautiful smile.
Stacey, wow, what an incredibly moving poem. I hear he love and the need to connect with your mother. Your poem brought me to tears! Loved it!
Oh, Stacey, bless you on this sad yet joyful day of resting and remembering and thinking about your dear mother. That photo captures her bubbly spirit.
These lines are a gift. I hope they were for you on her birthday:
So true that we sometime even miss living because of the chaos. Love the idea of resting and being present you show so well!
I have no idea what they are called, but nice exercise in doing a forward and reverse Godden Shovel.
Denise,
You sure have offered us wonderful inspirations this week, each day increasing in challenge. I love today’s and your response to Stacey’s was so powerful–each image showing the destructive power of alcohol.
I could have spent all day lost in looking at fellow teacher-poet’s work for inspiration, but I wanted to avoid that rabbit hole, so I focused on the past two days and those that I commented on.
I landed on the hay(an)ku that Katrina Morrison wrote:
Skin
I’m in
Is too thin.
Through Thick and Thin
The skin
I’m in
is too thin
for me
but often
too thick
for others.
I sometimes wish
I was transparent and
all could see
the thought tornado
wrecking havoc
on my psyche.
Or that my heart
was outside my body
making the layers of love
I feel obvious to others.
The veil I feel
separating my
inner workings
from the world
is too thin for me
exposing raw nerve endings,
conduits for everything
around me.
But I always
feel that others
find an impenetrable wall,
making me tough and secure.
An aloofness
holding them at bay.
Too thin for me
Too thick for them
I wish my skin was just right.
~Susan Ahlbrand
21 June 2021
Susan,
I really enjoyed your mentor poem great choice. You have done an amazing job with it. I too wish my skin was just right.
What a fascinating juxtaposition, your skin being “Too thin for me/Too thick for them” – wow! I love these lines:
wish
I was transparent and
all could see
the thought tornado
wrecking havoc
on my psyche.
Oh, can you even imagine, if others knew our thoughts!
I also was struck by Katrina’s hay(na)ku, and I think the step further you’ve taken with this poem is also marvelous. I so appreciate the ideas that our skin may both be too thin or to thick. Thank you for this poem!
Oh, Susan! Noticing your economy of words and amazing use of whitespace as your line breaks invite my eyes to move slowly down your words toward this gradual unveiling, laying bare your skin. So, so much resonates deeply with me. Thank you for, in sharing your experience, I feel seen in my own skin.
Love these word especially:
Susan — Your poem has a strong see-saw that really works…the thick and thin is just right. The vulnerability here is precious and I so respect that you shared this piece of yourself. Susie
Susan, this made me pause and imagine the way we would all be received if at first sight, they saw our love!
Beautiful poem for your skin, the perfect skin for you.
Susan, wow. Katrina’s poem resonated with me this week too. I love that you continued the idea, fleshing it out for yourself (pun, first unintended, and then I noticed it, haha).
Wow…I can relate to the too thin for me and too thick for others. These lines are great, and would wreak another kind of havoc if we could all see through, I suppose:
Nice poem, Susan!
Wow! Thank you, Denise! I loved this poem by Stacey Joy when she posted it originally, and I love this idea of using our community’s writing as mentor texts. I am awestruck by the contrast of your two poems – how this one form created by Stacey yielded a gentle, soft ode to love by her, and an explosive, ‘cold-water,’ clarifying testimony to the ravages of alcohol by you. The wonders of poetry forms! Thank you for this poem; I know well the pain of which you write. The line “burying the family” is so stark and painful.
I decided to use Stacey’s poem as well (it is perfect!) – otherwise, I would have been treasure-hunting for hours, rereading all the wonderful writing by everyone in this community.
writing
my writing is slow
soothing like a hike in the woods
fragile writing like a robin’s egg
unexpected writing like a rustling in the brambles
exploratory writing like finding a new path
a solitary kind of writing
often
just for me
I am swimming in this line for awhile: “fragile writing like a robin’s egg”!
Thank you.
Hi Maureen,
I am savoring the opening…
There’s so much to admire about your writing so it doesn’t surprise me that you chose writing for your topic. I love it. Really love the steady connections to the walk in the woods through the robin’s egg, the rustling in the brambles and the new path. Fabulous!
?Stacey
Maureen,
These are wonderful metaphors for all writing is and does for us. These days I find myself drawn more and more to nature imagery in poetry. I just read an advanced copy of Maggie Smith’s upcoming poetry collection “Goldenrod.” You are definitely going to want a copy of it given your love of nature and affinity for writing nature imagery.
Maureen, wow, as usual, you make descriptive writing look easy. I know it’s not, but even your comment about Stacey’s and my poems is beautifully written. Thank you for your words, and I love what you did with this form for your writing. So many rich descriptions in such a few words. It covers many aspects of writing, showing the power therein. Beautiful!
Denise, thank you for sharing Stacey’s poem and sharing your poem. Both are incredibly moving. I’ve been traveling and am about to board a plane so I will return tonight to respond.
Addiction…
Your addiction is self-destructive
suffocates like toxic choking fumes
burns like acid poured down our throats
smells rancid like festering roadkill beneath a desert sun
annihilates tomorrow’s purposeful light
Barb Edler
21 June 2021
Barb, it is so good to see you back here in this space today. Look forward to seeing more of you and your poetry. Your poem is raw, and it is moving as well.
That last line really shows the power of addiction to destroy possibilities:
So powerful!
Oh, Barb, what a poignant accompaniment to Denise’s poem about alcoholism. So true, so descriptive! The last line is especially painful, “annihilates tomorrow’s purposeful light.”
Barb — I am soooo glad to have you back today. Travel or not, I look forward to you here. Your poem… holy cow! This is a topic that way to many of us understand way too well. Not one word of this is overstated. Addiction is brutal. Sending a big hug, Susie
Barb, whew, this hits hard! Truth like this needs to be spoken. I hope the person suffering from the addiction can get the help needed and all those impacted by it too. The ending is fierce and frightening.
?
Barb,
Your poem is relentless: self-destructive, suffocate, toxic, choking, burning, acid, rancid, festering, annihilate…
and then that oh so soft “tomorrow’s purposeful light”
The contrast is excruciating.
Your poem made me feel and feel hard. Thank you.
Thank you, Denise. This is exactly what I need – mentors!
The form of this poem is inspired by our dear friend, Anna J. Small Roseboro who wrote “Words, Words, Words” in 2001. In 2019, this work was published in her book titled Experience Poems and Pictures which has my artwork on the cover.
Colors, Colors, Colors
Colors stir me
when I see them,
when I mix them,
when I feel them,
When I paint them.
Colors urge me
to keep seeing,
to keep experiencing,
to keep searching,
to keep communicating.
Let me paint you
so I can know you.
Let me express with colors
so you can know me.
Textured, juxtaposed colors
help me describe you
and emotional colors
help you know me.
______________________
And then there is this one, inspired by the Stacey Joy form.
words…
your words are painful
grating lke sandpaper
hard words like cement
sharp pointed like knives
nauseating words like poison
those weaponized kind of words
I love these, Susan. Your art helps me know you through your use of vibrant colors. And words can definitely be poison.
Wow, Susan. I learned so much here. About your artwork on Anna’s poetry book. Wow! I love the form inspired by Anna’s word poem, and then how you wrote your own word poem inspired by Stacey’s love poem. Beautiful!
I love the sound of “Colors stir me” and “Colors urge me”
Also the depth of this is amazing:
The Words poem makes me cringe thinking of the times I have used my words like sandpaper, cement, knives, poison. Ouch. Such a bitter and hurtful mess we can make using just words that unlike the lie in the “Sticks and Stones” rhyme, words can hurt.
I adore the idea of “Colors urge me;” what a beautiful inspiration for a painter and a writer! Also, “Let me paint you/so I can know you” – wow. That is absolutely lovely. I also admire your second poem about words – I can’t help but wonder what the background story is, to whom you might be speaking. Some folks wield “those weaponized kind of words;” it is particularly painful when they are someone near and dear.
Susan,
I just love this repetition of “when” calling attention to the possibility of being moved if only we allow it. There is agency in allowing the color to stir.
Sarah
Susan, I get chills seeing how you patterned the poem that was inspired by the poetry I heard of students. Pre-service teachers read aloud the poems their students wrote and I wept. Then, these teachers asked us to write about that experience. This is the poem. Now, you take it a little further and apply the experience to your art! Wow!
Thank you for this, Anna.
Poet
An architect of the
imagination,
a builder of frame
stories to house
my inconsistencies
and contradictions,
I’ve taken lumber
from Whitman
(“I contain multitudes”)
and Simic and
Collins and you.
I am “a rabbit
who knows she is too close
to outrun the danger”
and, yet
“I’ve [also] slain dragons
and slapped wicked stepsisters
I have the burn scars
to prove it.”
I am “a top-loading Maytag
thoughts sudsing
in the wash cycle”
“luminous, languid, warm”
“I know a
little about a lot of things
but
not a lot about any thing”
but “I listen” and I know
this is “Hard to explain”
but “I know what I love
and I love what I know”
“I love books — all genres of books”
“lining every wall, floor to ceiling
books — vertical, horizontal on shelves,
stacked sideways on tables”
“like a recharging
of life” that
“welcomes me home
from the cold, cruel outside”
“Then, I pile them in my room.
Walls of books
keep me safe
and tuck me in
each night”
“I am a
calculated connoisseur,
developing
essential expertise
alongside those I love”
And, though,
“I’ve learned not to say much”
“I am relentless”
“I could go on and on”
And still you say
“Tell me why”
but you know,
don’t you,
“It’s true for you and me.”
We are not only poets
by what we do,
say, or write,
but also
because of
the company
we keep.
_____________________
So, I took my inspiration from Rives and his 2006 TED Talk — “A Mockingbird Remix of TED2006” https://www.ted.com/talks/rives_a_mockingbird_remix_of_ted2006?language=en#t-230167
by looking at Karen Workun’s April 27, 2021 “Secret Connoisseur Poem” prompt. https://www.ethicalela.com/27-30-secret-connoisseur-poem/
It was great fun reacquainting myself with those poems. Thank you to those who — unknowingly — contributed to this! (And to those that I re-read, but couldn’t quite shoehorn in!)
Here’s the list of folks (in chronological order):
Walt Whitman — “Song of Myself”
Susie Morice — “Radar”
Linda Mitchell — “I’m a Connoisseur”
Allison Berryhill — “My Mind Works Like”
Barb Edler — “Light Lover”
Glenda Funk — “Hillbilly Connoisseur”
Jennifer A Jowett — “Secret Connoisseur”
Susan O — “I Hold the Paintbrush”
Nancy White — “As the Shoe Connoisseur Ages”
Donnetta D Norris — “Books, Shoes, and Pens…But, Books Are My Favorite”
Kim Johnson — “Antiquarian Library”
Fran Haley — “Lapland”
Katrina Morrison — “The Cupboard Shelf Welcomes Me Home from the Cold, Cruel Outside”
Heather Morris — “I Buy Books”
Maureen Young Ingram — “I Am A”
Susan Ahlbrand — “Home Plate”
Mo Daley — “The Book Haters”
Denise Krebs” — “Fruits from Every Land”
Margaret Simon — “Secret Connoisseur of Lullaby”
Stacey Joy — “My Thing”
Wow. What an ingenious way to respond to today’s prompt. You tied us all together and made a collective work. I love the power of these intersecting snippets. This aging shoe connoisseur gives a stomp of approval.
Wow, this poem proves to me how poets are readers. Here you are “building frame stories”–
It is fun to see how many contributions you could get in there. Fun, as so often is the case, Scott! You made me smile and reread a few poems, besides.
Again, you over whelm. What lovely company your mind keeps!
Gayle, I love your response!
Amazing! What a beautiful shout out to this community, what a clever inspiration for your poem. Thank you!
Scott, you never cease to amaze us! This is sheer genius – patchwork quilted lines of poetry woven together by your creative hand! I love what you’ve done here.
Scott,
You’ve given us a cornucopia of mentor texts and captured the essence of Whitman’s words. Thanks for including me among your muses. Now I must revisit my poem and see what I said that I can’t quite recall at this moment.
Holy cow, Scott — this is an amazing amalgam of our shared images. How did you manage that?! Wow! I am particularly taken by the lines at the end that point out that being a poet is as much about our “company we keep” as it is about the acts of our pens/keyboards. You built a remarkable poem here — architect indeed! Wonderful! Susie
Whoaaaah!! What an incredible Found/Group poem and surprise!! I’m more than thankful to be included. You are to be commended for not only crafting a brilliant piece but for the time and effort it had to have required of you. Just in awe!
Grateful for the company that I keep here too!
????????
A work of art. How did you do that?
Scott, you are so right about the power of the company we keep upon our poetry. Being a part of this group has had such a positive impact on me as a writer and as a human being. Thank you.
Scott – ! This is incredible; I’m blown away by your seamless piecing of all these lines from so many poems. The summation in the last stanza is the crown of your Ars Poetica … yes. What an honor to write and craft in your company, in the company of such poem connoisseurs. Thank you, all the way from “Lapland” – 🙂
Scott, I love how you tied this all together. Your poetry never ceases to amaze me! Your ending is truly priceless! Kudos!
Wow, Scott,
I am stunned by your blending of so many poets and images. What a gift to our community! I want to go back and read each one. Thank you for this treasure of a poem.
This is just to say
I was stumped by today’s prompt
Which you probably hoped would spark
Creativity.
Forgive me.
It was so unusual
And so
Overwhelming.
(Thanks to William Carlos Williams)
Kathleen, this is such a great choice to use as a mentor – I think students would enjoy respinning this one too! Fun!
Kathleen, beautiful mentor text. It’s one of my favorites. In fact this week I was writing a poem and I stuck in some cold and sweet plums as a subtle nod to this poem. You followed the prompt beautifully!
I love the direction you took on this. (One of my truly favorite poems. I love the sorry/not sorry, and so did my students)
Kathleen,
WCW is always a good mentor. I had the same reaction when I saw the prompt today and love how you’ve responded to it.
Kathleen, Lol. Well done! This was fun. Thank you for writing and sharing it!
Jess, your take on Langston Hughes’ poem inspired me and encourages me to give it a try. There are myriad gospel songs entitled “Keep On Holding On!”
Hold fast to dreams, let your signature be your last hoorah,
A bloody sense of accomplishment, suffering through pain and pride.
No more empty promises of “One day” and “Soon”,
Victory through failure with happiness no longer denied.
KEEP ON HOLDING ON!
After writing yesterday about the dreams we hold
I wanted to say “Enough!” and then my arms just fold.
But then I kept on reading
The poets kept on pleading.
I, too, have a dream; it’s not a scheme;
It’s something I believe.
I believe we can have a better world.
I believe amid the chatter and swirl
Of news and blues, of tweets and red.
No matter what the other has said,
Hold fast to dreams, even all alone.
Or call a friend or text on the phone.
We can do this, Friend; hold on to the end
Our dreams will become a reality.
We can be the change we want to see.
Without our dreams, we’ll all dry up
Like a raisin in the sun.
Without our dreams,we’ll all give up.
Without our dreams, where is the fun?
Thank you, Anna for your inspiration, motivation and encouragement to hold on to our dreams. “Without our dreams, we’ll all dry up.”
“Let your signature be your last hoorah”. Something to aspire to!
Anna,
Wow, I love this poem inspired by Jess’ poem from yesterday. She posted it late, so not many people got to see it.
I can feel the truth of these lines:
I wondered too about dreaming, feeling a bit cynical, but I love how you have revisited it already a day later, and affirmed the importance of “holding fast to dreams”:
Hi Anna,
There is a steadfastness and a persevering love throughout your poem that I deeply admire. At times, it feels easy to shrug at hope and doubt possibilities, but one thing I learned this school year, ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE! I love your poem and your sense of hope.
?
Kevin Hodgson’s Hay(na)ku “Short Thoughts about Writing” resonated with me. I liked the form and topic, and I used it for my inspiration today. My writing has taken a second seat to the craziness of graduation and the last weeks of school. I miss the ritual and release it provided.
Writing
is therapy-
emotions set free
Pages
of thoughts,
wonderings, observations, experiences
Memorialized
in a
journal of secrets
Pencil
strokes, dried
tears mark memories
Some
shared, others
hidden between pages
Words
express my
hopes and dreams
Heather, I also loved Kevin’s form
and snagged a stanza of his to use in today’s writing! I love that you wrote a whole new Haynaku on writing with your own thoughts on writing!
Heather, beautiful hay(na)kus about writing today. Love so many of these, but favorite is:
I love the distinction between the shared and hidden writings, both are important, valued, and part of the writing experience.
Nice. Very nice legacy of Kevin’s words carried on. I like the form as well. It’s short but not without depth.
Denise, your poem today moved me deeply. Alcoholism, like any addiction, is a relentless bully. What a contrast after just reading Stacy’s gentle and comforting poem. So powerful. I am going to borrow this same form as I write today. I’m thinking of my childhood, having a mom who was in bed nearly every day, suffering with debilitating migraine headaches.
Illness
By Nancy White
Illness…
Your illness is suffocating
It makes our house stuffy,
I’m gasping for air, escaping, I run away and climb trees..
Sickness sucks the life right out, a frenzied vacuum cleaner on the loose.
Persistent illness like someone hammering all night long
Mind-numbing illness, like a dead drunk just lying there
A tortuous and soul-stealing kind of illness.
The repetition of “illness” is powerful. I just saw a musical written by one of our high school students that addressed this topic. Illness has claws that grasp many.
This is all so true! The suffocating, stuffy illness does suck the life right out. Love the comparison to a vacuum cleaner. This would make anyone run away and climb trees.
Nancy—I, too had a mother with migraines, and carry that with me to this day. “I’m gasping for air, escaping, I run away and climb trees.” Exactly. Exactly.
Nancy, thank you for sharing another powerful example of Stacey’s form. This is painful and makes my head throb to read it. There are lines where the poem shows empathy and feels the pain of your mother’s illness, and lines that the poem shows the pain and isolation of a girl who lived in too-close proximity with the illness in the other room. Both are true and painful. Thank you for sharing.
Nancy, I read your poem before reading your intro and felt angry and sad. Then I read your intro and wanted to hold the child “you” for comfort and care. Oh, so much to bear for a child when mom is sick. You have given this suffering every label and comparison it deserves.
❤️
Denise—your poem is so painful, and so true. That wet shroud does, indeed, permeate everything.
Eric Essick’s memory poem for April’s “Secret Connoisseur” prompt brought back my own memories. What a wonderful opportunity to revisit the glory of our poetry!
Connoisseur of Joy
I am a connoisseur of rosy memories
Sometimes I wonder what I have done with
the sour days,
the lonely days,
the sad days. But
they take up no room in my collection…
I am…
Cuddling in the twin bed with Grandma Sancie.
“I’ll make up a story for you and then you make up a story for me.”
My grandfather sits cross-legged beside three-year-old me
under the card-table-tepee in the living room
teaching me “The Song of Hiawatha”
“On the shores of Gitche Gumee/Of the shining Big-Sea-Water…”
The gift of words.
I am…
Snowshoeing through the field, checking the traps
Ice fishing on the lake
Frog-gigging at the pond
Gathering dandelions for wine
The gift of nature.
I am…
Singing “Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey?”,
with all the aunts and uncles
Grandma Inie playing piano “by ear”—
(she never did read music)
Grandpa sitting beside me to play “Chopsticks”
Pounding it out, as loud as we could play.
The gift of music.
I am…
Weaving at the rug loom at Great-Grandma Keopka’s house—
hurling the shuttle back and forth through the warp.
Cloth growing beneath my hands.
Knitting needles, crochet needles, sewing needles.
Patterns and fabric on the dining room table.
The purr of the sewing machine—
I knew where my clothes came from.
The gift of craft.
I am…
Standing over the floor register,
my nightgown ballooning in the rising heat,
Feet carefully planted at the edges.
A fire in the hearth.
Sitting on the radiator with a book.
The gift of warmth.
I am…
Sipping milk-coffee and
dunking cinnamon toast with
Grandpa in the kitchen on Sunday mornings.
Fresh baked bread in the oven.
Creamed chipped beef on toast.
Maple trees gave us sap,
to be boiled down into golden syrup.
The gift of nurture.
I am…
Seated at the children’s table in
A farmhouse kitchen, windows steaming,
with ham and turkey and all the fixings
crowding the table.
Pies on the sideboard, coffee in the pot.
Snow falling outside.
The tree in the parlor laden with gifts
spreading into the middle of the room.
Uncles snored in armchairs while
their wives washed the dishes.
I was the oldest cousin,
in charge of handing out the packages.
The gift of anticipation.
A collection
of family.
This is absolutely wonderful memories of the family. I love the way you describe each one and then label it as a gift. The vision of standing over the floor register with the nightgown ballooning in the heat brought back a memory that has been lost to me for forty years. Thanks for sharing this collection.
Susan, ditto for me with the nightgown ballooning out when standing on the edges of the register. Wow! It is so fun to have those memories bolt back with words, Gayle! The power of words and your descriptions!
This poem is one of my favorites. It makes me want to write a collection like this. I love how you chose the rosy recollections. I will just have to write one like this.
Images like “seated at the children’s table” and “Creamed chipped beef on toast.” bring me way back, just like the nightie balloon Susan and I remembered from your poem. Spectacular, Gayle!
Gayle,
This is a lovely way to honor family. I don’t think it’s healthy to concentrate on the bad days. Your way is preferable. It allows us to show grace and face the world w/out being too overwhelmed by past problems. The repetition of “I am” is perfect.
Gayle, these lines made me giggle because I still do this!
I am…
Standing over the floor register,
my nightgown ballooning in the rising heat,
Feet carefully planted at the edges.
It is wonderful to see how just a few lines of poetry evoke fond memories.
Then, I also think how thankful I must remain because too many folks have too little access to heat in the cold weather. The joy of this memory puts me on call to be more generous so others can have a memory like this. Thanks, Gayle.
Anna—i wish I had a floor register I could stand over in my house. That warmth was the best feeling in the world on cold Buffalo mornings!
LOVE this! I’m hungry for all of this…and soon, very soon I get to visit with family I haven’t seen in three years. I am so excited to visit!
Gayle, thank goodness for the beneficence of family which gifted rosy memory after rosy memory into the collection of who you are. Your images put me right there above that “floor register.” I see hints of Dylan Thomas in your holiday description. This is beautiful.
Gayle, I love, love, love your poem! All of the special memories bounce off the page here. I feel the tenderness and the special moments that carry us through the years. Beautiful, gorgeous poem!
Denise, Your poem about alcoholism tells all. Such a tragedy in a family. And it takes generations to recover.
I am using a mentor text that originated with Camille Rankin “Ways to Disappear” and was used by Mary Lee Hahn for “Ways to Reappear.”
Ways to Be a Light
In the darkness
Down a hallway
Through a peep hole
Come alive
With sparkling glitter
In the river
Down a sunbeam
In glow
In snow
Without a sound
Without glamour
On blank paper
On the tip of a nose
In a tear
Come alive
In a gesture
With your smile
With the exhale
Come with me
On dewdrops
At dawn
In a sunset
In the bonfire
Without words
Without worry
Seeking others
Through this pandemic
Down a path
Through soft shadows
After the storm
On a new day
Ways to be a light…beautiful. Thank you, Margaret. It’s fun to see Mary Lee’s poem again here today. I love the inspiration you brought, and sharing powerful mentor poems for more people. “Come alive” “On dewdrops” “Through this pandemic” “Without words” – some of my favorite touching images of ways to be a light today.
Down a sunbeam….come with me…on a new day. There is hope in the darkness! Beautiful imagery and movement, Margaret!
The rhythms and light-play are absolutely compelling, Margaret – as is the message of hope.
Margaret, I want this poem to be a painting! When I see paintings in poems, it makes me wonder why I can’t paint. LOL. Someone here is a painter, whoever that person is, tell me that you see the painting too.
??☀️
I loved scrolling through the 141 prompts (I have to add the ones from April to make it 171). When I scrolled to Kim Johnson’s Duplex, I knew I wanted to revisit her poem and also think more about Jericho Brown: http://www.ethicalela.com/may-openwrite-duplex/
Kim’s lines, “Strong women know what to do about life/If it fell to pieces tomorrow.”
And in that poem, I wanted to be Kim. I wanted her strength, and I felt such an honor to be in this shared space with her strength and so many others who are fiercely compassionate human beings. You all make me stronger.
And so, here is my duplex:
A wall is a symbol of silence.
For me, an echo of existence.
My wall echoes of my existence.
You chip-chip, releasing fractured notes.
Crumbed fractured notes make me partial–
a fissured foothold absence, so I patch it.
Fissured foothold patched, you feel defeat–
just don’t see that my wall is me
And I don’t want it cracked or dismantled
I want a mural.
Sarah, I love how you took the negative connotations of a wall with all its fractures and fissures and envisioned a mural – the beauty of the wall – as a metaphor for the beauty in its scars and imperfections. Thank you for your encouraging comment about strength. You are a strong and giving person who makes this space possible! You hold us together when there are days that we don’t know how to hold ourselves!
Sarah, your poems are always so deep. I love that you wrote a duplex, and you took Kim’s strength today. “just don’t see that my wall is me” – what a powerful line!
And if the wall is me, let it be a mural, an artwork to beautify the world. Lovely.
Sarah — I really love what you did with the wall here. Hearing that echo (always a powerful image for me) and seeing the fissures, the patching that takes us to a mural. The movement there in both sound and being is a testament to strength. Wonderful! Susie
“I want a mural” is a perfect ending. Don’t you love playing with this form? Makes me want to crumble the wall of my resistance and join your of existence.
Sarah,
“I want a mural” says it all! Your words carry emotion effortlessly here! Loved it!
Denise, Thank you for this prompt and it is good to be back in this space writing. I love your description of the third generation of a poem (and potentially beyond). What a great motivator for students and their peers.
I got a bit sidetracked with my poem today–with the text, format and then trying to make it look like it is taking flight (a butterfly maybe?). I am leaving as is because I could mess around with it for too long. Thank you again for this prompt today.
Woke
Your woke is a myth
Hand-holding without eye contact
Like faking an orgasmic experience
As an excuse for an existential crisis
Your woke is not allyship, it’s winged with appropriation
Your woke is like literary entitlement without action
Without liberation where doves take the lead
Abolition-ish your myth of woke
Awaken your ears, hearts, and voice to
Liberate the flight of others
Liberate the flight of others
Liberate the flight of others
Liberate the flight of others
Abolition-ish my myth of woke
Without liberation where doves take the lead
My woke is like literary entitlement without action
My woke is not allyship, it’s winged with appropriation
As an excuse for an existential crisis
Like faking an orgasmic experience
Hand-holding without eye contact
My woke is a myth
Woke
I have had these same thoughts about the whole concept of being “woke”. I love that you chose a butterfly shape and in its core you have used the repetition of
Stefani, what a beautiful butterfly you have created–and such a powerful message. Me pointing my finger at you, and then realizing that I am guilty of the exact same things. And with a message for all of us–“liberate the flight of others” Powerful.
Stefani,
I love the physical appearance of your poem. Your ideas reflect what I’ve been thinking about lately. There’s much about current controversies around “woke” I don’t understand.
Stefani, there is power in these words and in the repetition. I want to hear this poem as spoken word. Beautiful
Denise,
thank you for investing in us as writers this week! What great prompts you have shared! I used “Irish Spider” by Billy Collins from his book Whale Day and a stanza from Kevin Hodgson’s Haynaku. I couldn’t find a link to the spider poem but I’ll post a link to my blog in the comments and will post a picture of the poem at the bottom of the blog post. I’m putting quotes around Kevin’s lines I borrowed.
Preacher Dad
It was well worth traveling home
for Father’s Day
just to sit at the ancestral oak table eating piping hot chicken pot pie,
sharing wine and stories-
don’t exist
to laugh
reminisce
remember
and reflect
as he pretended
to be any old average dad
father of two ill-behaved
preacher’s kids
like God hadn’t given him an extra sprinkling of love and wisdom
for the task
but not fooling us for a minute!
Link to read “Irish Spider”
http://drjohnsonscommonthreads.blogspot.com/2021/06/preacher-dad.html?m=1
Kim,
What a great line to remix into your poem. I like this idea of him having to pretend to be “average” and consider what the definition of average means to each of us. And “an extra springling of love and wisdom” is lovely! Thank you for sharing today.
Oh, I loved reading “Irish Spider,” and then reading your poem again to see the frame from Billy Collins within, and the sweet hay(na)ku of Kevin nestled inside, as well. What a wonderful form you created and a sweet opportunity to honor your father with this lovely poem.
Love, love this image: “to sit at the ancestral oak table eating piping hot chicken pot pie”
Kim,
This is a lovely tribute to your father. I love the Nilly Collins poem and the way you juxtapose it w/ Kevin’s. Also enjoyed seeing the photo of your dad.
Kim — This is such a loving poem. You lucky girl you! I particularly loved the smell of that chicken pot pie on that oak table… you took me right along on the day with your dad. It felt good. Susie
Good Morning, Writers! What fun I had today. I scrolled back through verse love to Kim Johnson’s post…where she took a line from Fran Healy. So, I’m inspired by both of these writers and this line from Fran’s poem: “listen may be the holiest of words.”
This activity just calls for a golden shovel!
After Tattling to God on Our Walk
I’d been doing most of the talking …when God stops me with a word, Listen!
It’s not all about you or your comfort level or you and all of them. I may
wring miracles from any of that. Find me in your quiet. You well
know, clanging symbols of celebrity are not me. Be
tuned in to those doing what I’ve asked. Open the
ears inside that move your feet and hands. My holiest
places are often unexpected –that’s where there’s room for joy. All of
your frustrations are noted. Now, pick up your pace…remember these words.
I am often caught by God with the word “listen.” I like how you used Fran’s line for a golden shovel. I am indecisive this morning. And part of me is too lazy to go looking for a mentor text.
“after tattling to God on our walk” – I absolutely loved this line and it drew me in, reminding me of my conversations with God in my car! “My holiest places are often unexpected” – sheer beauty.
I love your title. “Tattling to God” for me conjures up images of children running to Mama, often in tears, angry, disappointed, sad, usually about what someone else has done. Like a loving parent, God patiently listens. We so often forget to do what God is modeling for us—to love and listen. Great poem, Linda!
Dear Linda: This means so much to me! I’m amazed that you chose this line. I’m awestruck by the gold you’ve delivered with your golden shovel. Your artistry, as always, is boundless.
These lines …!
“I may wring miracles from any of that”
“Find me in your quiet”
“My holiest places are often unexpected”
-all such needed reminders. I am indebted to you and to Kim, and ever grateful for the circle of poetry.
Your poem makes me think God is talking to Martha and wanting her to be more like Mary, listening at the feet of Jesus. That’s what I think today as I read your sweet poem. I love the verse love keeps growing as Fran’s and Kim’s and now Linda’s poems are blessing us all. Thank you for this great reminder to listen.
Denise, I’m awed by your haunting adaptation of Stacey’s sweet love poem. Your images and adjectives reach out to rip at the heart of readers…just as alcoholism itself eviscerates. This stirs so many emotions and sensations – horror, mourning, fear, helplessness, a desire to escape – I cannot even name them all. It’s utterly piercing.
I might have taken a week to settle on one inspirational mentor poem (!!) so I am following suit with the form here, with little metaphorical shifts. Thank you for incredible inspiration.
We all know someone like this, whose joie de vivre lingers long after they’re gone.
Spirit…
Your spirit is bright
radiating like a summer campfire
popping, sparking, illuminating the night
Exhilarating spirit infused with silver starlight
Effervescent spirit of a child’s Christmas morning delight
Freewheeling spirit like an eagle in flight
An encompassing kind of spirit.
What a spirit you describe here! Love it!
“Effervescent spirit of a child’s Christmas morning delight – Freewheeling spirit like an eagle in flight” Wow – your poetry evokes music in my soul this morning – thank you! This is a beautiful, uplifting poem.
A beautiful poem, which would be a fantastic gift to such a spirit in your life. I love the comparison to a camp fire.
Fran, beautiful. Yes, Stacey’s form is perfect for this freewheeling, effervescent spirit. So many sweet images fill up this poem with joy.
Yes! I do know someone like this…what great memories you stir.
Inspired by a poem by Stefani
“I remember I thought I knew normalcy”
I Remember – Through the Eyes of My Mother
I remember
laying on the olive green carpet, feeling the pattern beneath my cheek
Listening to The Beatles on the phonograph.
I remember
“Hey Jude”, and how the words washed over me like a scalding hot shower,
“Take a sad song and make it better“.
I remember
Revolution, “Don’t you know it’s gonna be all right”
calming me in my destruction.
I remember
my daughter coming in and asking if I’m all right,
wanting to scream “NO”, I’m not all right – I’m trapped!”
I remember
my mind was fractured into pieces;
what has been, what is now, what needs to be
I remember
thinking how this would affect my five kids,
but they were better off without a Mom who was broken.
I remember
how desperately I needed space to think,
feeling like I was in a cage with no door, like my skin was too tight.
I remember
that I had already made my decision to leave
and was mourning the loss.
I remember
the flickering hope of freedom
Entrancing, enticing, inevitable, lighting up my soul.
I remember
the moment I shed my skin
standing raw and new.
I remember
moving into the new future
with my old blue suitcase.
I remember
the confusion on my children’s faces
as I quietly shut the door after myself.
Judi Opager
If this is a painful childhood memory, what courage it took for you to write it. Even so, this poem sits in the shoes of mental fragility. “I remember” works well for a line of anaphora.
Judi,
Thank you for connecting to my poem this morning. I had to look back at it to remember what I wrote…oh how April 2020 feels so long ago. Your poem is so heartbreaking and yet resonates so well with motherhood. I love, love your use of songs and quotes. Thank you for sharing with us today.
Judi, this is an astonishing work of empathy – and courage, and vulnerability, and quite possibly forgiveness. It moves me to tears this morning – and makes me want to know more. So powerful, so lyrical. Beautifully rendered.
Judi, what a painful and brave poem to write. It takes me back to the 70’s with the olive green carpet and the Beatles songs. How interesting and probably therapeutic to take on the view of your mother. You’ve captured her depth of despair. I’m feeling compassion for her and anger at the same time. My heart wants to hold and protect all the children.
Judi,
What a powerful poem. What a painful and sad memory, but the empathy you have for your mother is resolute and sure. You have tried to see through her eyes. Wow. These words
You have chosen to remember with a heart of mercy.
I will have to be satisfied
with Ancient Copper
from my own veins
— from Eternal Blue by Terry Elliott
https://impedagogy.com/wp/blog/2021/05/29/eternal-blue/
When all that’s left
are pencil nubs
and brittle points
on folded notebook paper,
with fingerprint creases
that held me as close
as origami,
I run your copper ink
along the blue –
the color of poem
and maps, of story
and exploration —
as I wonder at
what I read when
I spent the morning
reading you
Copper and blue – an electric poem, Kevin.
Kevin, I love this line! So often we read a poem and know there is something more there than we actually see.
I love the end of your poem. I feel this often after reading poetry. Your Hay(na)ku inspired my writing today.
Kevin, I love the sound of your poems. The language, the tone are so beautiful. For instance:
Kevin,
Your opening words would be a wonderful inspiration to use w/ students. I love the paradox in those closing lines:
“I wonder at
what I read when
I spent the morning
reading you”
Lovely poem,