I’ve been trying to fashion small poems lately. To root through the ashes and find small sparks, then breathe on them gently like kindling, hoping to ignite a flame, to create a little light. I like to write Wordle poems sometimes, but one day this past week my guesses wrote a very succinct poem without any tinkering from me:
That wasn’t quite what I was going for, but who am I to reject a poem when it’s staring me in the face?
Here are a few other poems from this week:
fire warm at my back coffee in hand gold on the horizon
This morning as I walked out to the car, the horizon was aglow, lighting up the dark. It was lovely, but it didn’t stir me as it usually would. Its impact felt muted. Beauty is having a tough time finding its way inward these days. There’s so much to slog through first, I guess. This feeling has been hard to shake, and honestly, I’m not even sure that I should shake it.
As I moved forward, there was an unexpected flash of color in the doorway of our free-standing “office”. I took a small detour to check it out, and the sudden incongruity of the reflection pleased me. I snapped a photo with my phone.
As I stood there, I suddenly heard rustling and crunching out beyond the zone of visible light.
“What’s that?”
It was probably deer. Probably. Most days I would have imagined bears, coyotes and/or a roaming raving maniac, and would have stepped lively back into the light and then scampered into my car. But this morning I didn’t care. These days I vacillate between deadened and defiant. I’m not sure which was dominant at this point, but I took another step into the dark, gazing about me. The noises got louder, seemingly closer. Whatever was out there clearly wasn’t worried by my presence. I was still pretty sure it was deer. My eyes scanned the field in the dim light. I could see nothing, other than the dim shadows of trees and the hint of high weeds in the fields. The noises continued. Finally, the awareness of time passing pulled me back toward to my car.
As I drove down the driveway, I kept my eyes peeled. I drove a bit slower. Glanced to the left. Glanced to the right. And then, sure enough, there it was, barely visible in the dim light. A small deer standing in the front yard. I’m sure there were probably more of them, based on all the noise I’d heard, but this was the only one I saw. And yes, deer are plentiful in Maine. And yes, I see them frequently. But still, this sighting somehow felt like a small victory. A small light in the dark.
At the end of our driveway, I turned to head out toward the main road. As I pulled onto Main Street, another flash of color caught my eye. At some point during the last 24 hours, our neighbor had carefully wound brightly colored lights around each segment of a tree. A bold rainbow tree now decorated their side yard.
It’s been hard to find my footing after the events of last week. The best analogy I have read is Anne Lamott’s in which she says: “If you are anything like me, you can barely remember having ever felt so stunned, and doomed, except when someone very close to you died, or divorced you, or the godawful biopsy results came back.
It’s a little as if the godawful biopsy results came back, and 73 million people cheered and gloated.“
In the aftermath, I’ve been reading a lot, writing a little, lamenting and brooding. And trying to find a way forward. What does one do? I don’t know, and neither do most of my go-to gurus. But I’ve been gathering ideas from different places.
One powerful piece of advice that always offers a way forward, comes from the recovery community: “Just do the next right thing,” they say. Apparently, this originated with Carl Jung who wrote, “And so the best we can do is walk step by next intuitively right step…”
Of course, determining what that step is can be a bit trickier.
This week Katherine May suggested that taking time to pause and tap into our resources is critical at this time. She defined resources as “something that we can draw on when we need to; or, better still, something that we can turn into a habit that becomes protective of our sanity, part of our steady functioning”. When I followed her prompts to consider my own resources, writing and writing communities were near the top, along with nature and photography.
And then Mary Lee Hahn of A(nother) Year of Reading put out a call to write haiku for healing (#haikuforhealing).
I’m weaving all these influences together, quite haphazardly, but it does seem like they create a path of sorts to follow. I remain uncertain what the next right thing is, but at least I’ll be doing something. As I ponder the magnitude of this moment and what it says about our country, I want, no need, to celebrate beauty, connect with community and dwell in gratitude. So, each day I’m writing, often haiku, trying to kindle some light in these dark times. It feels a bit like lighting a candle outside during a brutal gale…but I guess it’s something:
rainpatter slows…stops patches of blue sky appear soon there will be sun
The day looms before me. I can feel myself pulling away from it. Wanting to hide. Seeking anywhere to linger in a bubble of ignorance. I try to ground myself to this moment. Listen to the slight trickle of water in the aquarium. Hear the faint tick-tick-tick of the clock in the kitchen. Outside it’s still dark. The day awaits. There’s nothing I can do right now.
Later, I’ll go to school for a half day of PD (professional development). No one’s mind will be on what we’re doing. Then I will vote. I will not tune in to the media today. Why crank up the anxiety volume? I’m not even sure I’ll check the news on Wednesday morning. I don’t expect that things will have been decided yet, and I’m so concerned about what might be coming. I can feel anxiety growing like a toxic algae bloom, deadly and smothering.
So, again, I breathe in and feel my lungs expand with air. I listen to the water trickle in the aquarium. I hear the far off hum of tires on the road. Others have begun their days. I’m trying to remember that we are all linked, but I feel the embers of anger stirring beneath my anxiety. How have we gotten to this place?
A faint tapping begins on the windows. I can hear raindrops hitting the fallen leaves. The water still trickles. The clock still ticks. No light has yet appeared on the horizon.
The day still looms, but now I’m writing. Soon, I’ll post these words to share. I’ll read other posts. Comment. Connect.
Conferences plus Covid alliterative perhaps but assuredly not poetic
Ugh! So, there’s some context for you. I’ve been swimming in conferences, fever, unplanned absences, cancelled conferences, sub plans, election angst, rescheduled conferences, cancelled rescheduled conferences, etc. And although I can now smell, I still have a very limited range of taste. Somehow, that just seems to be the sour icing on this unpleasant cake I’ve been consuming. But, on the bright side, I’m getting better (yay!), I only have two more conferences to make up, and Linda set us a lovely challenge for the month. Thank goodness for writing friends and challenges!
For our Inklings challenge, Linda shared Joy Harjo’s poem, “Fall” and asked us to respond to it in any way we chose. For some reason (in the midst of fever perhaps?), it seemed like a good idea to print out the entire poem, cut apart the words and then use every single one, some still in phrases, to write a new poem. So, that’s what I tried to do. It was a mixed success.
Ultimately, I took that poem and removed some words and phrases away to come up with this. Every word in this poem is in Harjo’s poem (unless I’ve lost track!), but I’ve chopped out quite a few. Mostly it still feels a bit fever-dreamy to me.
In the Aftermath of Lament
With you on my mind I cry a forever blue song, another hanging perfectly in a necklace of days.
Sky is slightly overcast. A jay is there again. The divine yellow leaves now dark, damp, a jacket for the earth, might open the hallway into this day.
If I need forward, if I hear the rain, will your story keep in mine?
There’s just something about a random group of words that inspires me to connect some dots and create a poem. In other words, I’ve been playing around with Wordle poems again. They’re such a fun, low-stakes way to keep myself writing. In general, my rules are to use all the words I guess when playing Wordle, in order, within the poem. Variations on the words are okay. Here’s one I wrote with these words from a recent game: gutsy, dream, pearl, farer, carve.
On This Morning
With a hopeful, gutsy stride I step from my dreams, cradling the pearl of wisdom granted to all wayfarers who travel the currents of night: The day is open before you Carve your own way Always seek the light.
Late last month I was inspired by this photo of a friend’s sister’s newly painted porch. Isn’t it gorgeous!?
It was obviously in my mind when I started playing Wordle a few days later, so I began guessing with the word “porch”. Usually I put my Wordle word guesses in the poem in the order in which I guessed them, but this time I moved them around a little. My words were: porch, clone, cloud.
“My house is where I like to be …” Daniel Pinkwater* for Jules Myers
No clone to convention, she painted her porch a stirring orange.
Now she’ll sit amidst sunbeams, contentedly watching the clouds drift by.
This line is borrowed from Daniel Pinkwater’s book “The Big Orange Splot”, which is a huge favorite of mine. Any other fans of Mr. Plumbean out there?
This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Jama at her blog, Jama’s Alphabet Soup. She’s celebrating all things donut in a scrumptious post! Be sure to check it out and the other links you’ll find there.
WARNING: Spoiler alert!!! If you play Wordle and haven’t yet played today, wait to read this post. This post will reveal the word of the day!!!
I play Wordle every single day. Every so often I write poems from my guessed words. Recently, I’ve been doing this with more frequency. I enjoy having a pool of words to work with and try to combine in interesting ways.
I’m not a huge Wordle strategist. I don’t begin with the same word every time, or worry about vowels. I just wait for a word to strike my fancy. Sometimes it’s my mood, or the weather, or sometimes it’s just a random word winging it’s way into my brain. This morning I started with “tired” (Ok. I’ve definitely begun with that word more than once! Hmmmm….wonder why?) and then I decided to try something new. I would write a line or two for a poem after each guessed word, before taking my next guess. I was intrigued by the idea of not knowing where the poem was going. I’ve bolded my guessed words as they appear.
Tired hums in my veins It stains my vision bleaching out color like a sepia photo Night has advanced creating its own home deep within my bones I grope for tinder and flint anything to strike, to light my way to point to a path forward Still, I’m utterly weary I feel the weight of age in every joint.
Well, that was a bit dark! Really, I am fine. But even though it’s not the lightest of poems, I did enjoy the process. I suspect this will become a new part of my morning routine. On a side note, I’m not sure if I was disheartened or inspired by having 6 words to work with. It was not a stellar Wordle performance, for sure, but it definitely provided more fodder for a poem. Another upside to writing Wordle poems, I suppose!
Margaret posed us a doozy of an Inkling challenge this month. She shared a new poetry form, called a Pythagorean Poem, created by Shari Green. Here’s the description she shared,
“Pythagoras’ theorem is a2 + b2 = c2. One possible “triple” is 3, 4, 5. 3×3 + 4×4 = 5×5 9 + 16 = 25
Using the triple, the poetic form works like this: 1st stanza: 3 lines of 3 words each 2nd stanza: 4 lines of 4 words each 3rd stanza: 5 lines of 5 words each, and this third stanza must be composed of all the words found in stanzas one and two (in any order; variations okay). The third stanza should be a progression of sorts, a product of the first two in thought or theme or meaning.”
Easy-peasy, right? Eep!
Writing this poem felt like a construction process, and one in which I finally ended up deciding to live with the result at a certain stage, even if it didn’t quite match the vision in my mind. In the final somewhat desperate construction stages (deadline approaching!), I turned to the computer to color code words to keep track. It ended up looking like this:
Early Morning Trip to the Marsh
Alarm rings and dreams fade away scattered like floss
Mirror, later, reflects fatigue I splash water, refresh, feel the day’s energy seep into my veins
Later, like a mirror, water reflects scattered floss and I feel fatigue seep away. My veins dream. The day’s energy splashes, refreshes. Alarm fading into rings…
This polymath known through the ages was surely the wisest of sages. His hypoteneuses still guide building crews as they construct skyscrapers in stages.
But when building a poem, I must say his ideas lead from stable to sway. Though I build a strong base with each word in its place true coherence keeps slipping away.
It was recess and P, an exuberant first grader in a printed T-shirt, came barreling across the playground and threw herself against me for a hug. Her brother, C, was in my class last year, and that’s granted me premium hug-target status.
“Hi, my Positive Proton!” I said, reading her shirt’s inscription as I returned her hug. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” she said.
She stood by my side for a moment or two, joining my colleague, Haley, and I in surveying the playground.
Suddenly, P enthused, “It’s soooo exciting!”
Haley and I exchanged confused glances, and simultaneously looked around the playground trying to figure out what she was talking about.
“What’s exciting?” I finally asked.
“Is it recess?” Haley asked.
“No! C lost a tooth!” She was practically vibrating with excitement.
“Oh, that is exciting!”
“Yeah!” she replied.
We began to follow up with the essential tooth questions, “When did he lose it?” “Which one?” etc, but she interrupted us both and stated matter-of-factly, “Actually, it happened a long time ago.”
“Ooohhkay,” we responded, once again exchanging bemused glances.
Then P happily skipped off, whirling her way across the basketball court.
“And that,” stated Haley, “pretty much sums up conversations with first graders.”
Folks enjoying music from the town pavilion at Bowdoinham Days in our small town, Bowdoinham Maine
Saturday was our town’s annual celebration, known as Bowdoinham Days. The skies were blue, the sun was shining and the temperatures were perfect. We couldn’t have asked for better weather.
But as good as the weather was, the parade was definitely better. It was the best! We gathered with our neighbors along Main Street and hooted and hollered as the decorated tractors, trucks and trailer beds drove by. A band drove by on a flatbed, playing with great enthusiasm. Local politicians glad-handed the crowd, and people showed off their polished-up antique cars. The float drivers and riders threw candy, colored pencils, and one group even handed out water bottles. The Loose Ladies Book Club float was pretty awesome, with their slogan, “Even Monsters Read Books!” , and they were handing out books instead of throwing candy. Gotta Love that! But every year, my favorites are the farm-based floats,because instead of candy, they throw…. veggies! This year they stuck to red peppers, and we have several now awaiting the soup pot. Sweet! This has to be my favorite thing about Bowdoinham Days.
Can you see the pepper mid-air, and the white-shirted spectator setting up for the catch?
But then there was the library’s book sale. Maybe that was the best? There were tables piled with all sorts of gently used books, from picture books to popular fiction to cookbooks to horror. They had it all, and you couldn’t beat the “buck a book” price. If you couldn’t find what you wanted on the tables adjacent to the parade, you just headed inside the used book shop and found even more options. There was always someone delighted to fall into book talk, and helpful, love-to-talk-books volunteers! There were even decorated town tote bags for sale!
Although, come to think of it, the food was pretty awesome, too. Could that have been the best? It certainly smelled the best! There were food trucks offering all sorts of fried seafood, Filipino cuisine , coffee and donuts, and your standard cookout fare. Something for everyone! Can you say spinach and cheese empanadas? YUM!
There was so much going on! We missed the lobster crate races in the river, but I’m pretty sure they were splashing good fun. There was non-stop music, too, the art gallery was open, and there was even line dancing, but… wait! No! I know what had to be the best thing… Hands down, it had to be the zucchini races!!
Yes, you read that correctly. Zucchini races! These are a much loved Bowdoinham Days tradition. As they do each year, kids of all ages had souped up their zucchinis in a million different ways, put them on wheels and before you knew it, the town skate board park was transformed into a zucchini race track. There was even a pit crew! The enthusiastic crowds roared as the veggies cooked down the ramp. There were head to head competitions and then race offs. We watched a pretty brutal spill that sent wheels and seeds flying. Despite the veggie carnage on the course, it was all pretty awesome. Such a fun part of the day, and an inspired way to use up some extra zucchinis. How can you beat that? The best, right?
Look at all those creative contestants just waiting to race!
Finally, it was time for us to head home. As we walked back toward our house, aglow from all of the above, we talked about the highlights. Which one of these things was the absolutely best part of the day?
Nix the comfort zone 