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PF: Limping Through #Inktober

It’s Parent Teacher Conference Week. I’ve heard some schools have conferences during the school day. Or half days. Or something. Apparently there is an alternative to a full week of teaching and shoehorning in conferences before and after school. Or so I’ve heard.

#17 Collide

Parent Teacher Conference Week

Crash!
Bang!
Kaboom!
Life and job collide
Brace for impact
Count on casualties

©Molly Hogan

#18 moon

Some days
my sanity dangles
from the merest sliver
of crescent moon

©Molly Hogan

#20 sprout

A tendril of energy
takes root,
sprouts,
withers away.

©Molly Hogan

The Poetry Friday Roundup is at Jama Rattigan’s blog, Jama’s Alphabet Soup. Jama always provides a feast, so be sure to stop by and check out this week’s offerings!

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PF: More Inktober poems

The daily Inktober prompts are a great low-stakes way to keep the creative juices flowing and a wonderful distraction when one is needed. Here are a few of my recent efforts. (I will apologize in advance for #12 though I had great fun writing it!)

#10 pick

Mystery in the Garden

Yesterday I picked a pumpkin
where I thought I’d planted melon.
I can’t figure how this happened
and the pumpkin isn’t tellin’!

©Molly Hogan

#11 sour

Her words sour the air
transform the moment’s
fleeting sweetness
curdle it
like lemon in milk
into a bitter corruption
so sharp and biting
it lingers on the tongue

©Molly Hogan

#12 stuck

Economics in Action

The teacher droned on endlessly 
about wants versus needs.

“Ugh!” Bea thought, “This econ. stuff
is putting me to sleep!

The sun is out and I am stuck
in this most dull of courses.”

So she jammed a finger up her nose
to check her own resources.

Bea didn’t think about it much
just dove into her task,

more invested in her treasure hunt
than in doing well in class.

After intense exploration
she finally withdrew,

content to sit and contemplate
her own gross revenue.

Then casually she licked it off
restoring her good humor

while embodying those econ. terms—
producer and consumer.

©Molly Hogan

This week’s Poetry Friday is hosted by Bridget Magee at her blog, Wee Words for Wee Ones. She, punster extraordinaire, is sharing news of the release of her anthology, 10•10 Poetry Anthology: Celebrating 10 in 10 Different Ways. I’m delighted to have a poem included in this anthology and can’t wait to have a copy in my hands. Congratulations, Bridget!

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PF: #Inktober

I’d forgotten all about #Inktober until last week when I read Michelle Kogan and Ruth Hersey’s #Birdtober posts and they nudged my memory. Was Inktober still a thing? A quick Google search reassured me:

Rules & Prompts — Inktober

Initially, #Inktober started as a challenge for people to make a drawing in ink in response to a daily prompt word and then tweet it. Some poets opted to respond with poetry instead (#Poemtober). I thought this might be a playful exercise for me this October, so I started participating–at least in my notebook. I haven’t shared my responses on Twitter, but here are a few of my efforts:

Day One: crystal

If I had a crystal ball
for future-gazing
would I lose
day after present day
gazing into its depths?

Or would I drape it
in plushest black velvet
swaddle its mysteries
content to linger
in ignorance?

©Molly Hogan

Day 2: suit

For Kurtis

You’re my #1 guy
You suit me to a T
Without U
Where would I B?
O U Q T*
You’re my A to Z!

©Molly Hogan

*In case you haven’t experienced the wonderful book CDB, this translates to “oh you cutie”

Day six: spirit

Come October spirits rise
Take to the air
Spook and surprise

Fright us!
Delight us!
Open our eyes!

The world is much larger
than many surmise.

©Molly Hogan

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Irene Latham at her blog, Live Your Poem. She’s sharing a wonderful autumnal harvest of goodies including exciting news, a Neruda poem and her latest Artspeak duo. Make sure to check it out along with other Poetry Friday offerings linked there.

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Delighting in Dahlias

Recently this image appeared in our town’s Facebook group, along with an open invitation for anyone in town to stop by and gather up some dahlias.

I have to admit, I’ve never considered growing dahlias and don’t know much about them. Classified as tender perennials, they have to be dug up each winter and replanted in the fall. I know myself well enough to avoid that situation! No, thanks! But…free dahlias? Sure!

I took note of the address, jumped in my car and headed out. As I neared, I slowed down, looking carefully for the address. Would I be able to find it?

I needn’t have worried. The wagon of blossoms was like a beacon at the end of the driveway. I pulled over and got out. The blooms were even more glorious in person. I may have audibly oohed and aahed a bit.

I turned to see a woman emerging from behind the house, clippers in hand.

“These are gorgeous,” I said, wandering over. “It’s so kind of you to share them with everyone!”

“Well,” she said, “I just love dahlias. I keep buying them and I don’t want them to go to waste. If I didn’t give them away, I’d have to compost them. I’d hate to do that!”

“Don’t you have to store them inside in the winter?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “We have a ridiculously large bathroom that stays pretty cool, so I put them in there.” She looked around at the beds bursting with dahlia blossoms. “I’m not sure if they’re going all fit this year,” she admitted and laughed, “but I just can’t resist them!”

We chatted about gardens, dahlias, managing tender perennials, etc. As we spoke, several more cars pulled over to the side of the road. People were laughing and peering into the wagon, comparing and selecting blossoms. Word was clearly out.

I moved back toward the wagon to choose my flowers and the woman accompanied me. As I gazed at all the choices, I was wowed by the variety and the subtle gradients of color.

“These are stunning!” I said.

She nodded, smiling, and as I selected blossoms, she added a few choices of her own with some commentary.

“Oh, you have to have this one!”

“Take this one, too. It’s one of my favorites! It’s just like a watercolor, isn’t it!?”

Finally, I had a lovely bouquet gathered. After thanking her again, I headed home to organize my flowers.

A short while later, I was definitely rethinking dahlias. Some relationships are clearly worth a little extra effort!

Update: This week’s selection!

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PF: Limericks to the rescue!

When life is feeling a bit overwhelming, it’s surprising how often a limerick can come to the rescue. It’s an easy access poem, with no claim to deeper meaning and a delight in being trivial. How refreshing is that?! It also can incorporate some stunningly adept and amusing word play. And let’s not forget the occasional bawdy humor.

Here’s one of my favorite limericks by Ogden Nash:

A wonderful bird is the pelican,
His bill will hold more than his belican,
He can take in his beak
Enough food for a week
But I’m damned if I see how the helican!

Another fabulous limerick, author unknown:

There was a young lady of Ryde
Who ate some green apples and died;
The apples fermented
Inside the lamented
And made cider inside her inside.

I mean, really, how fabulous is that?

Many people can pull a limerick out of their memory. Maybe this is due to the distinct rhythm and rhyme scheme, or perhaps due to their often naughty nature. On a recent visit, my dad regaled us with this limerick, author unknown:

There was a young lady from Thrace
Whose corsets grew too tight to lace.
     Her mother said, “Nelly,
     There’s more in your belly
Than ever went in through your face!

So, I suppose it’s not surprising that I turned to limericks when approaching our group’s most recent challenge. This month Mary Lee Hahn selected the challenge. She suggested that we “Explain a poetry term (simile, metaphor, allegory, allusion, etc) in a poem that makes use of that term. OR tell how to write a poetry form (ode, elegy, sonnet, limerick, etc) in that form.”

Here are my efforts:

Limerick

If your poems tend toward nude or to crude
Here’s a form with the right attitude
It’s short, though not sweet
with distinct metric feet
and in five lines, amusingly rude.

©Molly Hogan

Limerick

A limerick’s a poem with a beat
a pattern of metrical feet
It’s rhyme scheme is set
and if you forget
your readers really won’t be satisfied.

©Molly Hogan

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Catherine Flynn at her blog, Reading to the Core. Make sure to check out her response to the challenge.

If you’d like to see what other Inklings did with this challenge, check out their sites here:

Mary Lee Hahn at A(nother) Year of Reading
Linda Mitchell at A Word Edgewise
Heidi Mordhorst at My Juicy Little Universe
Margaret Simon at Reflections on the Teche

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PF: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

My dreams have been odd and memorable in these first few weeks of school. In one I was trying to save dozens of struggling bat-like, kitten-like creatures covered in burrs which were strangling them. Then the creatures morphed into full orange kittens with little black striped feet, the cutest little “socks” — until I realized someone had drawn them on with Sharpie markers.

In another one I was diving into turbulent water for my pairs of shoes that were sitting neatly on the ground beneath the tide that had unexpectedly risen. A woman reached out to rescue me, but once she had me on her boat, she injected me with something. Somehow I knew that she was kidnapping me to be her embroidery slave. (Yes, embroidery slave. No, I don’t know how to embroider! lol) When I awoke, I punched her, so she injected me again. When I woke the next time, I complained, “That’s not fair! I should be able to hit you once for drugging and kidnapping me before you drug me again!”

Finally, in my most recent dream, I was exclaiming to the doctor, “How can I be pregnant!? And with twins!? I’m 54 years old!”, but inside, in my dream, I was also thinking, Oh, this explains everything. No wonder I’m so dang tired. It all makes sense now.

In other words, restful sleep is doubly precious these days.

Saturday morning after the first week back at school
(with apologies to Robert Frost)

A single crow
in a maple tree
sang the morning
awake for me.

Clarion clear,
first thing I heard.
I grumbled, rolled over
and flipped it the bird.

©Molly Hogan

Here’s hoping you’re enjoying restful nights.

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Denise Krebs at her blog, Dare to Care. She’s sharing a wonderful In One Word poem inspired by April Halprin Wayland. Check it out and perhaps you’ll learn a new word just like I did!

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Well, s*!t, I blew that!

I’ve been working on my language lately.

No, not that language. My teaching language. I’ve come to realize that language is a powerful teaching tool, and I’ve been working for years on improving how I use this tool in my class. For example, I’ve worked hard to make specific rather than general comments about student work– comments that focus on the skill used rather than on my personal approval . So, instead of saying, “I really love your character”, I might say “Wow! Describing all those small actions really brought your character to life!” I’ve also made concerted, though much less successful efforts, to consistently reduce the rate of my speech.

After attending a four day workshop before school started, I’ve been thinking about language again. Specifically, I’ve been trying to use reinforcing, reminding and redirecting language à la Responsive Classroom. Please note, I’m going to sum up as best as I can, but my words reflect my understanding of these terms and that is still evolving.

Reinforcing language is just what it says. When they see positive things happening, teachers use reinforcing language to help students recognize and build on their successes. So, with an upbeat, encouraging tone, they give specific feedback. Instead of a vague “Great job!”, it’s “Everyone got in line quietly and calmly so we can get out to recess on time.” The idea is to focus on the positives, draw attention to them, and build off those successes.

Reminding language helps students as they get slightly off track or when the teacher anticipates they might. It’s direct, brief and calm. It prompts students to remember for themselves what the expected behavior is and to alter their behavior accordingly. So, instead of a long interjection from me about what they should be doing, I try to make a statement or ask a question and put the onus on them. “Remind me what you should be doing right now.” or “What is our rule about classroom materials?”

Finally, redirecting language is when student behavior has gone farther afield, and they need to hear briefly, specifically and calmly what they need to do. For example, instead of “We’re wasting time. We need to get started.” It’s more like, “Stop. Put your folders on your desk and sit down. Then we’ll start.” This type of language also comes into play when students need some external support with their behavior so they can be safe and move back into more productive behavior.

I find it fascinating to think about how I use language and the impact it has on my classroom and students. Right now, I may be overthinking it a bit, and I’m sure I sound a bit stilted sometimes, but it’s early days. The goal is to use reinforcing language the most, and overall, I feel pretty successful with that. Giving specific feedback has become more natural over time. It definitely helps that our ongoing Reading and Writing PD with Teachers College has had a similar focus. My own goal recently has been keeping reminders brief and to the point. If you read my blog regularly, you probably know: Brevity is not my forté.

Last week, I was thinking about all of this at recess. In between navigating critical ball shortages, four-square fiascos, and friendship squabbles, I was reflecting on how my language work was going.

I need to look back at my workshop notes. I’m doing okay with reinforcing language, and am being specific (most of the time), but what about the reminding language when kids aren’t following expectations? Or is that redirecting language? When does one become the next? Maybe I should look at some of the examples again…

My internal thoughts continued as we lined up to head back to our classroom. As we started moving, I noticed Y and Z tossing a football around in line. This was something we’d clearly discussed earlier in the week.

“Y and Z,” I said, “Remember we don’t throw a ball in line because it’s not safe. Please hold onto it.”

Turning back, I grimaced. Ugh. I was calm and matter of fact. Brief? Not really. I’m also pretty sure I was supposed to prompt them to think of what they needed to do in line to stay safe, not tell them.

Changing my language is tough! I turned back and kept walking. I’ll do better next time.

A blur of movement caught my eye.

Wait? What was that?

No way!

Yes way!

Sure enough, once again, Y and Z were veering in and out of line, tossing the football back and forth, over the heads of a few of their classmates.

I turned around again, thoughts about effective teaching language fresh in my mind. My voice erupted, deep and resonant. Actually, it emerged a bit differently than I had expected. Huh? A little louder (a little?), firm and definitely a bit …well, maybe more than a bit…gruffer. Maybe even rumbly. Actually, it sort of sounded a bit as if a demon had entered my body and taken over.

“Y and Z. HOLD THE BALL!”

They froze. Their eyes widened. They grabbed the ball, held it tight, and scuttled back into line.

Brief? Yes. Direct? Yes. Calm tone? Not so much.

Eep.

I turned around, facing away from them, and had to laugh.

Yikes! Where had that voice come from? Well, I guess the pendulum swung too far the other way that time. I’ll keep working on it.

For now, at least, the ball was firmly in hand, and we made our way back to the classroom with no further incident– of either the football or demon-possession variety. I’ll count that as a win and in the meantime, I’ll keep working on my language.

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PF: Unrepentant

This month Margaret posed a doozy of a challenge to our group, or as my grandfather would have said, “It was a real lulu!” Margaret suggested that this month we write ghazals (pronounced “guzzles”). Apparently, she’d been having a hankering to write one and thought she’d invite us all to come along for the ride. And what a ride it was! It definitely pushed me right out of my comfort zone–always a good, if not comfortable, thing!

I’d written what I called a quasi-ghazal once a year or so ago, and all I remembered was that the form was darned challenging. This time I was determined to get closer to fully adhering to it. I found a post on Tweetspeak that offered some guidance. It outlined step by step how to write a ghazal (click the link if you want more details) and also shared a mentor ghazal by Patricia Smith.

Hip-Hop Ghazal

Gotta love us brown girls, munching on fat, swinging blue hips,
decked out in shells and splashes, Lawdie, bringing them woo hips.

As the jukebox teases, watch my sistas throat the heartbreak,
inhaling bassline, cracking backbone and singing thru hips.

Like something boneless, we glide silent, seeping ‘tween floorboards,
wrapping around the hims, and ooh wee, clinging like glue hips.

(click the Tweetspeak link above to read the rest of this poem)

After reading this, I was more than a bit daunted. I couldn’t make up my mind what I even wanted to write about. I started and stopped. Started and stopped. I just couldn’t find my way. In the end, let’s just say it wasn’t a pretty process, but I persevered. I still don’t think I’ve hit 100% of the requirements, but I’m getting closer. Once it finally started to come together, it was kind of fun. Borderline brutal, but kind of fun, and definitely satisfying.

Unrepentant

I confess, I enjoy a glass of wine at night.
Lips to glass. Upright to supine at night.

I prefer Cabernet to Merlot, seeking body
in spirits that linger with moon’s shine at night. 

Come, join me, drink to dreams deferred
and days gone by. Liquid anodyne at night.

Half-remembered words circle while I sleep —
a haunting or a visit more divine at night.

When shadows lengthen, intoxicated by starlight,
will you turn into my arms and be mine at night?

©Molly Hogan

Wine seems to be a theme for me this month. Not sure what’s up with that, but I’m going with it, so I’m also sharing a tetractys inspired by one of Kat Apel’s recent posts.

Wine
eases
new school year
preparation.
I quaff my red with no hesitation.

©Molly Hogan

Finally, I offer you this find from our local village store:

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Heidi Mordhorst at her blog, My Juicy Little Universe. She’s sharing her most-amazing ghazal there. You can visit the other Inklings at their blogs to check out some more ghazals.
Catherine Flynn at Reading to the Core
Linda Mitchell at A Word Edgewise
Heidi Mordhorst at My Juicy Little Universe
Margaret Simon at Reflections on the Teche
Mary Lee Hahn at A(nother) Year of Reading

Cheers!

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Impassable?

Our house is filled with books. Despite giving away probably thousands of them over the years, we still have thousands left. We’ve accumulated them from all sorts of places: bookstores, yard sales, library sales, gifts, giveaways. You name it, if there’s a book involved, count us in! We’ve even converted our living room into a sort of library. You know, if you can’t beat them…

So, as a result of this, we often find books we didn’t know that we had. A few weeks ago I was looking for something to read. Why I do this when I have a two foot tall TBR pile on my nightstand is one of the mysteries of the universe. At any rate, I reached into the bookshelf and pulled out a slim volume I didn’t recall seeing before. It was titled “O To Be A Dragon” by Marianne Moore. Where had this come from? Had I picked it up somewhere and never read it?

I opened the front page and saw an inscription:

Margaret Beeghly
(her Dragon)
Marianne Moore
October, 1959

Well, that was unexpected!

Margaret Beeghly was my mother. Known as Midge, she was 17 when Marianne Moore wrote this. I have no idea who gave my mother this book–who took the time to have it inscribed for her. What did the inscription “her dragon” mean anyway? Why was it written to “Margaret” and not to “Midge”? My mother died 40 years ago, but somewhere along the way I had picked up this book and carried it with me. How had I moved it from place to place, house to house without ever noticing it before?

The most amazing thing to me is that this is not an isolated event. I really shouldn’t have been so surprised. Just this past weekend a cousin e-mailed, saying she’d unearthed some old newsletters that my mother had written along with some of her cousins in 1955. My mom, who would have been 13 at the time, apparently authored a column called “Mumble Jumble.” My cousin wanted to confirm my address so she could send copies along to me, and I’m still eagerly waiting for them to arrive.

Last winter, out of the blue, a friend of my mother’s sent me a bundle of letters she’d been saving, along with some pictures of my mother. Most of the letters had been written by my mother shortly before she died, and others were written by my grandmother to this friend shortly after my mother died. It’s the oddest thing to unexpectedly get new windows into someone’s life through the years. To read words that she’d written decades ago. It’s both unsettling and comforting.

Turning back to the book, I opened it to a random page and read this poem:

I May, I Might, I Must

If you will tell me why the fen
appears impassable, I then
will tell you why I think that I
can get across it if I try.

At the time, with the start of yet another unsettled school year dominating my mind, I read this poem as a pretty relevant message with a can-do attitude.That’s how I finished the draft of this post that I wrote on Sunday. But I wasn’t happy with the ending.

This morning I woke up and realized that the heart of what I wanted to write about wasn’t so much the book as it was about the reappearance of so many things relating to my mother over the years, and especially recently. I revised to add the additional information about the newsletter and the letters. That felt better.

Then, as I reread this post and the poem, before publishing, I had a sudden startling thought. This time as I read the poem, my mother was at the forefront of my mind, and it was her voice I heard as I read it. My interpretation shifted dramatically. Maybe there’s a pattern in all of this. It feels a bit far-out, but perhaps the re-emergence of these items through the years isn’t so random after all. Perhaps it’s my mom’s way of crossing what “appears impassable”, of reaching out across “the fen”.

True or not, I find a great deal of comfort in that thought.

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PF: Zentangle Poem

In the midst of classroom unpacking chaos, between bouts of frantic worry and frenzied optimism, a page from a book appeared on my classroom floor. I picked it up. Hmmmm. Where had that come from? After reading through it, I was pretty sure it had come from a copy of “The Phantom Tollbooth” (which, I’m embarrassed to say, I’ve never read though it’s now in my towering TBR pile.) I did know enough to recognize the character names: the Humbug and Milo. Knowing I didn’t have a copy of that book in my classroom, I figured that at some past point, I’d probably rescued a few pages from a discarded copy and intended it for some blackout poetry. I tucked the stray page in my bag.

Days later, at home, that page tumbled out of my bag with a mess of other papers. Always willing to indulge in a bit of procrastination, I decided to try a blackout poem. Once I found the poem, I transformed it into a Zentangle–a first for me. The resulting poem surprised me a bit. I will say that regardless of how this poem sounds, I really am looking forward to being with my new class. My worries are based in a wider world.

Graceful sky
Sunlight leafslid
dropped luminous
clear and close

Ahead and soon
serious difficulties
continual crashing
wild dashing

STOP

a breath

We’re lost.

©Molly Hogan

This week’s poetry Friday is hosted by Elisabeth at Unexpected Intersections.