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Poetry Friday: Definitos
Last month, Heidi Mordhorst posed our Sunday writing critique group the challenge of writing a definito, a fabulous poetry form that she created and defined many moons ago. In short, Heidi describes the definito as “a free verse poem of 8-12 lines (aimed at readers 8-12 years old) that highlights wordplay as it demonstrates the meaning of a less common word, which always ends the poem.” I soon discovered that, even though I came up with word after word to use, the poems are much more challenging to write than I expected. Here are three of mine.
solitary
when there’s only
one
not two or three
existing
alone
on
its
own
solitary
©Molly Hogan, 2019
resilient
When challenges rise
like a flooding river
hold tight in the current
bend with the flow
Be strong
Be tough
Don’t let go…
Be resilient
©Molly Hogan, 2019
And then, just for kicks… and without a photo—
Regurgitate
Upchuck, throw up
heave, hurl, spew
Tossing cookies
sick with flu
What’s a queasy
kid to do?
Nauseous, achy
don’t feel great?
Grab a bucket!
DO NOT WAIT!
You’re going to…
regurgitate
©Molly Hogan, 2019
This week, Heidi‘s highlighting definitos as she hosts Poetry Friday at her blog, My Juicy Little Universe. Make sure to stop by to read more about the evolution of the form and to see some examples. Keep your eyes open while you wander through the Roundup, as there will be plenty more definitos around! Then, consider trying your hand at writing one, but be forewarned: Writing these is kind of addictive!
A Box, A Life, Some Mysteries…
Squatting on the concrete floor amidst the books, toys and odds and ends at our local Recycling Barn this weekend, I saw a fairly large cardboard box filled with small books. Curious, I reached over and pulled one out. It was a 2000 date book. I pulled out another book. It was another small date book, this one dated 1987. I shuffled through the box, lifting out book after book. 2010, 1990, 1986…1941!
“Kurt, look!” I said, calling to my husband, “This box is filled with journals!”
He walked over to join me and I handed him a journal. He riffled through the pages, then handed it back to me. Always the historian, he asked, “How far back do they go? Are there any from the 40s? I wonder if they say anything about the war.”
I dug through the box and pulled out a few of the older journals and handed them to him. We paged through, reading a few entries aloud to each other. Kurt’s speedy skim through 1943 found no references to the war.
“There’s not much in here,” he said.
We kept looking. The writing was difficult to decipher at times, but a quick glance revealed that most of the information didn’t seem to be too personal. Each date had a comment about the weather and sometimes a few odds and ends notes about working, appointments, or outings.
I was fascinated by the diaries and had so many questions. Who wrote and kept all of these and how did they end up here? Based on the dates, it seemed safe to assume that the author had died or become incapacitated, but who decided to discard the journals? And at the Recycling Barn? I was trying not to judge, but it felt a bit callous. While I could understand that the journals were no longer wanted, it seemed like there should have been a more thoughtful resting place for them. Even burning them would seem more respectful.
After a few minutes, I gathered up the journals we had pulled out and returned them to the box.
“I have to take these home,” I announced.
“All of them?” Kurt asked. “Aren’t we trying to get rid of things?”
“All of them,” I insisted, standing up and hefting the box into my arms. “There’s a whole life in this box! And besides,” I continued, “I can always bring them back next weekend.”
Later that night, I emptied the box onto my family room floor and began to organize, sorting the diaries by year.
not quite done sorting!
There were 86 of them, ranging from 1923 to 2013. Most of them were labeled diary or diary/memos. Some years had two diaries, while one year had 3. I didn’t know where to begin and started leafing through random books. Part of me felt guilty –intrusive. Who was I to read another person’s journals even if they seemed impersonal? Yet, another part of me felt that reading them was almost paying homage to the author and recognizing the life these small diaries represented.
I soon discovered that, although most of the journals were written by one woman, there were several written by another woman. Also, while most days were primarily filled with everyday details, those entries were occasionally juxtaposed with startling news, personal tragedies, and world events.
I’ve barely begun to examine the journals, but my mind keeps returning to them over and over, wiggling thoughts about them like a tongue wiggles a loose tooth. Irresistible, yet slightly uncomfortable. There are so many mysteries within them. Certain names appear and reappear. Who were they? Spouses? Children? Friends? How did the two women know each other? Were they related? Why were their journals mixed together? Why are there so few in the 1970s, but the 60s were almost intact? Am I being nosey and invasive by reading them? And ultimately, what should I do with them?
Here are a few excerpts:
“August 1943
Wednesday 4 In hospital from 10:30 to 3:30 when Dr. Mixter (?) told me he found large brain tumor and removed it all and it wasn’t malignant. Thought she would be ok unless unexpected happened. Saw her at 7 pm and she knew me.”
“December 1941
Sunday 7 All to SS or church To Conleys for boughs and cones Japs attacked Hawaiia and declared war
Monday 8 Cool 22˚
President called for and Congress declared war on Japan.
? xmas party at church
Tuesday 9 Cloudy
Bowled at night”
Next to details about temperature and Sunday School, complicated world events and compelling personal experiences have been reduced to a summary sentence or two. Boughs and cones juxtaposed with bombs and war. I guess that’s about right. The mundane daily details of our lives coexist with the tragedies and the triumphs. A life can be encapsulated in a few sentences or paragraphs. Or even sometimes in a box full of diaries.
Update: After responding to Margaret, I realized I hadn’t specified that these journals were in the Swap Shop section of the Recycling Barn. I also hadn’t really thought that through myself. To clarify I didn’t dig through discards for something someone else thought was safely or privately disposed of (that would have felt really invasive!). The Swap Shop is filled with things that still have value, but are not of use to the current owner. The contents range from treasure to trash and are free for the taking. So, the books really weren’t thrown away or destined for recycling, they were offered up like an invitation. Hmmmm….
Happiness is…
Happiness is combining my love of photography, nature and words. These days, I’m feeling so thankful for the beauty that surrounds me and for the respite it offers. Here’s hoping that your summer days are also filled with natural wonders and time to appreciate them.
lumbering* on land
within sun-dappled pond
snapping turtle glides
casting submarine shadows
a whisper amidst lily pads
©Molly Hogan, 2019
snowy egret
cloud walks in rosy shallows
daybreak mystique
©Molly Hogan, 2019
kingfisher’s wings
brush the river
reality meets reflection
I miss the shot
-too dark, too blurry-
but hold the memory
crystal clear
©Molly Hogan, 2019
Make sure to stop by Margaret Simon’s blog Reflections on the Teche today. She’s hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup with a beautiful, poignant poem, crafted from a stolen title.
*Thanks to Catherine Flynn for this word choice!
Reclaiming Summer
I think the problem starts when our expectations are too high.
Have you ever heard all about a movie or a book, read rave reviews, heard friends “oooh” and “aaah”, and then you go to see it or you read it? And it’s really very good, but it can’t possibly live up to the hype and those sky-high expectations. You sort of set the bar too high. It’s typically doomed to fail. Or at least fall short.
Well, I’ve started to think that summer can be like that for teachers. We expect extraordinary things from our summers. I, for instance, somehow think that miraculously, I will be able to accomplish every single thing that was pushed to the side, ignored or neglected during the school year–investing time into relationships, self-care, choice reading, household maintenance, exercise, etc and finding time to rest and rejuvenate. Not to mention reading professional books, attending PD, catching up on current kid lit, etc.
I’m in the midst of my much-anticipated summer, and I feel like much of it has already slipped by me and thedaysaregatheringmomentum, hurtlingfasterandfastertowardfall, and, inthemeantime, verylittlehasdisappearedfrommymulti-page “To Do This Summer” listandI’mstillwaitingtoslideintothatsummergroove,butinsteadofrelaxing, I’mstartingtofeelstressedbythepassingdays(OMGit’salmostAugustalready!). Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!!!
I realize that this is slightly ridiculous, but it feels very real. My self talk has also taken on a frantic, and perhaps toxic, tone:
“Time’s a wastin’! Hurry up! Recharge! Rest! Relax! Quickly now! Oh, and don’t forget that list. Clean! Sort! Organize! Or at least clean out your office–which really is a disgrace. That grass isn’t going to mow itself, you know, and the gardens are out of control. Have you read that book yet? What’s the last thing you wrote? Did you retype and synthesize your notes from the June Reading Institute? How about that reading camp? How are you doing with that,huh? Are you relaxed yet?”
Ugh. Even as I write this, I realize how messed up this all is. Or how messed up I am. There are so many things that I “need” to do, that all too often, I end up overwhelmed and do nothing. It feels like summer is my one chance to get it all done–sort of like a “Get Out of Jail Free” card. But time’s passing and I’m not getting much done….What? Wait! Hold on a second! Do you hear that? Listen carefully. (click below)
Oh, yeah. That feels like the soundtrack of my summer…the sound of summer passing. The constant sense that time is running out and when that timer buzzes, at the end of summer, what will I have to show for this long stretch of carefree golden days? Because, before you know it, that moment will arrive. The buzzer will go off. And I’ll need to reveal my answer to the the ultimate final jeopardy question: How was your summer?
So today I’m asking myself– How do I want to answer that question at the end of this summer? I still have more than a month of summer break. That’s lots of time. Really it is. (Though I am NOT counting the days and I have asked the librarians to please NOT tell me when my books are due–I don’t want to know what date is only three weeks away!) I’m the one choosing to give that anxiety-inducing music rent-free space in my head. I’m in charge of my self-talk. And when it comes down to it, many, if not most, of my expectations are self-imposed. The “List Police” aren’t going to come knocking on my door come September if there are unfinished items on my, let’s face it, ridiculously impossibly long to-do list. So, what is most important to me this summer?
I don’t have all the answers yet, but starting today, I’m reclaiming my summer. I’m going to shift my focus and alter that self-talk. I’m going to choose the soundtrack for my summer, and I can guarantee, it’s NOT going to be the Jeopardy challenge song. I’m going to look for the fun in the seeming drudgery (Thanks, humbleswede!) and make a conscious decision to plan some summer fun and to set thoughtful goals and priorities for myself (Thanks, cmargocs!). I’m going to revise that “To Do” list into something more reasonable and become an active agent in creating a really nice summer for myself. I’m not aiming for a bestseller or a blockbuster, more like a feel good beach read. That feels pretty do-able.
In the meantime, I’m still considering my new summer theme song. Any suggestions?
Shifting Focus
I purchased “Lost Words” by Robert G. Macfarlane quite some time ago after someone shared it here at PF. (Sorry! I can’t remember who. Update: It was Christie Wyman with this post.) Wow! What a gorgeous book–both the poems and the illustrations.
Then, in June, Mary Lee Hahn tweeted that there are songs to go along with the poems. What!? I fell in love with this one and listened to it over and over and over again. It’s hauntingly beautiful.
“Enter the wild with care, my love, and speak the things you see. Let new names take and root and thrive and grow.” Sigh…..beautiful….
I started following Macfarlane on twitter. Browsing through recent tweets, I found one in which he shared the term “plant blindness”.
What a fascinating idea! In the thread of comments, someone shared a link to the original article (here) and a man named James Lomax also responded. He said he’d once walked with a wildflower expert who’d said, “The world comes into focus when you can identify the flowers.” I loved that idea. It helped me to put words to the deep pleasure I get from naming the plants and flowers that surround me when I’m out and about. Having read Tricia Stohr-Hunt’s PF clever triolet earlier this month, I was inspired to revisit that form with this idea in mind. Of course, she made it look so easy! ha! I’d forgotten how tricky these are. This one’s been more than a bit squirmy and hasn’t fully settled down yet. Perhaps it’s just a bit out of focus…
Shifting Focus
Naming plants and flowers
shifts the world into focus
In gilded fields or dappled bowers
naming plants and flowers
uplifts and empowers
Trillium, wintergreen, wild crocus
Naming plants and flowers
shifts the world into focus
Molly Hogan ©2019 (draft)
Check out this week’s bouquet of poetry (and a really cute puppy!) at the Poetry Friday Roundup at Carol’s Corner.
An Unexpected Gift of Poetry
One of my favorite activities at the end of the school year is our poetry jam. We invite families to come in to the classroom, listen to poetry that students have written, and then create poetry together at a variety of centers. We inevitably have a great turnout, and the room is a happy hum of poetry celebration.
This year, the grandfather of one of my students stood by the doorway, a bulky, silent presence. I hadn’t met him before, but his granddaughter had mentioned he’d be coming. He’d slipped into the room right before the students read their poetry, and now remained standing (poised for quick exit?), while she was busy buzzing around the room without him, working with other students and parents. He seemed content where he was, watching the activity, but I suspected that he, like so many adults, was probably uncomfortable with poems and poetry writing. He struck me as the quintessential Mainer–hard-working, somewhat taciturn, with deep ties to the land and community about him. Quiet and strong.
After glancing about the room to ensure that everyone else was happily occupied, I walked over to introduce myself to him.
We exchanged names and a few pleasantries, and then I asked, “Would you like to write a poem?”
“No,” he replied slowly. Almost thoughtfully.
“Well, have you ever written poetry before?” I asked, in full ambassador mode.
“Yes,” he said. “After I came back from the war.”
Then his voice shifted to a sort of dreamy cadence….”I wrote about lying on the grass under a big oak tree…looking up through the green leaves and branches above me… I wrote about wondering how many birds have nested in this tree…How many animals have made their home in its branches? …And how many children have played in those same branches? …And I hoped my own children and eventually my grandchildren would climb in this tree. …And then, I wondered, after I died, … how long would this tree live… and still provide a home and comfort.”
“Oh,” I said, after a brief moment in which I recalibrated my initial impressions, “that was lovely.”
He told me then about some of his experiences during his service: He was shot in the head, shoulder, thigh and ankle. To this day, it’s still uncomfortable for him to sit, especially in hard chairs intended for much smaller individuals, which is why he was standing.
Then, at one point, his voice changed again, slowed and deepened, and he said,
“I heard the thunder,
then knew it was gunfire.
I heard the screams,
then night fell.
When morning came,
I woke
and wondered
why I had survived.”
Clearly, these words were deeply etched within him. Their power echoed within me. After a moment, I blinked and cleared my throat.
“You’re a wonderful poet, ” I finally said. “Have you shared your poems with your granddaughter or with anyone else in your family?”
“No,” he said. Then he elaborated, in true Maine fashion, “I’ve been working.”
We talked for quite some time, about his school experiences (not positive), his work (long and hard), his family (much beloved). Later in the conversation, he told me that he had shared some of his writing with a veteran’s organization.
Eventually, I realized I’d totally abandoned my classroom responsibilities. I thanked him for coming and for sharing his words with me, and told him how much I’d enjoyed our conversation. Reluctantly, I wandered away to circulate amongst the parents and children, my mind still lingering on our conversation. On the inaccuracies of first impressions. On war. On poetry.
Two days later, on the last day of school, his granddaughter handed me an envelope. In it her grandfather had enclosed some of his writing. It was about time and change and family. It was beautiful and thoughtful. Once again, I was deeply moved by this unexpected poet and his unexpected gift.
Flashback to a past post
Having just enjoyed another annual trip to visit my friend in Rockport, Mass., I looked back to reread a past post about my visits there. It’s still resonating, so I thought I’d share it again:
https://nixthecomfortzone.com/2015/06/28/tick-tock-tick-tock/
What if this poem didn’t care?
A couple of weeks ago, Linda Mitchell hosted the Roundup (here) and generously offered up some “poetry clunkers” for others to use. I was intrigued by the line “What if this poem didn’t care?”
What if this poem didn’t care?
What if this poem didn’t care?
If it simply gathered up
its syllables and vowels,
packed up its consonants
and hit the road
not even looking back once
to see me, bereft,
fading in the distance
a pen, broken, in my hand
Molly Hogan ©2019
Jone McCulloch is hosting this week’s Roundup at her blog, Deowriter. She’s sharing a fabulous poetry swap she received from Tabatha Yeatts along with some of her swap-inspired poems.
Oatmeal
During the last month or two, I’ve been playing around with some poetry forms in my notebook. Sometimes I find that I enjoy staying within the framework of a structure. I liked the idea of odes, and I thought it might be fun to write one about some relatively mundane subject. Oatmeal came to mind.
It occurred to me as I began to write this post to share my ode, that someone else might have written about oatmeal. Why not do a quick search? I did and, much to my delight, discovered “Oatmeal” by Galway Kinnell:
I eat oatmeal for breakfast.
I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.
I eat it alone.
I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health
if somebody eats it with you.
That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have
breakfast with.
Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary
companion.
Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal porridge,
as he called it with John Keats.
Keats said I was absolutely right to invite him:
due to its glutinous texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime,
and unusual willingness to disintegrate, oatmeal should
not be eaten alone.
(click here to read the entire poem–it’s worth it! I promise!)
If you’d like, you can listen to Galway Kinnell read his poem aloud:
The downside of discovering Kinnell’s poem is that I am now less inclined to share my own. It feels a lot more pedestrian, and it’s definitely geared toward a younger crowd. But, hey, it’s my little love song to oatmeal, so I’m going to post it anyway and just keep reminding myself, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” (T. Roosevelt)
Oatmeal
Oatmeal, oh oatmeal
most trustworthy food
warming my belly
sweetening my mood
You nimbly transform
with each addition
breakfast chameleon
packed with nutrition
With you by my side
each day starts off right
Oh, fairest of grains
my breakfast delight
©Molly Hogan, 2019
Stop on by Tricia Stohr-Hunt’s blog, The Miss Rumphius Effect, to check out this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup. She’s sharing a wonderful triolet, inspired by a challenge, some self-reflection and a bit of family and national history.
Nix the comfort zone 