Our host
Angie Braaten has been teaching English Language Arts since 2013. She started her teaching career in Louisiana for five years, then moved overseas and taught in Bangladesh and Kuwait. She is now teaching in Mauritius. Her overseas experiences have opened her mind in ways that may have never happened if she had stayed in the states. She has taught grades 6-11 but her favorite would probably be 8th, a grade that will always hold a special place in her heart, being the year she realized she wanted to be an English teacher herself. She is grateful for this community of writers and to have monthly opportunities to write, read, and share poetry.
Inspiration:
I was inspired by Clint Smith’s “Playground Elegy” and “No More Elegies Today”. I actually came across the latter first and then found the former. They are both equally powerful in very different ways. I love how Smith connects to “the new child” with his own memory of sliding down a slide and the implications of “raised hands”. In “No More Elegies Today” I love how he celebrates joy and skill. Sometimes we need elegies, and sometimes we do not. Sometimes your students need to grieve, but sometimes they need to rejoice. What do you need today?
Process:
- If you need to lament the loss of someone or something, think about specific memories or details that connect you to this person or thing.
- For form, you could use the couplet form that Smith does in “Playground Elegy”.
- If you need to rejoice about someone or something, move from what you will not talk about to the details of what you will celebrate. Smith celebrates “a little girl jumping rope” and moves through every detail of what is involved in that process, like comparing “wrists” to “windmills”.
- For form, you could start your poem the same way Clint does: “Today I will/write a poem/about”…
- Then two lines of “It will not be”…
- And then repeat “But rather” stanzas as many times as you want.
- Or, write a poem about whatever you need.
Angie’s Poem
Today I will
write a poem
about a girl writing poetry
It will not be about her sitting all alone in a classroom
It will not be about her depression
It will not be about her as another statistic
But rather about how she made me cry
when I read her poem that sounded like a song
But rather about her crystal blue eyes filled with wonder as she wrote
But rather about how her honesty told me what’s important about her
like how she reminds her friends of the wind
and how music helps her live.
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.
This is my first time writing and reading from this platform. I really loved it. At times, elegies can show us how important people, objects and memories are to us.
The End
And today the book of us comes to an end,
With chapters incomplete, events unachieved and dreams unfulfilled…
As I pen this elegy to our love’s demise
With countless pearls in my eyes
As I pen this love note of yours one last time,
With memories of a lifetime
I can’t help wiping blots of inks smudged by my tears
Like the pain smeared on my heart,
Now that we have to part
I console myself that I did my part
Yet I can’t help but think of
Smiles you brought to my lips;
– Your hands on my hips
Of laughter which echoed through my soul
– Now- A fading echo of a once harmonious whole.
Of giggles piercing the silence around…
-but solace is yet unfound
Of happiness that graced my heart
now, torn apart, I watch it all depart…
Don’t start this book of us you said
Because if the ending is not what we want it will be too saddening,
Despite your pessimism, my hope kept on growing.
And I I responded’ Heartbreaks make the best poetry’
As if pain could transform into art’s beauty.
And today the book of us comes to an end,
Making my pen waver while tracing words through tear-stained ink,
With every stroke, memories blend and link,
With this – our story concludes, leaving us to rethink
That I was sure I would marry you
and you were sure we would not.
As the final lines etch on this page, a tale now penned in grief,
One from which I was expecting relief.
Among cherished books, ‘ The book of us’ will find its place,
Side by side with those you gifted, its space.
Yet, it may gather dust, like a story untold,
Nestled amid rejections, as our tale unfolds.
And today the book of us comes to an end…
Oh, Kratijah, I’m soo glad you decided to write. I wish others were able to read as well. Because sometimes reading comments feels as good as getting the writing out there in the first place. Wow, you have written some beautiful lines and expressed some deep emotions about this experience.
I am a fan of bookends and yours is so appropriate: “And today the book of us comes to an end”.
I feel your grief but also it doesn’t sound overly negative to me, more like something that you went through in your life, now just a memory. I think that’s beautiful.
These are especially amazing lines given that you are now writing about it and it turned into something cathartic that many people I’m sure could relate to and appreciate : “And I I responded’ Heartbreaks make the best poetry’ / As if pain could transform into art’s beauty.”
Thank you for writing!
This was such a fabulous prompt and
such a beautiful mentor poem and sample poem
that when
I had an idea
it flew the coop.
So I will not write an elegy to the idea
that I lost the point of in the haystack of my mind
Rather, I will sit in the amazement
of all the poems that were
pulled through the day
Thank you all!
I love ❤️ what wrote today. Poetry is poetry!
Thanks for writing this Emily! Fun and I loved reading all the poems that came out of it. Amazed also!
Today I will write a poem about writing,
It will not be about the endless days of writers block,
It is not about feeling anxious when others read my work,
But rather, I will write about the joy I feel writing the ideas,
But rather, I will talk about how much I loved being able to write a story using my childhood fantasies,
But rather, I will mention the feeling of accomplishment I get reading my finished work after hours of writing,
But rather, I will state that my biggest dream is to be a professional writer,
But rather, I will say that writing will always be my favorite hobby regardless of whatever roadblocks or problems I face during it.
Hi Andrew, I loved reading about your relationship with writing. I feel very similar and hope to put something out there some day that many people dead, but of course there will be some not great days. Even if I’m not a “professional writer” it will also still always be a hobby of mine too!
Angie, I wrote quickly last night, but I wanted to tell you how much I loved your poem and to thank you for sharing the Clint Smith poems; I love him!
Thanks, Wendy! 🙂
Today I will write a poem about my father
I will not write about his abusive mother
I will not write about the cancer that took his life
Rather I will tell you how very much he wanted a child
I will tell you about the travel agency he owned
so he could take us to Bermuda every year on my birthday
when I was a toddler
Rather I will focus on how he did the best he could
under difficult circumstances,
How at the end of his life he told me every day
how beautiful I looked
and how much he loved me
I will tell you how I forgave him
his transgressions
And how very much I miss him
Heidi, this is a beautiful tribute to your father. I love the turn in your poem away from the negative to the things your dad did that made him so special to you.
Heidi, your poem moved me to tears. It is one of overcoming the wrongs done to us in life and being able to love fully, despite them. I can’t even say which line strikes me deepest but it begins with how very much your father wanted a child… you…although he’d suffered as a child. I sense how deep his love was -is! – for you, for I believe such love never dies. Your poem is such a beautiful heart-offering for him.
Heidi, thank you for offering a poem about your father. I admire what you say about him and you that you were able to forgive “him /
his transgressions”. Like Fran, I am also drawn to “how very much he wanted a child”. Thank you for sharing the joy and the pain with us.
“Girl Running Track”
Today I will
write a poem
about a girl running track.
It will not be about her injuries
It will not be about her disappointment in missed times
It will not be about comparisons.
But rather about how she puts everything she has on the track
But rather about her cheering on her teammates
But rather about her contributions to the team
where every point counts
and sportsmanship
is equally important.
©️Jennifer Kowaczek April 2024
Angie—
Thank you for today’s prompt and giving us the option of lament or rejoice! I chose the latter and focused on my daughter’s track experiences.
Jennifer, this is such a celebratory poem – I find myself cheering for the girl as she pushes herself to excellence in a sport she clearly loves. She has her own goals but she exemplifies excellence in way she cheers on her teammates and values her contribution to the team – the heart of true sportsmanship. You poem flows so well and paints such a clear image of this girl in my mind!
I love that you chose to write about your daughter’s track experience. Runners are awesome. And I love your title. So much to celebrate and I love that you added in the sportsmanship aspect. I miss that from playing sports! Thanks for writing, Jennifer.
I love this prompt and the mentor poems so much. I can’t wait to try this again!
Today I will
write a poem
about bittersweet joy
It will not be meant to sway you with metaphor.
It will not be toxic
or double-edged
or dramatic.
But rather about the joy that
breaks your heart
just a little piece though.
But rather the laughing 8 year old
trying to figure out what
fitting in means.
But rather the birthday girl watching her
mermaid baloon fly into the clouds
all the grown-ups around suddenly a team of distractors.
But rather groups of teachers
together problem solving and laughing too
because adversity needs humor,
because humor creates belonging.
But rather the friend of a friend
leaning forward with understanding to whisper
“It’s hard to listen to something
so riddled with untruth.”
Hi Ona, thank you for writing today. I’m glad you liked the prompt. I am lingering on these lines because thinking about it is kind of crazy. It’s weird how we figure out how to fit in.
“But rather the laughing 8 year old
trying to figure out what
fitting in means.”
and I think it could become its own poem.
Ona, so many lines glitter like jewels here! What an interesting topic, bittersweet joy, I especially love the little piece of the heart breaking with it, and these lines: “Because adversity needs humor/because humor creates belonging.” This is true! Every scene you have captured here imparts a stab of bittersweet joy in its “realness.”
Angie, thank you for such a touching prompt. I loved reading these poems by Clint Smith. I love how this community exposes me to so many new poems and poets (including my fellow teachers!). 🙂
A friend
Today I will
write a poem
about a beloved friend.
It will not mourn her hurt.
It will not berate her choices.
But rather it will tell
of her love for writing
chilling words on a page;
But rather her glowing eyes
as she dreams of the future;
But rather her tender heart
that’s been dropped by loved ones
but pieced together with friends
and teachers and hope;
But rather her resilience;
But rather her ambition;
But rather her creativity;
But rather her tears and solid arms
when I needed her.
Larin, thank you for this poem about friendship. I think these are my favorite lines
But rather her tender heart
that’s been dropped by loved ones
but pieced together with friends
and teachers and hope;
Larin, this is such a touching poem for your friend. I love:
“But rather her glowing eyes
as she dreams of the future”
and the back to back repetition of:
“But rather her resilience;
But rather her ambition;
But rather her creativity;”
which I think supports these things that are so much more important well.
Larin, your love for friend echoes in every line. This is a poem of “rising above” choices and circumstances and hurts, and the healing power of friendship and writing – I think that’s what moves me most here, how much you admire your friend’s writing. And, that she’s there for you.
Connection – Inspired by No More Elegies Today by Clint Smith
Today I will
write a poem
about connection and Sisterhood.
Not about family ties.
Not about blood relation.
But rather about the bond between women
educators tethered to making a difference
in our communities and around the world.
Dedicated to the Sisters of Alpha Delta Kappa
International Honorary Organization for Women Educators
Ooh! What a good idea, Donnetta. I don’t think we talk enough about the women who build us up and help us become better teachers and women. Thank you!
Thanks for sharing today, Donnetta! I love the topic of your poem – support systems are so deserving of praise & recognition!
Donnetta, there is something about sisterhood that binds and encourages and inspires. I love mixed groups, but when I’m with joyful women who love me and love to both be serious and have fun, I gain so much hope and comfort. I love how you give homage to these women educators who are making a difference. Wonderful. Thank you for sharing!
Donnetta, you have expressed the idea that sometimes friends are more important than family so well here. Thank you for sharing this powerful poem about the work this organization is committed to.
Thanks, Angie for sharing today! Today I wrote about what was on my heart, which was kind of hard.
Papa
Today I will
write a poem
about my papa
it will not be about the cancers
his body is fighting
it will not be about his voice silenced
as ALS progresses
but rather about his love
for his wife, family, community, and nature
but rather about his lifelong commitments
over fifty years married
49 years of teaching math
“a perfect square”
but rather about all the times
he would build a fire
for me to cozy up to
and sometimes fall asleep next to
after finals week in college
but rather about all the moments
he would take in to their fullest:
the birds, the gentle breeze
the sunsets, the deer in the yard,
the leaves changing color,
every time that someone visited
but rather about his storytelling
of tennis, math, music, connections, & travels
of every undocumented history of Spring Arbor
of jobs of all kinds that he once worked
of his big brother
but rather about the example he set for us,
how he is my hero.
ALS is a tough one. I think you’ve done an amazing job of showing us who your papa really was. Thank you.
This is a lovely poem celebrating your papa. Your use of specific examples gives a window into your own life and how your papa has influenced you in the best of ways. I especially love your part about the fire to cozy up to. This is so unique and special to you. Your poem brought tears to my eyes as I thought of my granny who passed a year ago–she was my hero, and her impact on me will always be apparent. Thank you for sharing a poem that is so close to your heart!
What a lovely poem for your papa.
Thank you for sharing this with all of us.
Thank you for sharing so much about your papa with us today. I’m sorry for what he, you, your family are going through. So much of this reminds me of my own father – the outdoorsy type, building fires, appreciating nature. Thank you for writing about your “hero” <3
Your papa sounds like the best one to have! Thank you so much for sharing with us so many great things about him. The cancers and ALS are brutal, and I hope you find some peace in those great memories you have. He is and will always be your hero. Kindest wishes!
Angie,
Thank you for this serious prompt and these powerful poems, both yours and Clint Smith’s .
I love your gentle portrait of your student, especially the lyricism of your last two lines
Ellie
after Clint Small’s “No More Elegies Today”
Today I will
write a poem
about you
It will not
be a poem about
hard days
and hard nights
in the hospital
It will not
be a poem about
the quiet talk
we had early one morning
when your parents
and everyone else
who had come to see you
was still asleep
and you asked me
if you were dying
and I told you the truth
This will be a poem about sitting with you
as I’ve done with so many young writers
guiding you through the process
so you could explain to your doctors
why you wanted your second transplant
watching you move from stuck and struggling
to confidently writing your reasons
This will be a poem about how in the middle
of our phone conversations
you would stop to talk to someone nearby
and then say to me quickly
in a deeper, huskier than usual voice
Hello? Hello?
as if I was the one who’d wandered
into a separate conversation
This will be a poem about all the board games
we played together
especially Pandemic about the spread of disease
This will be a poem about all the jokes
we made about personal growth
This will be a poem about how you laughed and laughed
when Papi made goofy faces
or talked in weird voices
This will be a poem about how you cuddled with your mom
about how you cuddled with me
about how you cuddled with my parents
about how you whispered your secrets to my mom
This will be a poem about reading American Born Chinese together
laughing at the trickster monkey king
you in your omnipresent Cookie Monster pajamas
me doing the limbo under your tangled oxygen line
crisscrossed like a web all across your hospital room
This will be a poem about the time
you baked me a birthday cake
about cooking risotto together
about laughing at your brother
because he put on a swim mask
when I was teaching you both
how to chop onions
about late night quesadillas and ramen
and trips through the Sonic drive through
that you conned my Dad into making
This will be a poem about your joy
at petting the so soft bunnies and baby chicks
about you and Gabi screaming and
sliding down the inflatable water slide
about the knock knock joke books you loved
about the cotton candy colors
that you painted your nails
This will be a poem about the time
that I drove you and a boy
to get ice cream
This is beautiful! I’m so glad this poem is more about honoring your loved one rather than their illness.
This is a beautiful tribute to your loved one! I really appreciate that it celebrates who this person was, rather than the illness they suffered. Just wonderful!
Sharon, what a beautiful tribute to Ellie. Your poem shows so many specific memories and moments with her, honing her love for reading and writing along with watching her have fun with animals and family and friends. This poem brings Ellie to life–I can just see her interacting with others! Thank you for sharing such a poignant poem!
Sharon, wow, what a beautiful poem for Ellie. It says so much about her and your relationship with her. Something about food does it for me, so I love this stanza and the last so much:
“This will be a poem about the time
you baked me a birthday cake
about cooking risotto together
about laughing at your brother
because he put on a swim mask
when I was teaching you both
how to chop onions
about late night quesadillas and ramen
and trips through the Sonic drive through
that you conned my Dad into making”
the googles, the conning, and the birthday gift, so lovely! Thank you for sharing!
Cotton candy skies of pink and lilac
Bright with tangerine ribbons
Running rampant across like excited children out to play.
Cloud lines like mountain peaks afar off
Glimmer, change, fade into bleak gray lined with hot pink.
The horizon is ablaze with vibrant fire orange
As the smoke colored purple rises and grows.
Today, I have written a sunset.
I may write one tomorrow as well.
Jeanie, you have painted a sunset. Not sure where you are geographically, but you have my envy for living where you see such beauty. My envy ., too, for having a colorful vocabulary on your palet to from which to choose! You must be rich! Thanks for sharing.
Jeanie,
We both have cotton candy lines in our poems. Fantastic descriptions. I especially love the triumph and hope of your last two lines.
Thank you so much. I’m in SW Missouri. Tonight’s sunset was very striking.
Jeania, I love the imagery and idea of children playing in the sky, making such beautiful sunsets. I live in Oklahoma, and sometimes the sky literally takes my breath away with its beauty. I’m going to remember “tangerine ribbons” and “excited children out to play.” The mixing of colors in this poem (and the sky!) is so pretty. Thank you for sharing!
Jeania,
You made it! I wonder, do you think about science when you look at the clouds and sunset? The poem becomes more gorgeous w/ each line. I love the last two lines and the way you’ve interpreted the prompt.
Sometimes yes, sometimes no. The last year’s I taught in public school I taught ELL. Some science, some social studies. I think I just love outdoors and all that comes with it!
I also love the use of color people are adding to their poems today. I’m not great at that, so I love to be able to read some great lines that do. And your color lines are beautiful Jeanie. “Bright tangerine ribbons” and “smoke colored purple” wow! Thank you for sharing this sunset with us.
In spite of your wonderful prompt today, Angie, today was a rough writing day for me. Thank goodness for some Clint Smith so I could borrow a few words to get started.
Today I will Write a Poem
Today I will write a poem about writing
It will not dwell in the challenges of deciding on a topic
or the many chores that suddenly need my attention (instead of writing)
It will not illuminate the scribbled out words
or the dead end paths started but not followed
Instead
It will be a poem about how writing can be
the rainbow that colored my way to work this morning
reframing a Monday with scarlets, tangerines, indigos, and violets
It will use words as shovels and hoes
digging up the rich loam of meaning
sowing the possibility of a seed taking root
It will take me out of my writing funk long enough
so that
Today I will write a poem
Kim,
What a delightful poem. I love how you move from the struggle of writing to seeing the poetry in your day.
Especially love the surprising variety of these lines:
Thank you for sharing.
Thanks, Kim, for sharing! I liked how your poem returned full circle with the first and last lines. I also really loved how you described what writing can do for us “coloring our way to work” and “reframing a Monday”!
Kim, it’s hard to tell this was a rough writing day fur you. I love how you’ve reframed your Monday. Using words as shovels and goes is brilliant!
Kim, writer’s block can be discouraging. Sometimes it’s hard to know where to start. I’m glad you chose to lean into your thoughts and feelings than away from them. I especially connected with your “I will not dwell in…the many chores that suddenly need my attention”–some days it seems impossible to find time and space to read and write. But, still we try. Thank you for sharing this poem!
Oh, Kim, this was a perfect prompt and form for you today, wasn’t it? Your poem found itself within this form. This: “the rainbow that colored my way to work this morning” and “It will use words as shovels and hoes / digging up the rich loam of meaning…” Wow! And then, those last two lines! Just perfect.
I absolutely love the full circle feeling of this poem, Kim. And how you took writer’s block and turned it into something amazing with your imagery and metaphor that works so well. Thank you for writing.
Thank you, Angie, for this prompt. Writing was therapeutic and brought back fond memories for me.
Thank you, mom, for
folding the laundry to precision.
polishing my shoes to perfection.
making pepperoni pizza from the box
keeping me from using Band-Aids and baby aspirin every 5 seconds.
teaching me that a piece of hard candy is not a fair trade for an apple.
letting me sleep on the floor in front of the air conditioner in Hell-hot summer.
making me go to bed when I did not want to go to bed.
listening to me when you wanted to go to bed.
spending money for my trips, money that we could have saved.
saving money for college, money that we could have spent.
all of the quirky little phrases that carried meaning only for us
(like the O’Really’s next door, so named for their typical response).
all of the memories we laughed about
(like Mister Cat pulling down the Christmas tree and doing it again).
all of the things we looked forward to
(like a walk in the first snow).
Thank you, mom.
Thank you,
mom.
xoxo
Katrina’s, what a lovely tribute to your mom. It is revealing and evocative in ways that tell us more about special times in your life and encouraging us to recall ones with our parents.
I find your allusion to ways money was spent interesting and also your choice of opposite that did not contradict. That take skillful balance of images. Thanks for all three important reasons for use to read and reflect on your elegy today.
Katrina,
This is so beautiful and heartfelt. I love you used parenthetical lines to give us the specifics of the inside jokes, memories, and things you looked forward to do together, What a beautiful way to show your mother’s generosity, kindness and imparted wisdom. And also all the little and big things our parents do for us that we don’t always appreciate at the time:
Your poem would be a great prompt–write a poem of gratitude to a parent. You’ve inspired me!
Katrina, your loving thanks to your mother is so moving. What a wonderful tribute to show her generosity and how she made your life special. Beautiful tribute!
What a beautiful poem about your mother, Katrina. I’m glad this prompt brought back all these lovely memories of your mom. I like the inverse of the going to bed lines and these:
“spending money for my trips, money that we could have saved.
saving money for college, money that we could have spent.”
The poem says so much about her and even funny gems like “O’Really’s” haha.
Thank you for sharing this today.
Today, I will write a poem about education.
It will not complain about a lack of funding, training, or support.
It will not bemoan cell phone use, behavior, or hats in classrooms.
It will not lament, bitch, refuse, or accuse.
But rather
It will revel in that senior class
today
where
we wrote together
and Traian and I
conferenced over his paper
(on Google Classroom), and
after he asked me for help
(virtually, of course),
he wrote, “Say hi to Jack and Alex
for me” (Jack and Alex, who were
sitting right in front of me),
and I told them
that Traian
said hi
and their
faces
lit
up.
Wendy, I love hearing stories like that. It seems like the students are comfortable around you. Conferencing via Google Classroom with one student while two others are sitting in front of you reflects today’s teaching reality. It also allows me, as a reader, to be present in the moment. Your poem is so kind 🙂
“and their faces lit up” I love how you ended this poem! Those moments with students are so uplifting! Thanks for sharing today 🙂
Oh the image of you on zoom with a student and your kids right next to you. An image for the ages. You are writing history. And I love that it paused the negative for a while to focus on a moment of joy! Thanks for writing Wendy!
Breast Exam
Today I will
write a poem
about another Sarah mining my breast.
It will not be about not finding cancer.
It will not be an anecdote
about that one close call.
But rather about the
tender touch of Sarah’s finger
on the biopsy scar.
But rather about her listening
not to what I said
but what I meant.
But rather about the way
she offered me a discreet
stash of support tucked
under my book.
But rather in the way she
said, Ah seven sisters, that’s
a lot of history to mine,
how she didn’t stir a tear
before I noticed her hand
was gone.
Oh my gosh, Sarah — This is so compelling. I was right there with you and then worried and then “I noticed her hand/was gone.” I was at the mammogram lab just last week, so this was particularly fresh in my sense of women understanding women…maybe sisters…maybe not. You do manage to knock it out of the park poem after poem. Hugs, Susie
Sarah,
I hope all the women in this group read your poem and feel the familiarity, and I hope the men read it so their understanding of this ritual will grow for the sake of some. in their lives. “mining my breasts” evokes such a strong image, one of looking for treasure as well as one destroying a surface and/or something below the surface. It’s a paradox, I think. The radiology techs really are angels who help us divert our attention from the procedure, who show us they see us as humans and not scans. Like you, I’ve had breast biopsies, two of them. It’s all nerve-wracking, but I have a tendency to joke during these procedures. That’s my coping mechanism, I suppose.
Sarah, how we all need in our lives someone like this other Sarah “listening not to what I said but what I meant.” What a beautiful way of expressing this rare treasure in a person.
Sarah, I have had this kind of biopsy, but I know how scary it must have been. I like how considerate and supportive the “other Sarah” is “listening
not to what /you/ said
but what /you meant.”
Sometimes, it’s all we need–to be understood.
Your beautiful wording delivers every time!
The keyboard isn’t cooperating on my phone, sorry )) I haven’t had this kind of biopsy, but another kind.
Sarah, you have described so much in such a short poem. Amazing. I love the comfort here:
“discreet
stash of support”
and how “she didn’t stir a tear”
Thank you for the reminder to go get my boobs checked out. It’s been like too long. Thank you for sharing!
Sarah, I just loved your capture of this moment! (And it made me Google the Seven Sisters series – is that what you’re reading?)
No. But I will check it out. I actually have 7 sisters (and 3 brothers).
Ohhhh, Angie!! Today’s prompt was exactly what I needed to share something awful I’ve been dealing with for a few weeks. But first I must say I am in awe and in love with your poem and the beautiful message you share. My favorite lines:
Music is definitely a life-giving source we all should take more time to embrace.
I won’t give the backstory for my poem, it’ll come through. Just pray for my student to be safe and well soon.
Broken Systems
Today I will write a poem
about the system
not the one
we fight about in protests
not the one
symbolizing order in our beaten bodies
not even the one
operating our devices
without our brains
Today I will write about
the system
that took CB from his dad
and placed him with his mom
The system that chose
the worst of two parents
not knowing anything
other than biology
The system
that moved him too far
and makes him Uber
to get to school by noon
The system
that supposedly protects children
but doesn’t see him scratching
or the tears he hides in his pillow
©Stacey L. Joy, April 15, 2024
Stacey,
The structure of this poem is so powerful in ground the reader/me in context and then zoom into the specific, the naming of CB and the uncovering of the system that “makes him Uber” and hides the “tears.” I ache for CB and for you. So many systems need dismantling.
Hugs,
Sarah
Stacey — You have spoken such powerful words here. That damned system that acts without heart…even without brain…just drones on and ruins children, ruins lives…and for what? Convenience, mindless rules, what? You got me all riled up. I’m experiencing a slice of this with a family member…the frikkin’ system insisting that a child be put in the perverse, wicked hands of a horrible person…just because the system calls for …calls for what? Equity…hell no…it’s just wickedly unbalanced and doing scary detriment to kids. There are places in this country that are so out of whack that it is frightening. I could go on and on and on. Your poem is a powerhouse. Thank you! Susie
Oh Stacey…my heart goes out to that child. Wishing him safety and love. Love the way you use the repetition of “the system” to emphasize the mechanical way that decisions are made without the child’s best interests in mind.
Stacey, this is such a sad situation, and maddening unfair outcome. My thoughts are with CB and my hopes are that there is a more equitable and positive outcome in his and his dad’s future.
Stacey, I’m glad you were able to write about this today. I almost don’t know how to respond to these ridiculous systems. It’s just completely unbelievable at times. I know it’s not exactly the same situation but my brother lost custody of his kids recently and I am in disbelief because he is a great dad. Just because some people don’t share his beliefs, does not mean he is not a great dad for them. Anyway, what you are describing sounds crazy. There is so much wrong with what you have described and I hope for the best for CB. Thank you for sharing.
Stacey, I read your poem last night and kept thinking about all the systems that hurt people in this country. But systems hurting children are the worst. I also believe that some people shouldn’t be parents, as sad and strange this may sound. Your final stanza breaks by heart:
The system
that supposedly protects children
but doesn’t see him scratching
or the tears he hides in his pillow”
Thank you for sharing this poem and CB’s story. I hope “the system” will come to senses.
Stacey, this poem broke my heart. Powerful words. <3
Angie, thank you for hosting today. I love both of the Smith’s mentor poems, and your poem about a student is so touching. It reminded me about one of my students I taught many years ago. Love the final two lines. Today, I will not elegize, but want to remember my Mom.
Not an Elegy
Today I will
Write a poem
About my Mom who raised eight lives.
It will not be about her final days,
When sitting by her bedside, I was
Fearing for the unimaginable yet inevitable.
It will not be about the time
When she labored day shifts
Mending socks and stitching dreams by moonlight.
It will not be about the scarce tears she shed,
A rare glimpse of her broken spirit—
If mom cried, it had to be something irreparable.
Instead, I’ll tell about her glowing smile
That could light up the room
When she came home.
Instead, I’ll tell about her soothing voice:
“It’s okay, baby. You are home now.”
All the worries sailed away.
Instead, I’ll tell about her songs,
Gliding over the fences,
Making birds sing along.
Instead, I’ll tell about the finest storyteller—
Each story, a tapestry of wit, love, humor,
Growing richer with each retelling.
Instead, I’ll tell about how when my grandchildren
Inquire about their Great Granny Zoré,
I know she is still here with us.
Wow, Leilya, those last three stanzas are incredible! Making birds sing along! I can feel the love in every word of your poem.
Oh, yes, Leilya. “Instead, I’ll tell about the finest storyteller” — that is a lovely line and then in the way her storytelling will live on through you. Yes, “she is still here with us.” And because of your poem, the us is this community, too. Hugs.
Sarah
Leilya,
What I notice most about the two parts of your poem is the way the positive memories, such as singing, come to the forefront of memory. That’s truly lovely.
Leilya,
What a sweet description of your mom!
Forever with you!
Leilya, your poem is so moving and beautiful! I adore the way you show your mother’s generous love and strength. The line stitching dreams by moonlight illuminates her tireless spirit. Your last line is the perfect end to show how her love and spirit is always present. Thank you for sharing your precious mother with us through your poem!
Leilya, you have mastered the “It will not be…” and the “Instead…” sections. (That’s what I was fuzzy on in my draft today.) Your ending stanzas about your mom show so many details of a rich life well-lived. Oh, yes, she is still with you. “Each story, a tapestry of wit, love, humor, / Growing richer with each retelling.” Beautiful!
Wow, what a woman, Leilya. Singing, storytelling soothing, smiling. Absolutely lovely. And having had a mother like her and writing this poem about her, says so much about you also. Amazing women. I also love the stanza about her never crying, much characterization there. Thank you for sharing!
Leilya, what a loving and moving tribute. Loved this.
Looking Back
By Mo Daley 4/15/24
Today I will write a poem about
a boy-man
with a kind heart.
It will not be about
a bearded
eighteen-year-old
who failed sophomore English
and senior English
and couldn’t keep his eyes open in class.
But rather about
the times he piped up with an answer
unexpectedly
and the time he
came back to school
after missing just a day,
as he had gotten his deer quickly.
But rather about
the child’s rocking horse
he carefully crafted in shop class,
saying,
“You could have it for your baby.”
But I was just a girl-woman then
and didn’t know how to accept a gift
graciously.
Oh, sweet memories, Mo! The boy man met the girl woman. They found each other. But crafting the rocking horse being a sophomore high schooler is quite impressive. This is a story to keep for your grandkids.
Mo, the kind act of this boy-man makes me want to cry. “You could have it for your baby.”
We all love the light bulb moments, but I will take heart-warming moments like these any day.
Mo, I love everything about this poem and how you show us this student who wasn’t always engaged but also bright and special. What a wonderful gift to create. I am also one who does not always know how to accept gifts well. That ends adds a sense of wonder and sadness, too.
Omg why am I crying, Mo? This is not my memory. Maybe I want it to be. What he made and his dialogue, just wow. Explains what kind of person on the inside he was. Knew many students like that, outdooorsy types, in Louisiana. And the end has me wondering what the “girl-woman”s response was. Thank you for writing!
Mo, loved this sensitive poem. Those moments from our younger teaching years! I’m pretty good at keeping the past in the past, but those are the ones that plague me — the times when I didn’t have the wherewithal to respond with grace. Captured this beautifully, and your portrait of your student reminded me someone who is my student right now. Loved this.
Angie, thank you for the great mentor poems. I have been running all day, and now I’m off to fix dinner for company, so here is a very rough draft of a creature I deemed worthy, and thought I should elegize, but I am out of time before I can think about what I really wanted to say. So I don’t miss today, I’m dropping this here. I want to use your mentor to help me, for your description with the “But rather” lines about your student is everything.
Today I will
Write a poem about
A worthy Cecropia moth
On Arizona Avenue in Iowa
It will not be about surviving my first cold snowy winter in Iowa, having left Mediterranean-mild LA
It will not be about that woody cocoon built carefully along the rim of the back porch step surviving the cold all winter long when the water pipes in our old farmhouse couldn’t even do it and broke
It will not even be about the moth’s two-minute life
Rather it is about a being who should have lived two weeks with a wingspan the length of my hand
Rather it is about that juicy abdomen, a big fat thumb, holding big bright eyes on its winged back, (which did not camouflage it the first and last time it needed it) as it sat on the sidewalk drying its wings
Rather it is about a bird with a good appetite that didn’t know the irony of biting that abdomen on its first moments of life
Rather it is about the ethereal, ephemeral sense of living
Denise, you may say it needs more work, but I like your poem the way it is. Sometimes the words that come to us first are the best. My favorite lines are these:
“Rather it is about a being who should have lived two weeks with a wingspan the length of my hand”
And the final line makes me keep thinking about your poem, the moth, and “the ethereal, ephemeral sense of living.”
Denise,
I have an image in my head of you flitting around the kitchen like that moth around a light as you prepare dinner for guests, and that certainly is an image of life and living. And that’s the perfect stuff of poetry. Bon Apetit. Have a lovely evening.
Denise–I love where you are going with this. Weirdly enough, it almost feels like the beginning of a great middle grade novel. I would read on!
Denise, your poem is an amazing life journey. I love how you develop the focus of each stanza and lead us to that final breathtaking final line! Stunning poem!
Denise, any creature is worth elegizing, which reminds me of the odes to the unworthy the other day. Thank you for describing this moth so well that I am able to picture it, like I’ve watched this scene myself. And the descriptions of the winter at the beginning, ouch!
It took a while to figure out what to write. And then even when I did, I couldn’t. All I’ve got for this one is, don’t judge. I do have to say that I love the new word “sincebirth” that I invented for this one.
Today I will write a poem
about the birth of a daughter.
It will not be about the death
of the woman’s independence.
it will not be about the loss
of part of the woman’s soul.
But rather about the endearing “bro”
uttered a multitude of times daily
like “bro, can you just stop?”
or “bro, you won’t believe what happened today.”
But rather about the Becky stories
orally written on road trips.
But rather about the
oh, hell, who am I kidding?
The day the daughter was born
a literal part of my soul was sucked out
with the afterbirth
and the sincebirth has felt like
a consistent crushing of everything
that used to be me
replaced with the shameful weight of guilt.
One day I hope to write the poem
about the birth of the daughter.
But today I simply cannot.
Cheri, I like your invented “sincebirth;” it fits well into the line. You have written a poem for today, a good one; and the other one will be for another day. I am intrigued by “the Becky stories.” Maybe there is another poem in there
Thank you for writing today!
Cheri,
I was really struck by the word “a” — “a daughter” — there is an invitation for mothers and daughters to read this and see themselves right away with a and not my or the. And then you move into the specific “Becky stories”. I find intimate and vulnerable the “my soul was sucked out/with the afterbirth” and also, it’s clever. And the last line “But today I simply cannot.” This is a powerful confession. Wow.
Peace,
Sarah
Ohhh Cheri, I can hear the words coming out of daughter’s mouth. Not because I have a daughter but because I hear it from students. Absolutely no judgment here. I’m sure I’d feel similar at some times if I had a child. But I love the hope in “One day I hope to write the poem / about the birth of the daughter.” I’m sure one day you will.
Angie, your poem sings sadness and hope in my heart. ❤️
My grandchildren are here for a few days so I couldn’t help but write about them – without really following the suggestion…
Today I Write About My Grandchildren
Today I write about
my grandchildren.
How they jump out of their cars
and sprint to my porch
to be the first one to ring the doorbell
hugs ensue
then a mad dash to the window
to see
the heron
the muskrat
or if we’re lucky the eagle
They delight in buckets of
legos
and marbles
and trains
The same ones enjoyed by their
parents
worn but not worn out
filled with memories
yet hours of joy still left
in them
their laughter is golden
their smiles are my world
Today I write a poem about my grandchildren.
Gorgeous poem, Christine! I love the action of rushing to ring the bell and playing with the same toys their parents played with. I also like how you framed your poem and “their laughter is golden”! Lovely poem full of joy!
Cheri, I love this and can so relate to reusing legos of parents. This is what my brother does with his kids. They are perfectly fine and I love that they are “filled with memories” that I cherish every time I visit. Thank you so much for writing.
I’m sorry Christine!
What a wonderful prompt you gave us today, Angie. It was lovely remembering almost unspeakable joy. Thank you.
Not An Elegy
Today I will write a poem
about a girl dancing in high heel shoes
much too large for her 4-year-old feet.
It will not contain a hidden message brimming with omnipotent platitudes, and
it will not contain symbolic religious rabbit holes down which one can escape.
But rather it will be about a little girl’s
flight of fancy,
dancing to music only she hears,
or can dance to,
using original AI –
imagination.
It will not contain important text that will
hurry you along life’s intellectual pathway,
but rather it will ask you to pause
to listen quietly to your inner sounds,
to music you want to hear,
even if it doesn’t have a name,
but rather will cause the nerves in your toes
to begin to ache with a need to tap.
It will not be an elegy to long forgotten youth,
the lost smell of lilacs,
or nostalgia of a picture once taken.
It will not contain the surplus of ‘ism’s’ that abound with age,
nor the boundaries and hard-trod pathways so carefully created,
but rather a wonder-filled memory of
utter simplicity and sheer, remarkable joy.
It will be a poem
about the breath taking, mindless
happiness that happens sometimes
to four-year-old little girls
when they let go of growing up
and know the feeling of little feet slip-sliding inside
beautiful black high heels,
when music overtakes hearing,
and the mirror is positioned just right
so she can watch her own joy in letting go.
Judi Opager
April 15, 2024
Judi, your poem makes me wonder. I wonder how many of my students would be able to write so fluently about fond memories of their childhood! Would they be able to take me to their space, help to feel what they heard in ways that reflect so skillfully images like those you use, “mindless happiness” and “slip-sliding inside”. Your use of assonance worked well for this elegy to your childhood. Would they have been able to escape the no, nos is such safe ways?
Thanks for sharing.
Judi, I love that you didn’t end with things the poem will not contain in the second stanza. I liked reading those parts just as much as the description of music and the girl. I so love this image of her looking at herself with just joy and not a care:
“and the mirror is positioned just right
so she can watch her own joy in letting go.”
What a beautiful poem. Thank you for sharing!!
Not a Rain Puddle Elegy
Today I will
write a poem
about a rain puddle.
It will not be a metaphor for fallen tears.
It will not be an allegory
for lost dreams.
But rather about the
the circles that form, rippling outward
each time a new drop
is added to the pool.
But rather about the way
the world around is mirrored
so it can be seen again:
shiny, soft edged
and new.
But rather about the leaves
and petals rising up
and swirling in the basin.
But rather about the spray
splashing up on bright yellow boots,
how the soles slapping
through the puddle’s surface sound
like a mother’s water breaking,
gushing out life.
Rachel, dang this poem is on fire! I love the way you qualify what this poem is not be and what it will be. Showing that it will not be about fallen tears or lost dreams adds a significant emotional pull immediately to your poem, but by the time you get to the mother’s water breaking, holy ###, I love that momentous water flowing. “gushing out life” Such a wonderful and powerful last line. Fantastic poem!
Plus, what a title! Gorgeous!
Rachel — RICH images! Love the “mirror” and “boots” images a lot. And the ending “water breaking”…whoo! ¡Excelente!
Wow, Rachel! This is dynamite. You keep that image going and going and going to that powerful end.
Rachel, I fell in love with these lines:
“But rather about the way
the world around is mirrored
so it can be seen again:
shiny, soft edged
and new.”
There is so much hope and live of life here. Thank you for sharing!
“Love of life” it is supposed to be.
Rachel,
You used this form so well. The rain puddle and not tears, the rain puddles and not lost dreams, and then the mirrored. All these images work well to reflect the tears in so many forms leading us to birth and life. Wow.
Peace,
Sarah
Wow–that ending! I love the rain, the tears, the splash, the mother’s water breaking… I’ll be reading this a few more times! It’s rich.
Yea this is amazing, Rachel. Your description of different rain puddles is so well done and of course the last four lines work so well. Maybe one day I can write simile like that! Thank you for sharing a great piece.
Angie, it sounds like you’ve had a very interesting teaching career. Thanks for hosting today. I enjoyed your mentor poems and prompt. Your poem is lovely and moving. It reminds me of special times writing and sharing with students in my own classroom.
Arms Filled with Joy
today I will write a poem
about a boy
and a girl
about a boy and a girl
who thought they could hold
the whole world in their hands
and they did
for a bit
watching it colorfully spin
a kaleidoscope of joy
joy for baby coos
first steps
playing t-ball, football, wrestling
listening together to trombones and tubas
trumpeting, music forever playing
hearts swelling with joy
joy of watching
the sun rise and the sun set
arms heavy, so full of love−
then it spun away
a boy and a girl
who thought they could hold
the whole world in their hands
and they did
for a bit
Barb Edler
15 April 2024
CHILLS. This poem is the definition of bittersweet. “And they did / for a bit.” Life is such a messy, complicated, beautiful, heart wrenching thing!! Thank you for sharing this.
Barb — Aww, this is so hopeful and then melancholy…the beauty makes the loss all the more powerful. The strength of this bittersweet reality is just heartbreaking…we want all our youthful hopes to last… but… There’s a lot of power in the last 3 words…”for a bit” makes it all so real… being able to feel and see that little bit of time is so valuable. Hugs, Susie
Barb, I like the colorful joy of the kaleidoscope, the sunset, the music and the spinning. This should be in a book….I like that it is so universal. This can be any of us, those we know, those we love. You wrote a winner today!
Oh wow! What words of joy and life and energy! I love the thought of them holding the world in their hands!
Barb,
I keep reading and rereading and thinking about the linking of lines and verses through repetition and the way a chain breaks and then all the bits and pieces tumble to the ground. That’s how I see life some times, how I see “a boy and a girl” who go through the events of their own children’s lives “for a bit” until the hands no longer clasp one another, until the world, their world, falls apart. This is all so hauntingly beautiful co
ing from your pen and knowing the beautiful poem is the embodiment of two lives in one story.
Barb, that “for a bit” in the beginning is such a huge foreshadowing. I read it fearing the anticipated loss. It is so painful, but they did have “the world in their hands for a bit.” When my world crashed, my Mom asked me to hold on to those happy, beautiful moments, which I had for seven and a half years. Thank you for such a gorgeous, thoughtful poem today that felt so relevant and needed.
Barb, that “for a bit” is worth it all. I LOVE this poem. Thank you!
Barb, wow,
“hearts swelling with joy” and “a kaleidoscope of joy” So much joy in your poem, and the repetition of that first stanza at the end is powerful. I wonder about “then it spun away” It is a bittersweet poem and leaves me wanting. It is beautiful and a bit haunting, as well.
Sheesh Barb, this is absolutely beautiful and wrecking. I love the repetition in this
“about a boy
and a girl
about a boy and a girl”
as much as your second and last stanza. Like Kim said, it sounds like it could apply to anyone and that’s what I especially love. Thank you for sharing!
Angie,
I love both Clint Smith poems and the way you have honored “a girl writing poetry” in your verse. In thinking about elegies, I found inspiration in what I know through my children about my ex husband and his lifelong obsession w/ things.
Hoarder
the first time he moved the organ
across four states when his mother
passed. she bought the Lowry in 1980 & to him its value tripled despite ebay
decomposing resale prices. he moved the instrument to the PNW & displayed
it like an urn of ashes offspring never open before transferring it to the gem
state when he relocated to the coast. he left people, guilted them into housing
things he ascribed sentience. when his sons suggested he cut losses, close
the curtain on the organ road show that never ends, he cried 96 tears. he keeps
hanging on to relics as though unused objects could love him as much as
he loves stuff.
Glenda Funk
4-15-24
Glenda, wow, your poem’s title immediately drew me into your poem. I like the way you set the stage for the organ, which I am sure would not be easy to transfer across several states. The image of an urn of ashes is striking. Your last two lines are the organ’s heavy notes in the poem. Perhaps some people really do love things more than people and that stuff is not what brings joy. I really appreciate the organ image in your Canva production. Provocative and powerful poem!
Glenda — What an interesting poem. I have known those who’ve held onto “things” as if sacred. I love the “organ road show that never ends” and think this person is like so many of us, hanging on and never using the stuff. It is me and all my books. Not to mention stuff I’ve managed to drag through my life. Not sure what to do with some things, but sure that it’ll come to me at some point. I’m encouraged to find a dumpster now. LOL! I have a dear friend who doesn’t realize he’s a hoarder…he knows “it’s a mess” but doesn’t see the “hoarder.” We are all certainly our own little segment of wacko I guess. LOL! Love this poem…makes me think. Hugs, Susie
This!!! Mic drop! Oh, I love that you used the word “housing,” which is the same word that someone suggested when they told me their books could be housed upstairs here. No, no, no they cannot. This seems to be a problem of those who just can’t seem to let go, and I’m so glad you wrote it. How many times have I said that storage rooms of relics won’t be there for you when you’re fading…..oh, goodness, Glenda! You have hit the nail on the proverbial head……I want to hug this poem.
Sometimes, holding the relic is the substitute for loving the human. Ugh. This is so sad, I think. I have a family member who is a hoarder; this is some complicated mental stuff. Your line, “he left people, guilted them into housing /things he ascribed sentience” – how this must hurt your sons. Poignant poem, Glenda.
Glenda, what a poem! I have read it a few times to fully appreciate your craft. The line breaks (enjambment) make me slow down in anticipation of the following line. This ending sounds terrifying to me: “as though unused objects could love / him as much as /
he loves stuff.”
This sounds so desperately sad.
Glenda,
I almost couldn’t read past the word “hoarder” because of its trauma for me, but with poetry I know I there are margins left and right and stanzas and line breaks, so I read on. Wow, “the organ road show” and “he cried 96 tears”– these phrases situate the particulars so powerfully that I am in it. In this poem and not thinking about my hoarder but this particular and this the collective. What a poem. That last few lines “could love him as much as he loves stuff” is the clincher.
This is so good (and also hard to read — that’s poetry),
Sarah
Glenda, wow. You have written about this from an interesting out-of-the-mess perspective, seeing it through rational eyes. So matter of factly stating so much truth about love and stuff. I love “he cried 96 tears”
Wow, Glenda. Crazy stories and such an interesting topic to write about. I lingered on the sound of “things he ascribed sentience” and of course what an ending! Thank you for writing 🙂
SHE CAN DO
What was it in my head
that echoed
I could not be a doctor,
only the rich, connected…,
I could not be an artist,
only the gifted…,
I could not be a singer,
church choir maybe,
but never in front of a microphone
on my own,
I could not aspire beyond the time, the declarations,
girls were secretaries, nurses, teachers, or wedded
to domestication?
That echo chamber,
self-imposed maybe,
dictated by norms
of dying generations,
throttled my derring-do
and I did as I was told
till I was old.
I put that girl to rest
some time back,
introspected,
doused the noise,
sifted fiction from the fact,
recalibrated,
found my rhythm,
trusted my words,
my palette,
my voice,
my eye
on paper,
in chords,
on the keyboard,
in the air.
And there,
right there
in the crosshairs
of
“just do it”
is where
I am
thirsty,
swilling from
a hose
of
can do.
by Susie Morice, April 15, 2024©
Susie,
I feel every word, every declaration from those who boxed our generation in, every “just do it” I’ve only in recent years learned to heed. I’m so thrilled you found your voice and share your words. I love seeing your gorgeous paintings and the vibrant palette that you dab onto canvases. Are you secretly in medical school because from where I sit you’re a renaissance woman and a muse for me and others. I hope Barb sees your poem. It’s empowering. Thank you!
Thanks, Glenda, I did, and it is wonderful!
Bravo, Susie. I love how you are able to find your voice, rhythm, and palette in this poem. What a joy it must be to express your true spirit. I love the positivity of your poem and the way you pull us along your journey. I adored these lines:
And there,
right there
in the crosshairs
of
“just do it”
Beautiful, self-affirming poem. I so enjoy reading your poetry! Thanks for sharing today:)
Ooh, I love your last section: “is where / I am / thirsty, / swilling from / a hose / of / can do.” Way to go!! I think I inherited a can’t-do attitude from my mom, & I’ve been spending the last few years trying to break free of it, too. It is so empowering to realize how many things I can do!! Yay for trying!!
Susie, and I’m a’swilling and swigging, too, right there with you. This belongs in a collection of empowerment poetry, of self discovery, of recalibration (I love this)! I love that you are living your best life and doing all the things that bring you joy. When I see your videos of music and see your paintings, I know you are doing what you love, and it makes me smile!
Susie, such a powerful poem. I love the way wording of these lines:
“and I did as I was told
till I was old.”
and how the end is in present tense!
Thank you for writing!
This is a great prompt. I’m so grateful for the opportunity to write a poem while sitting at the DMV waiting for my youngest to take her in car driving test. (She passed!)
Today I will write a poem about knee pain.
It will not be about the basketball game over 30 years ago
Or the tall girl who pushed me down
It will not be about me begging coach to put me back in
Even though it was a non-league game
It will not be about the past.
It will be about the blessing of my other knee.
And that my arms can paddle a surfboard for miles
It will be about miles walked through cobbled streets in Europe
And marathons ran
It will be about moguls skied
About jumping on the trampoline with my children
It will be about me outliving my knee.
By years.
And all it has given me
Despite the pain.
Congrats to your daughter and thank you for sharing a celebration of things your body has accomplished. I guess my favorite is “jumping on the trampoline with my children” and I love the sound of “It will be about me outliving my knee”. Thank you for sharing, Emily!
This is absolutely beautiful!! Such a sweet message of forgiveness & determination. “It will not be about the past. / It will be about the blessing of my other knee… and all it has given me / Despite the pain.” And so many beautiful moments & impressive accomplishments listed in between! Thank you for sharing this hopeful poem! (And congrats to your daughter!!)
Emily, I enjoy how your poem shows your will to fight, how even though you have one knee in pain you are still running marathons, skiing and jumping on trampoline. I’m so glad your daughter passed. Now you can really celebrate!
Her wish
Tomorrow I will write a poem about today,
I will shade the blues and blacks to grays.
People will ask “How will I know what to say?”
Not realizing I am here from yesterday.
I’ll train purple lilies to shake off envy,
cuddle thorns, there will be so many.
Each pricking my palm,
tomorrow I will remain calm.
As for now, I’ll stir a poetic thunder,
Curse the emeralds and make them wonder.
Does my rambling make sense?
or is my sarcasm, hidden behind picket fences?
tomorrow will be grand,
I’ll focus on where snakes used to stand.
And how they eat the dandelion,
and how they laugh when I am crying.
Tomorrow I will write a poem about today,
Detailing how darkness yields to gray.
Hopefully, tomorrow is where peace lies,
There is no room for the rabbit cries.
Blue skies before fireflies,
the crescent sighs.
Tomorrow I’ll write a poem about today.
Not realizing I am here from yesterday,
How will I know what to say?
I will shade my black and blues to gray.
Read me tomorrow,
echoes of overlooked sorrows.
I love these lines:
“Hopefully, tomorrow is where peace lies,” “Read me tomorrow,
echoes of overlooked sorrows.”
I think everyone needs peace tomorrow. And the wording in the last line is beautiful. Thank you for writing, Boxer!
Today I will write a poem about promised miracles.
It will not be about being stuck waiting in pain.
It will not be about “moving on” or forgetting.
It will not be about the current reality.
But rather about light and hope.
When I write it, it is not a painting of today.
But rather about the unmistakeable snapshot of tomorrow
that I have seen and felt and cannot deny.
But rather about how closed doors open
welcoming me back home to family.
But rather about long conversations
both serious and facetious resuming.
But rather about a return to folding laundry
together, throwing socks at each other.
But rather about cherished little feet and elbows
once more uncannily finding their way into my gut.
But rather about connection and light
where life is exciting and full of meaning.
But rather about how wonderful things will be
once we make it through this patch.
But rather about how this extended moment of agony
turns out to be worth it as I repeat to myself daily.
But rather about a life built together
because hearts softened.
But rather about loving and being loved.
Today I write a poem trusting that God does not lie.
A poem because today hurts and
I need my words to escape my too tight chest
before I cry and there are too many students during the day to cry.
A poem in hope that remembering tomorrow’s
parting of the Red Sea can console my broken heart today.
Today I write a poem to reaffirm that there is tomorrow.
Well if there were ever lines testifying to the power of poetry it would be these:
“A poem because today hurts and
I need my words to escape my too tight chest
before I cry and there are too many students during the day to cry…
Today I write a poem to reaffirm that there is tomorrow.”
I’ve been in this classroom position many times. Thank you for writing and sharing your emotions with us today.
Yes, what Angie said!! Poetry can be so healing. Hang in there. I hope that beautiful, “unmistakeable snapshot of tomorrow” can come to you quickly.
Thank you, Angie, for hosting us today. I haven’t had much time in my day to write, so this lacks what I would want it to have, but I’m determined to participate every day.
Left to Their Own Devices
Today I will
write a poem
about a little girl
staring at a screen
in a restaurant
while her parents
act like they are on a date
paying no attention to her.
It will not be about how
I walked over and knelt
beside her and tapped her on her leg
and asked her if she would like to play
tic-tac-toe or hangman
on the paper placemat.
It will not be about how
she looked at me
with fear in her eyes
then diverted those same eyes
to her parents
who had no clue a “stranger”
had approached their daughter.
It will not be about how
she yelled their name
to get their attention,
saying in a voice laced with panic,
“This strange lady wants me
to play games with her.”
It will not be about how
the man shot daggers at me
and said, “Could you leave
our daughter alone?”
to which I replied,
“It looks like you already have”
smiling wistfully at the fearful,
yet angelic, angelic face looking at me
and walked away.
It will not be about how
they feared me . . .
a kind person in the flesh
who tried to engage a little girl
being completely ignored
by her parents.
Yet, they seemed to have
no concern for the evils
lurking behind the screen
that they use to keep
their sweet child occupied . . .
violence, pornography,
extremist ideology, etc.
Kinda crazy,
isn’t it?
~Susan Ahlbrand
15 April 2024
Well, dang, Susan. Yes, this world is crazy. And some people don’t deserve their kids. There are these kind of parents, and then my brother gets his kids taken away from him when he pays the whole world of attention to them every minute. It’s crazy. The dialogue is especially powerful. Thank you for writing!
Susan, your poem gives me chills. I can see this scene so perfectly, and i your end shows why allowing a child to be alone with a screen can be frightening. Powerful poem.
Waiting
Today. I will write a poem about waiting.
Not about surviving loss, or about saying last goodbyes.
Not about dogs I have loved and buried,
nor cats who no longer purr in my arms.
Not about grandparents or mothers or fathers or best friends
who have left me behind in this world.
No. Today I will write a poem about waiting.
Because He went for the X-ray
and the doctor hasn’t called yet
and He might be fine or maybe He’s not
and it was three years ago you almost lost Him,
but you won that time.
And will you win again?
Today I will write a poem about knowing
just how much harder it will be this time
if the news is bad because you know how fragile life is
And how will you ever tell the kids?
Today I will write a poem about waiting for the phone to ring.
And if it doesn’t ring today, it makes no difference.
because it is already done.
It’s bad news or it’s good news and you can only wait.
Today I will write a poem about waiting.
GJSands
4-15-24
Gayle, your poem of waiting is so heartfelt. I’m sending up prayers that the news is good, that you win again, that you continue on the journey with each day being the fragile gift that it is as you celebrate the treasure of him – and of each other, and of life. Blessings and hugs to you!
Oh, Gayle. Your poem captures the difficult not-knowing of waiting, how hard it is. I am spellbound by “it is already done” – yes, whatever is going on is already so – and yet, you don’t know. I went through this tension just last week, waiting for a doctor’s call; I hope and pray you receive the same good news. This is a sad and beautiful poem.
Gayle, your poem says things that my heart needed to hear. It is a beautiful way to capture the emotions of your experience. I am hoping that the waiting ends and that you receive good news!
Oh Gayle, thank you for expressing your emotions through this poem. The two questions in the poem hit hardest for me. Also,
“And if it doesn’t ring today, it makes no difference.
because it is already done.
It’s bad news or it’s good news and you can only wait.”
Waiting for me has always been the most difficult thing. I hope you receive good news this time again. *hugs*
Oh, gosh, Gayle…that “waiting” is cruel…time draining out a sieve and onto the floor, lost time. This is a beautiful poem, laced in that strong bond between you and “him” …no small thing. The flow of this poem is exquisite…we follow your waiting and feel the need for knowing and realize, indeed, “it’s already done.” Whoof. I’m sending hugs and love, Susie
Postscript–we finally heard from the doctor–it is NOT cancer! I know that I grew a few more grey hairs today. Thanks for letting me share–those were the only words I had in me today…
Hallelujah!!!! It was already done!!
Great news! Thank you for the postscript, Gayle! (Your poem really nailed the tensions and frustrations of “waiting.”)
Yayyy!!
Gayle,
I hung on every word…waiting. So powerful. I am such an anticipation worrier and waiting is the worst. I appreciate the epiphany.of “it’s already done”
Hi Angie, we can add an affinity for Clint Smith to our list of things we have in common! The line “how she reminds her friends of the wind” is a stunning line in your poem. Thanks for this prompt!
Elegy for Loud Classrooms
Unsettling silence smothers the soul
six foot safe spaces, masked faces
distance dictated to eradicate
disease.
The space recedes,
but the distance remains.
Perhaps this silence is the
deadliest new variant.
I create clusters to curate chaos.
Still silence. Students succumb
to the gravity of digital devices.
Satellite in orbit, circling a touchscreen
promising that they’re at the center.
I attempt to center community.
My lone voice echoes. Silence deafens.
[snapping fingers furiously….can you snap a finger furiously?….is that a thing?] Agree! Same! I love the line, “Perhaps this silence is the / deadliest new variant.” The pull of the “digital devices” is, indeed, so strong, and I love all the space metaphors in your second stanza. This is just so well-crafted, Dave (hence, the furious (?) snapping!) Post pandemic teaching is a different animal for sure. Thanks for this!
Scott, it’s crazy and disorienting. Somebody please crumple up a piece of paper and throw it at somebody!!!
Dave! I am curious to know the age level of your class/es?
I wonder how teachers in middle/high and upper education deal with this chronic situation.
Perfect alliteration and my heart aches.
I don’t think I’ll ever know a silent classroom, so this is kinda weird. Even after Covid, where I taught masks and social distancing weren’t really ever a thing. My students were social and VOCAL.
But this line and all of your alliteration is on point! “distance dictated to eradicate
disease.” Wow.
Oh, Dave, this is way too scary and real. It is so well said…you nailed this. A silent, distant, disengaged, wedded to the cellphone time of a lost generation is so scary. It is a “succumb[ing]” and it is deafen[ing]. Whoof, so sad a time in our history. Keep fighting, we need you! Susie
Today I will
write a poem about
the Boston Marathon,
that grand old race from
Hopkinton to Boston.
It will not be
an ode
to dedication
or a dirge
for missed opportunities.
But rather,
about the anxious
bobbing from
foot to foot at the start line.
But rather,
the bouncy stride
and carefree arm swing,
the too-fast downhill miles
in the opening miles.
But rather,
the ebullient
screams and pleas
for kisses of Wellesley College
at the half.
But rather,
the tearful smiles and
sobs,
heartfelt hugs at the finish line,
joyful prostrations and relieved laughter
having done the thing.
Interesting subject! I love your “It will not be” stanza and of course the way you have written the end – “having done the thing” what a celebration! Thank you for writing!
I love the pacing of this poem! The clean and clear narrative of before the start, the during, the halfway point, and “the tearful smiles and / sobs” at the end. I returned to this poem a couple times during the day, and I smiled each time I reread it: “joyful prostrations and relieved laughter / having done the thing.” Yes!
Today I will
write a poem
about student art.
It will not be about graffiti
scrawled thoughtlessly
across the tops
of my students’ desks.
It will not be about
idle hands and
misplaced “creativity.”
But rather one of understanding
for Picasso had to practice, too
(and his doodles are upwards
of a million dollars now).
But rather one that is more inclusive
for the student who wrote
Long Live Satin! on the desk
in the back row some years ago
should not suffer textile persecution
but be celebrated for his fashion choices.
But rather a poem that understands
the fundamental need and desire
to make our mark and touch the infinite
to cry into the void of forever
by circling over and over
again and again the pencil wells
on the top of my classroom’s desks.
____________________________________________________________
Thank you, Angie, for your mentor poem and your prompt today! I loved your poem, especially those final lines: “like how she reminds her friends of the wind / and how music helps her live.” Beautiful. In terms of my offering, I hadn’t thought of my student’s misspelled graffiti in a long time and having a chance to “reframe” it in this poem made me smile, so thanks again!
I hear so much respect for students in your words here; I especially love your line “to make our mark and touch the infinite” – this is so essential to each of us, yes? Love that graffiti, “Long Live Satin!” So funny; future fashion designer!
Thanks for sharing. I love the line about fashion choices of “Satin.”
Thanks for always making us laugh, Scott. “Long Live Satin” lmao!! One day I will look back on all the past student art on desks and in books and write a poem about it!
Angie thank you -truly truly- thank you for this beautiful prompt and sharing your lovely words and Clin’t Smith’s. I am awestruck and deeply inspired. This allowed me to create something I love and will cherish forever. Thank you doesn’t seem like enough.
What We Remember
Kasey Dearman
4/15/2024
today I will write a poem
for when I am dead.
you should know
I am typing to birdsong
I am overwhelmed by the green
oak leaves maturing a soft green gold
blue green grasses dappling the weedy yard
cedars swaying in dark green defiance
remember this is how your mother sees the word
I am sitting on our front porch
the one where you blow big bubbles
and smack gum as you sing,
“Save Me,” and dad strums the guitar
sipping coke with whiskey
lazy in his contentment and confidence
remember your mother loves the mystery of him and is endlessly charmed
the same porch where popsicles melt faster
than your tongue can lick
where we watch the swan song of the sun
The horizon’s hues both muted and aflame
“Mom! I see pink!”
“Is that coral and maybe lavender?”
where we clearly understand
all of this *gestures with my hands*
is so rare and holy
where we choose to be brave
never worrying how it all ends
this will not be a poem to say “I miss you”
or to crystallize your pain from missing me
Finley, I hope you still have malachite in your pocket.
or to remind you how I told you
that nothing can separate you from me
Lincoln, I met your dancing daughter in that dream in a hay field on a summer day.
my soul knows your souls
something as common and
weak as death
will never change that
remember this is how your mother worshiped- no dogma- just love is faith
instead this will be a poem
an elegy to me
for you are too young now
to fathom who and what I am
what I barely know myself
today I will write a poem
because when I am gone
no one will sit on our porch
green struck-grateful-listening to birds
soul aching to say something
purer than truth
remember each night that I love you more than all the stars and the moon- and *insert* cheesecakes, butts, cookies, farts
please just remember
Wow! This brought me to tears. I love the remembers in italics, the image of your front porch and all the memories that take place there, and this–
“my soul knows your souls
something as common and
weak as death
will never change that”
I loved reading your poem this morning.
Kasey, oh, my goodness, I can see why you are grateful for the chance to write this today. Yes. Indeed. It will be a lifetime treasure. What love and faith birthed this from you today. I love everything about it, and like Emily, after reading it and weeping a bit while I held it in my heart, I just wanted to say thank you to you. When my mom was 88, she died, and I can only imagine the joy of reading her young words such as these at the end of her life. “Please just remember” – – you’ve helped make that possible.
I am misty-eyed at your gift of presence here, to ‘see’ each moment with your children, your dear partner…so many beautiful, moving lines, I think this is a “rare and holy” poem…I don’t know how you found the emotional wherewithal to imagine writing ‘for when I am dead’ – and I hope your family always remembers, “this is how your mother sees the word.” Breathtaking. Thank you.
Kasey, well thank you! I’m honored that you appreciated the prompt. I am equally in awe of what you have created and am so glad it’s something you will cherish forever 😊 I would love to share this stanza with my students as an example of the difference between meaningful and unnecessary repetition:
“I am overwhelmed by the green
oak leaves maturing a soft green gold
blue green grasses dappling the weedy yard
cedars swaying in dark green defiance”
because although you say green four times, it’s purposeful and each time is something completely different. I love “dark green defiance”. Anyway, this stuck out to me. But of course the route you took this is creative and something very special. Thanks for sharing!
Textbook Elegy
The first time I penned my name and date
in that rectangle stamp of the history textbook
reading the names of students from years before
I turned quickly to chapter one, devouring.
Each line of text so pure and real and insightful.
I studied every page and absorbed great knowledge.
I looked forward to the next year’s textbook
revealing so much more of the world.
It would be years before I noticed its white space.
I knew sanitized only from the bathroom. I knew
sifted out from cakes, left out from friendships,
omitted from don’t say that around mom and dad.
I didn’t know what I didn’t know.
I read with joy, absorbing believing trusting.
Now I wonder who powers every single line of text
and do students wonder about this and does anyone
know what is not written.
This is pure genius. I am just in awe. I love how you added the white space to deepen the sentiment of so much “clean” so much “missing.” This is beyond profound and does exactly what art is meant to do- illuminate in new ways what is true. Thank you for sharing!
Well, hello, Maureen. Obviously the shape you mastered (even within the frame of a post) are outstanding. The punch of “what is not written” is equally powerful. Love it.
So good! Maureen, I love the look of this (and am, of course, envious of how you did it!) and I love the realizations at the end — “I didn’t know” “what” “I didn’t know.” And the line, “Now I wonder who powers” “every single line of text” is such an important line! Cool poem, thanks for this!
Maureen, pure brilliance at the wondering at the end and in the format and the walk back in time to our own rectangles in the front of each book as we acquainted ourselves with the upperclassmen whose eyes had already been where ours would be, whose fingers turned those same pages. I like the line absorbing believing trusting……I always thought facts were facts until I realized that facts. have nuances and perspectives and slants of persuasion, crafted from personal agenda. You wrote a treasure trove of truth today!
Wow, so creative Maureen! I very much want to know what made you think of this. The spaces, brilliant. I am lingering on the beginning about how I absolutely LOVED just the act of writing my name in a book and I cared for all of my books very well. And I also “didn’t know what I didn’t know” for yearrrs. Love the ponderings at the end as well.
Maureen, wow, what an end! The untruths that have been shared through history are devastating. Rewriting history is a challenge, too. I am impressed with how you structured this poem and got it to work in this space. I absolutely loved your line:
“It would be years before I noticed its white space.” That really strikes a chord. Powerful poem!
Maureen — This is so clever…you have nailed this idea of “what is not written”… the words redacted. Love the architecture of the poem. “Sanitized” is the perfect word. We have been so “trusting” indeed. Now, more than ever, I look for what is not there in plain sight…it is becoming a sort of 6th sense. Well done! Susie
Angie, thank you for this prompt and your beautiful poem and or the line “It will not be about her as another statistic“.
Today I will
write a poem
about the complicated nature of love.
But I will not write about
the loss of love
or it’s absence.
Rather about the having of love,
about the holding of love in one’s hands,
like holding onto sand.
I will write about how love has etched itself
into the lines of my father’s palms,
and the crow’s feet that bracket my mother’s eyes.
I will write about how love metamorphs
into humor one minute and concern the next
when my siblings greet each other.
I will write about how love stretches
from one corner of the globe to another
as my friends and I reach out to one another.
I will write about a love that patiently hopes
for a positive diagnosis, but does not crumble
even in the face of the otherwise.
I will write about a love that is sure,
that is infinite, that is almost divine.
I will write about the complicated nature of love
as it gathers hopes delicate petals,
and bargains with death for more time.
Saba, your elegy to love embraces its tenderness so beautifully. “holding onto sand.” – I love this. I feel such depth of love from your words about siblings greeting one another, the “humor one minute and concern the next” I am mesmerized by your poem, the many facets of love.
I am intrigued by the lines: “that is almost divine” and all the possibilities of what that might mean. You have created such a beautiful tribute to loves forms. It is clear that the act of writing this poem is an act of deep love. Thank you for sharing.
This is a beautiful poem. The stanza about the diagnosis and the final stanza are both devastating and incredibly hopeful. Thank you for sharing this.
Saba, what a beautiful poem. I really love that you chose to write these stanzas:
“But I will not write about
the loss of love
or it’s absence.
Rather about the having of love,
about the holding of love in one’s hands,
like holding onto sand.”
You describe the many kinds of love beautifully throughout. Thank you for writing.
I love the stanza
“I will write about a love that patiently hopes
for a positive diagnosis, but does not crumble
even in the face of the otherwise.”
Your poem is a beautiful description of love and all the complicated, changing, beautiful facets that we experience. Thank you for sharing!
Thank you, Angie, for this prompt. I never read Clint Smith before. Thank you for the introduction. I love your poem, especially the lines:
like how she reminds her friends of the wind
and how music helps her live.
Here’s what I came up with upon learning of the death of my cousin, Joey, this morning. I am in the process of sorting out my feelings. I apologize for the rawness of this poem, though I know I needn’t apologize.
Today, I will write a poem
about a young man and father,
It will not be about the death of his father
When he was just a toddler,
It will not be about the death of his wife
two years ago from an overdose,
It will not be about his addiction,
It will not be about his incarceration,
But rather about how this man was a son,
Who was adored by his mother and sister,
Who was loved by his aunts, uncles,
nieces, nephews, and cousins,
Who will be missed by his daughters,
Missed so dearly,
Missed so utterly,
The loss sinking down
into their souls
remaining there
forever.
Joanne, I am so very, very sorry for your loss, for this raw pain and grief. I know you are reeling. You have written a breathtaking poem; thank you for sharing this with us.
Addiction is so devastating to families and communities. I hope you are surrounded by love and support.
Thank you, Maureen.
There is so much in the poem that resonates with me. You are right to never apologize. I feel your deep compassion and endless grace and devotional love. Your poem is a reminder of our deep humanness and capacity to care. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you, Kasey.
Joanne, I’m sorry for your loss. What a difficult life he was dealt but a beautiful tribute to him. I love Smith’s set up of “No More Elegies Today” because it allows for something difficult to turn into something positive which many are choosing today. The movement of your last four lines shrinking is powerful and supports the message perfectly. Thank you for sharing this with us. *hugs*
Thank you, Angie.
I feel every line of this, and my heart goes out to all who knew and loved this young man and father. Addiction is a rampant thief, working overtime and robbing the world of so many of the best and brightest. I’m so sorry for the holes in these souls who will miss him forever.
Thank you, Kim.
I love how you used this poem to show a different side of a person. Through your “it will not be about” and “but rather about” lines you made him into a full person. It was beautiful. I am so sorry for your loss and the grief. Thank you for letting us sit in on the rawness with you!
Thank you.
Good morning, All! Thank you for this opportunity, Angie. As Jennifer Guyor Jowett mentioned in her post, I’m not sure I have enough time to give this poem the justice it deserves, but I am very thankful for the chance to write a poem about my best friend, my dog–Kingston James Bartholomew III.
For context: Kingston is 18 years old and, sadly, will have to be put down on Saturday of this week. I am rejoicing, though, for a couple of reasons: (1) He had an AMAZING life. (2) He will always be my best friend. (3) It is his time.
So, thank you. This prompt came at the perfect time for me.
KJBIII
Today I will
write a poem
about my best friend
living his best life.
This will not be a metaphor
or any other type
of prosaic approach;
it will be a truth-telling
of how this little man
changed my life
by pooping on the floor–
or about that time
that he whispered in my ear
and told me
that everything would be okay.
I see him now
traipsing through the woods
one his way to the pond
to hunt for bullfrogs.
There was that one time
when, despite my better intentions,
he asked his mother to marry me
under the canopy
of Thornden Park.
My phone is filled with photos
of his sleeping little smile
buried beneath the end table
as close the heater as her could get.
And that will be the way I remember him;–
asleep
and
smiling.
Keith,
My heart goes out to you. What a beautiful celebration of this royal companion! I will be hugging my pups a little harder today. The last line brought tears to my eyes–such beautiful lines “And that will be the way I remember him;–/asleep/and/smiling.
I am seeing him asleep and smiling, too. Love the elegy, Keith.
Ribbit Ribbit.
Precious dog, precious elegy. You share beautifully the transcendent gifts of a beloved pet
“ he whispered in my ear
and told me
that everything would be okay.”
All the best, as you walk through your grief.
Keith, many prompts here have come just at the right time for me, so I understand. I loved reading so many stories about Kingston and love that you made this a celebratory poem.
this was great:
“of how this little man
changed my life
by pooping on the floor–
and of course the proposal part! Fun!
Thank you for writing! I’m glad he lived his best life and helped you with yours.
Keith, there is sorrow and joy in the love and loss of pets. To have loved and lost is, no doubt, the firm answer to the question of which is better, the alternative being never to have loved at all. I love those last lines, the peace and the blessed assurance that there was love for this good boy all the days of his life, and what a distinctive name. A dog with a name like this knows his place. He knows that his place as ruler and as servant – and as friend and companion – are all places he shines. And, like all dogs, he knows that he has a family who will make the choices that must be made to do right by him. Hugs.
Happy Monday, Angie. #VerseLove(era). Thank you for sharing Clint Smith’s poetry and style. I enjoyed the poems, including yours, especially “when I read her poem that sounded like a song.” Many of us taught this girl, too (may be teaching them today). Many of us need to remind ourselves “of the wind” (delicious).
Algae
b.r.crandall
I had to flush Nemo, today.
It was Helena all over again.
This eukaryotic eucharist
consecrated & consumed.
Lettuce have this moment together,
to find meaning amongst the red tides.
Your affections rejected and crossed
in this fish bowl of life (ask me another question)
Being the fungi is an Achille’s heal,
but sometimes I can’t help myself.
And I know Evaristi understood power
when blending art with this paradox;
So, I write this poem with pigments
amongst mosses & liverworts
colonizing oxygen amongst the awed,
aquatically ecological (applaud applaud applaud)
Welcome, this morning the sunlight that synthesizes
carbon copies of a recycled life
our colonial ritual s
where only golden toilets bloom
This, a tale or the mermaids, Poseidon:
he was such a good fish
Bryan,
You have peeked my interest and led me down a rabbit hole. I did not know about this art installation and the history, but what an incredible voyage you brought me on this morning!
Being a poet myself (ha!) I love how “sciencey” this poem is and how it contrasts with the love of a good fish (are there bad fish pets?- I don’t know!) You have intrigued me to learn more about these scientific processes and maybe Greek mythology too.
Thank you for sharing- *toasts to Nemo*
Bryan, I would have so loved to be one of your students because I know you would have taught me so many things like beyond whatever subject you were supposed to be teaching me. I am feeling the religiousness in these lines:
“This eukaryotic eucharist
consecrated & consumed.”
Thank you for writing.
I love all that I learn from you in poetry – – it is good when laughter and learning happen at the same time as it does here.
First, your title: essentially, an elegy for “algae”…masterful, Bryan!! I am so sorry about Nemo. “Helena all over” — I had to look that up and I’m appalled (this is art? A blender in a gallery where visitors can choose to push a button and kill goldfish? I get the idea of power behind it, but…). Your lines, every one of them, bloom golden…speaking of which, a quick fish tale I think you might enjoy: My oldest son won a fish at a carnival. It lived a little while in a bowl on our mantel. One afternoon, as he was napping, I realized the horrible truth: Flipper had died. Dead as dead could be. Off to the Super Bowl “he” went, so to speak, with an elegiac flush. Off to dinner my husband and I went and the babysitter told us later…when our boy woke up, he needed the potty first thing, naturally. By some great and malevolent force, Flipper had not actually gone down with said flush… our boy said, Is that Flipper? and our babysitter said, Oh My Gosh, Look at That, You Peed a FISH!
Please do accept my heartfelt condolences on Nemo.
Angie, thanks for the prompt reminding me to give thanks to those who helped me become a lifelong teacher after a pretty rough start. And, BTW, as part of a Rotary International Group Exchange Program for teachers, I spent some time at The Mauritius Insitute of Education. What an exciting, eye-opening experience!
Students Teach Me to Teach
Today I will write a poem
About teaching
Not about my best days
But rather about some bad ones
I thought I was ready
Student teaching had gone well. I had earned a BA
I arrived on time, dressed to the nines
But those eighth graders were not impressed
In fact, they seemed quite distressed
I was their fifth teacher that school year
And it was only the month of January
Today, I write to acknowledge the aid
Of the math teacher across the hall
Not because he helped me figure out grading
But rather for shielding me from prying eyes
As I stood in the hall and cried.
Those eighth graders nearly got to me
Resisting my charm, being unimpressed by my degree
But thanks to faculty and admin support
I returned to class day after day
Yes, eventually, the young teens accepted me
When I got off my own high horse
Yes, we made it through together
Once I acknowledged I needed their help
To teach me how to teach them.
Anna,
This poem should be included in methods courses! Your honesty shines through the first year difficulties I think most of us faced!
Ashley, if you work with first year teachers, please feel free to invite me “in” to tell the rest of the story. And, of course, I’ve mentioned this in posts before, but also included some of the stories in the textbooks I’ve had the privilege of writing.
We don’t really learn to teach until our students are ready to learn. Our job is to listen and learn. Then, they are ready to listen and learn WITH us.
Anna! I am having Deja vu for two reasons. One, all the difficulty you describe is what I experienced my first teaching position, down to the beginning in January part. I was in over my head. And two, I think I have commented on a poem of yours before where you’ve expressed this experience and I remember wishing I have the support you did, but I didn’t. And I didn’t make it at that particular point. I’m glad you had the support and it ended up having a positive end. Thanks for writing!
My mentor told me, “Never two days in a row.” Then, when the third day came she’d say, “But never four days in a row.” Hang in there. I love that today’s elegy, Anna, gave reason to hear your own sermon. Oh, 8th graders. How they be and do. This poem heals.
Oof. I can totally relate. I too took over a class that had chased out multiple teachers and the lessons I learned from those kids taught me more than I could learn anywhere else.
I especially love your 2nd stanza and the acknowledgement of the grace that the math aid showed to you in your moment of vulnerability.
Angie, I am not sure I have enough time to give this poem the justice it deserves today. Because it is one beautiful prompt, and one beautiful elegy, and one beautiful mentor poem from you about one beautiful girl and her importance. Thank you for giving me a great deal to ponder today and how I might use this with students going forward.
Yesterday
I will
write a poem
about a girl drawing her future
It will not be about the time she sat, having barely started school,
cheeks heated from the unwanted kiss of the older boy
leaning toward her in the back of the bus
when she didn’t know how to say no
It will not be about the time her 6th grade teacher told her
she should be doing math on her own and not letting her father help
even though she’d done the problems herself
It will not be about the high school counselor who suggested
she consider getting married instead of going to college
because that’s what girls did
It will not be about the time she was told she was not good enough, not pretty enough, not outgoing enough, athletic enough, rich enough, thin enough, strong enough…
enough
But rather about the time she walked home, barefoot,
because she didn’t want to go to swim lessons that day
after being told she couldn’t do, shouldn’t go, wouldn’t be
But rather about the girl whose grandmother sped on skates
along the canals of Belle Isle,
taking home silver amidst a field of boys
But rather about a girl who once was too quiet to speak in front of peers, in front of strangers, or extended family even,
who went on to speak her being
into being
Jennifer — This is a beautiful poem of strength and the claiming of self… I love that. As always, your word play is outstanding… for example, “enough” placed so strategically. Well done! The movement from those “hot cheeks” after the “unwanted kiss” to “speak her being/ into being”…that’s a blossoming that is so elegant. I could see those “wouldn’t” and “shouldn’t” scoldings and loved the sense of triumph. Lovely! Susie
Jennifer, the enough in the middle of your poem was so loud in my brain and I love it. Thank you for this powerhouse of a poem and these lines “who went on to speak her being – into being“
Jennifer, I think you have done it justice since I got to the “enough” and teared up and again at “who went on to speak her being / into being”. I also love the way you wrote “drawing her future”. Powerful. Thank you for sharing this <3
Jennifer, the last two lines after all of this, speaking her into being, are rich with imagery and triumph! I can see the grandmother amidst the boys – – a silver medal – – and I can see the seed of strength in this, a strength that no other voice would undo.
Angie, thank you for hosting today and sharing the story of your student in this way–“crystal blue eyes filled with wonder”! Can you host us all for a writing workshop in Mauritius next April?;)
today I will write a poem
about chubby cheeks
it will not be about the
bloated, swollen spaces
holding up our gaze
it will not be regarding
the zygomatic space
where rouge contours
our pucker
but rather inflated, fat-filled
clenchers of children
but rather those facial
love handles pushed out
with belly laughs of
innocence
but rather the last
reminiscence of youth
Stefani, I can distinctly remember the time when I saw my babies disappear into little children and then again into young adults and adults. I can’t even imagine what it will be like watching become old people. Your images of chubby cheeks and puckers, love handles and belly laughs make me wish for those days again AND wish for when we found all of these non-conforming features beautiful.
Stefani, I love the idea of chubby cheeks being “facial love handles”. As someone who’s always had chubby cheeks, you’ve given me a new word for them! Thank you for this poem!
Haha Stefani – yall are welcome to come to Mauritius anytime. I have two extra rooms 😀
I agree with Saba that “facial love handles” is an awesome and unique way to describe chubby cheeks! Love your description throughout and the joy of natural, youthful beauty!
These lines, Stefani, are wonderful:
I will now refer to my rotund cheeks in the same way, every time I laugh. Love this poem today.
Stefani,
The words! Zygomatic space, rouge contours, pucker, clenchers. I was just in awe of every phrase here and feeling the “facial/love handles” as a beautiful replacement for that other use and for the beautiful smile! I want to swim in this one for a few more reads. Thanks.
Sarah
Today I will
Write a poem
About soon being finished with grad school
It will not be about what comes next
It will not be about my dissertation topic
But rather the comfort I have found
In listening and reviewing feedback
From wise and gentle counsel
But rather the joy in giving myself
“Permission to make a B”
In the clarity of not seeking perfection
But rather the best I could in a moment
The best I could when pregnant
When sitting in the NICU
When saying “mommy has homework”
When saying “fuck it” and playing instead
When waking up at 4 am made more sense
Than saying no to my kids.
Good morning Ashley, Thank you for sharing today. I am so connected to your poem this morning as I worked through childbirth complications during my PhD. You got this, one day at a time, say “fuck it” whenever needed and enjoy the small things! I am sending good vibes to your baby in the NICU and a full recovery. Take care of yourself as well💜
Stefani,
It was a difficult time. Luckily she is thriving and two now! She was born during my first semester as a doc student!
Ashley, every line of your poem speaks of strength and to strength. And look at what you have done! I most relate to “permission to make a B.” An education teacher once told me B students have more fun and it took my watching my own students struggle with perfection before I was ok with it. I wish someone had told me that earlier. We expect so much from ourselves. Your kiddos have a wise momma!
Wow, such a powerful poem of celebration, Ashley. And balance and priorities and making it even when it might have been difficult. Congrats! I have so much awe for those who balance kids while doing so much else! Thank you for writing!
The curse of institutional indoctrination…life choices that seldom make sense, but do…the 4 a.m. alarm clocks to get a few hours of writing in so you can have at least an hour to play. B is for beautiful. Thank you for giving yourself permission, Ashley.
No Comment
Today I need
to find kinder words
I’m overwhelmed
I’m tired
It’s a day I don’t feel like talking
Out loud
Because my mind is too busy inside
With dread
Knowing I have to do this day
Usually,
I rally
I will find the smallest thing
That gives me just an ounce of comfort
But today isn’t that day
I just need to lay down
To be given time
To put my bare feet back on the ground
Rachel, thank you for writing today. Your line “knowing I have to do this day” holds such power in both the opportunities each day can bring but also the oftentimes endless feeling of one day. Finding those small things brings forth some light, even for short periods.
Rachel,
I FEEL this poem so much. I hope that this poem brought you the same amount of solace it brought me and that you get your bare feet back on the ground whenever you are ready
Rachel,
The heaviness of your heart in this poem cries out so loudly. You have captured so eloquently the sense of dread of a day filled with something heartbreaking. Your last line especially resonated with me–to be grounded once again and to step into the ‘after.’
Rachel, thank you for writing even when you are having a bad day or maybe be specially because you are. I hope you get that time “to lay down” and “put [your] bare feet back on the ground”. It seems that’s what many others needed to hear as well. Thank you for sharing.
Rachel, I hope you can feel the hug I am sending you virtually. I hope you can find something today, a kindness done or given, that reminds you of how necessary you are. This could be me today (or any day, really). It might be the teacher job or the balancing life and work situation or just the overwhelmingness of having to babysit so many, but you share truth and reality.
Rachel, let’s face it. A winning poem is a winning poem, and you have written a winner because there is nobody who can’t relate to this, who doesn’t want to take off the shoes and lie down on the ground next to you and declare, “ME TOO!” Sometimes the pit of honesty that is poetry is so real it’s comforting and frightening all at once, how close home it hits.
Angie, I teach the student you write about. I could have written the same poem, but I won’t. My mind is wandering to the blooming jasmine outside my bedroom window.
Today I will write
a poem
about a small white flower
opening
overnight
to burst into fragrant song–
Jasmine climbs boldly
over a picket fence
persisting to be here
in a place where no one cries,
innocently hidden from view.
The scent of it
opens
over spring breeze
announcing its place
in the family of things.*
*from Mary Oliver Wild Geese
Margaret, thank you for hosting yesterday, sorry to have missed out in full community by posting. Your poem today highlights the fascinating abilities and life of plants–they are so small and so strong, bring us such joy and grow in front of our eyes. I appreciate your addition of Oliver’s lines at the end as well.
Anyone who can weave in Mary Oliver is a friend of mine!
in a place where no one cries
LOVE this line and image!
Margaret, I am lingering on these lines as well:
“persisting to be here
in a place where no one cries,”
and the description of the jasmine is beautiful. Thanks for writing today!
Margaret,
I so love reading your poems with flower contemplations. When I see Jasmine, I think of it as a person with the capital letter and the first word of the stanza. I am picturing this being, this flower climbing boldly. I want to be Jasmine “innocently hidden from view”!
Peace,
Sarah
Angie, thank you for sharing these profound elegies and for opening the door to lament, if needed…first let me speak to the impact of your poem. The healing and overcoming found in writing comes through beautifully here in your verse. I’ve seen “eyes filled with wonder” when students first taste the power of their own words, when they realize the value of their own thoughts, ideas, and experiences, when they are able to open up, at last. That’s essentially what I am doing here today. For many years I’ve avoided writing anything about my mother, possibly because my father’s notion of “not airing dirty laundry” is ingrained. Yet. Yet, yet, yet. The truth needn’t be dishonorable. Thank you, again, for opening the door today…I feel fresh air coming through…
Seam-Ripper Elegy
Today I will
write a poem
about my mother
It will not be about her early years
of poverty and deprivation
It will not be about her childhood fear
of her father
It will not be about addiction
and destruction
But rather how she fashioned
clothes for other people,
laying out fabric on the kitchen table,
pinning patterns, cutting with precision,
sewing it all together
so that it fit like a miracle
But rather how she took
my little sister and me to church
(we walked because she didn’t
have a license to drive)
But rather how she listened
to gospel songs late into the night
and tried to sing in the sanctuary choir
until the director told her she couldn’t
because she was off-key
(she couldn’t hear out of
one ear)
But rather how her laughter
was contagious
making me wonder if that’s why
my father married her…
she never expected to outlive him
I never expected to lose her
while she still lives
It’s been twenty-two years
a safe enough distance now
to remember how she loved forsythia
and Salem menthol cigarettes
and black coffee
and dogs
and once upon a time,
me
Oh Fran, the ending line got me. Once upon a time…I am coming to know that loss slowly. I am glad I didn’t write about my mother because, well, the grief is still so fresh and unimaginable. You capture yours here, but I also know you will write about her time and time again. Our mothers never really leave us.
I love the use of “But rather…” It’s a nice way to turn around a feeling or a memory.
Fran, I’m glad this prompt allowed you to open up about your mother. I so appreciate getting to know about the good and the bad. What’s interesting is that quite a few of these lines remind me of my own mother:
“It will not be about her childhood fear
of her father
It will not be about addiction
and destruction”
and
“But rather how her laughter
was contagious
making me wonder if that’s why
my father married her…”
and the emotion expressed in “I never expected to lose her / while she still lives” *hugs*
thank you for sharing and allowing us to read.
Fran, There’s so much EVERYTHING in this elegy,
…walking to church…bringing faith and meaning to a daughter’s world. Just beautiful
Fran, I’m in tears here. They started at “I never expected to lose her while she still lives” and came on fully with “and once upon a time, me.” Phew! Dang. This hit hard, as your writing always does. You tell us truth beautifully while allowing us to experience the sorrow or whatever emotion you’re sharing. Hugs.
Fran, this is writing to the bone, and though the heart and right into the soul. Those two last lines caught my breath. Your poetry shares the things you carry – – faith and church, appreciation for black coffee, dogs, laughter, and singing in the choir. But I also see that you have an extraordinarily strong devotion to your own family and a commitment to your role as a pastor’s wife, too, and a style of writing with intense insights on the world. Your poem today allowing us to bear witness and share some of the pain and regret is brave, and I am in awe of your strength and courage in writing it.
oh, my goodness. How wonderful and sad and loving. Just beautiful.
Angie, I am a fan of Clint Smith and of inspiring prompts like yours today. This is a fabulous way to start the day – reading Smith’s poems and yours and writing poetry to an amazing prompt.I am in awe of how poetry brings reality home when we see depression through another’s eyes and feel the hope of music and truth and
the support of others that is so evident in your poem. Thank you for hosting us today and investing in us as writers.
Honey Buttered Toast
Today I will
write a poem
about a dog eating honey buttered toast
it will not be a metaphor for a land of milk and honey or savior-style pet rescue
it will not be an allegory for a character named Boo Radley, white as a ghost, who saved people, found standing behind a door
but rather about bottled wildflowers
sweetly spun nectar of honeybees
dancing through the meadow, kissing blossoms
but rather about the buttery cream
freshly churned from Guernseys
grazing green grasses of the meadow
but rather about the chaffed wheat
grain gleaned from the meadow
ground and baked and sliced and toasted
but rather about the blending of ordinary meadow things
that become the extraordinary
when the world doesn’t want to read another dog poem
Now I’m going to go to my kitchen and make some buttered honey toast. What a delicious poem. These words make my mouth water: “gleaned from the meadow/ground and baked and sliced and toasted.” But the real wow of this poem for me is: “the blending of ordinary meadow things that become the extraordinary.” Isn’t this what we are all looking for? I think so. Beautiful response to Angie’s great prompt.
Kim – I see your beautiful meadow:) I think it could very well be a metaphor for your heart, with all that sweet nectar, dancing, buttery cream, good bread, and good creatures on whom we depend for sustenance. That includes dogs – I, for one, am always happy to read another dog poem! Precious Boo Radley!
Hi, Kim –
This made me feel a little brighter today. I’ll always take a dog poem.
Oh, Kim, that description of the creation of the honey, butter, and bread is teasing my tastebuds. So good! And I especially love the last lines too, with the blend of philosophical and a bit of humor! Thanks for writing and for the pic!
Kim, there aren’t enough dog poems, so I appreciate this one so much. Woof Woof. My mother has fed every dog she’s ever met bites of her morning toast. They flock to her like pigeons to seed. My current dog, Karal, is the only one who semi-resists. She’ll eat mom’s toast, but she gags doing it. It’s rather comical. Ordinarily extraordinary!
Oh my, Kim. What a twist you have by the end of this. I must say, I did love each of your “but rather’ stanzas, but I do love your dog poems, too. I so enjoyed the way you opened your poem, and the photo at the end is truly lovely. Thanks for sharing a bit about Boo and taking me on this nature wonder journey!
Kim,
This poem feels like an extension of our poetry discussion yesterday and the utility of dandelions and bees and my comment about where food comes from. Of course, I don’t tire of dog poems and photos of Boo Radley. I also don’t tire of litote, which you use so perfectly in the first half of the poem before telling us in lovely poetic language where that honey butter and toast came from.
Angie, thank you. The poems of Clint Smith are WOW. I had not seen those before and I love how they ground the speaker to joy within difficult issues…as your poem does too. “Her poem that sounded like a song.” This is so possible for young people–even when they don’t see that it is. Just beautiful.
Today I will
write a poem
about a middle school boy counting pennies
in Dari as part of a challenge
to see who can keep the most pennies
afloat on a boat made from one piece of kitchen foil.
I will not write about how he struggles to learn English
Or, how the library is a refuge for him during lunch.
As he whispers counts other students creep near
watching the pile of pennies reach a staggering amount.
Teachers sidle by with question mark faces
until they see the fish tank, foil, and pennies.
As the amount increases, the water line grows higher against the side of the boat.
The boy learns balance as he aims to surpass
the day’s record written on a dry-erase board behind the crowd.
I will write of how when the boat sinks it’s to smiles and applause.
I will write of how this boy is today’s rockstar engineer.
I can see it all, Linda. The teachers with question mark faces…I imagine them turning to exclamation points as the realize what the boy is about. He is so real and so present in your poem, as are all those pennies…reminding me how vital “play’ is to innovation.
Linda, I’m just feeling the heart of the boy whose language is not steady-footed, who probably spends so much time being frustrated in confusion, who pulls off a challenge of penny counting in foil boat fun and realizes success at the cheers of his friends and knows that language – – that he won! What a moment of triumph for him! This makes me smile.
I love when people can capture the smallest moment and make it exciting. Love it.
Linda, this is a beautiful poem of celebration. I especially love these lines:
“The boy learns balance as he aims to surpass
the day’s record written on a dry-erase board behind the crowd.”
Learning balance through this in an otherwise lopsided world at times and “surpassing” a record! Awesome.
Love this, Linda,
Let them engineer, like you with this poem, the magic!