March SOLC–Day 5
A huge thank you to  Anna, Beth, Betsy, Deb, Kathleen, Lisa, Lanny, Melanie, and Stacey for all that they do to create a supportive community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
twowritingteachers.org

My daughter’s finished collage

Outside, the cold intensifies in the dark. It’s 6 degrees Fahrenheit. Dangerously cold.

Inside, the wood stove pulses out soft waves of heat. Drawn to its warmth, we gather around it, sprawling companionably, playing cards, collaging, and making music.

Outside, an aggressive wind pushes and pulls. Bang! The loose screen door slams against the house and a window rattles in its frame. The trees creak and moan as they bend and scrape against each other.

Inside, we chat idly, snapping cards down on the floor, snipping paper, strumming chords. Every so often the furnace clicks on and the radiators click and tick reassuringly. The washing machine hums softly in the background.

In a sudden flash of awareness, I recognize how precious this moment is.  I pause and try to memorize the details–to capture this small moment in time so that I can fully appreciate it now and treasure it later. This rare moment when two of our three children are at home and the four of us sit inside together, gathered in one room. This quiet time of warmth and companionship to hold close when outside the world is bitter cold and inhospitable. An oasis of peace in the midst of turmoil.

March SOLC–Day 4
A huge thank you to  Anna, Beth, Betsy, Deb, Kathleen, Lisa, Lanny, Melanie, and Stacey for all that they do to create a supportive community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
twowritingteachers.org

Elementary school students are generous and teachers receive many spontaneous and unexpected gifts, from hand-drawn pictures, heartfelt notes and hugs to a well-traveled hard boiled egg swimming in juice in a leaking plastic bag. Once I had a first grade student very seriously present me with a small spring from inside a pen. “You can hang it on your wall,” he suggested. More recently, it took me awhile to figure out that one of my fourth graders was offering me a gift.

I was walking with my  class down the hallway to Library and she chatted away at my side. My attention was distracted by some antics toward the end of the line and I returned my focus in time to hear her say, “So, do you want it, Mrs. Hogan?”

“What?” I asked, at a total loss.

“The sweater, ” she said. Sweater?  I must have looked confused, and she attempted to clarify. “Do you remember that jacket you wore when I read to you yesterday?” she asked.

“Um, maybe,” I said. Jacket, what jacket? I don’t wear jackets. 

 “You know, it was kind of brown and it was soft,” she continued. “It’s kind of like that.” What was she talking about? Do I have a brown jacket? What’s like that?

She looked up at me and asked, “So, will you keep it if I bring it in for you? It’s green.”

I was silent for a moment, thinking furiously, trying to piece a few of these comments together. Do I want it? Sweater? Keep it? Suddenly, I realized what she was talking about. She wanted to bring a sweater from home for me. How generous! How sweet! But what should I say? I certainly couldn’t accept a sweater as a gift!

“Oh, K,” I said, fumbling for words, “That’s so generous of you. You need to keep your sweater though. Someday you might want it for yourself.”

“Oh, no.” she said casually, flipping her long hair over her shoulder, “It’s okay. I don’t like it.”

Ouch!

March SOLC–Day 3

Recent news about the vandalism in the historic Jewish cemetery, Chesed Shel Emeth, in St. Louis, Missouri made me terribly sad. I struggled with this poem and still question whether I should include the third verse or end after the second.

Stones

Once, long ago, a friend told me
that in the Jewish faith
some mourners leave stones
at the graves of their loved ones,
not delicate blossoms
fated to fade and decay
“The stones will endure,” she said.
I understood the allure of the solidity
of granite, quartz and crystal
in the quagmire of grief.
I imagined the healing process
of selecting a rock, one special rock,
for a texture, a color, a shape
or a memory
then gently placing it atop a gravestone
an enduring message of love and
connection

Yesterday I read about vandalism.
In a Jewish cemetery far across the country
someone toppled and heaved headstones,
desecrating with orchestrated hate
I imagined those carefully selected small stones,
tumbling in small percussive bursts
from the top of the disturbed monuments
then rolling along the ground
to rest in mute accusation
at the feet of the vandals
Messages of love unmoored

I yearn to travel to that cemetery and
gather the scattered stones and pebbles
I want to hold them tightly cupped in my hand
until they warm and I can feel my pulse
beating in their core
until I can set them one by one
upon newly straightened tombstones,
imbue them with serenity
and with deepest apology
for the mindless hatred
that disturbed this sacred place.
Each stone a whisper and a wish
Rest in peace.

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

Photo from http://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/putting-stones-on-jewish-graves/

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by the amazing Heidi Mordhorst at her blog, My Juicy Little Universe. Click on the link to enjoy some more poetry!

March SOLC–Day 2
A huge thank you to  Anna, Beth, Betsy, Deb, Kathleen, Lisa, Lanny, Melanie, and Stacey for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.

On Tuesday I stole some time. My daughter was home for a few days, taking an unexpected, much needed break from the stresses and strains of her final semester in college. As the mercury rose to an impressive high (48 in February!), she suggested a trip to the beach.

After a winding drive up the coast and down the peninsula, we parked in the empty lot near the old fort at the far end of the beach. Not a soul was in sight. As we got out of the car, we were greeted by the raucous cries of a gull on the edge of a stone parapet and the rush and tumble sound of the crashing surf.  On the beach the tide was high and we set out along the exposed strip of sand, careful to avoid the encroaching waves. Sometimes we talked, but not about anything important, and sometimes we were silent. Sometimes we walked side by side, and sometimes one of us moved ahead or dropped behind. Mostly, we lost ourselves in the beauty of the beach. It was a chance to find bubbles on a leaf, clouds in a pool of water, striated sky and sun beams. It was a chance to be together. A chance to find serenity.

We walked on the beach for an hour or two and then headed home, tired and more relaxed than when we’d arrived. I hope and pray that she and I can carry our beach time with us and tap into it when days seem overpacked with obligations and life seems overwhelming. I hope that we can close our eyes and remember the salty wind on our cheeks, the call of the gulls, the rush and roar of waves and our stolen moment of time–together on a beach in Maine on a February day.

(Photo credit to my daughter)

March SOLC–Day 1
A huge thank you to  Anna, Beth, Betsy, Deb, Kathleen, Lisa, Lanny, Melanie, and Stacey for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
twowritingteachers.org

Lately, I feel a bit like I’ve fallen into the pages of Marjorie Cuyler’s book, That’s Good! That’s Bad!. This entertaining book has an easy-to-imitate pattern that can inspire some young writers. It’s also a rousing read-aloud and young kids love chiming in on the repeated refrain: “That’s good! No, that’s bad!” Right now, the title also seems to describe my life–For some reason, my experiences seem to be falling into a good news/bad news pattern.

I first noticed myself thinking this way when reading my students’ writing in January and the pattern, or some variation of it, continued through February.

The good news…My students are trying to use figurative language!
The bad news…One of them wrote in her historical narrative that riding on the Oregon Trail was “so bumpy she felt like she was on a roller coaster at Disney!”

The refrain in my head continues: “That’s good! No, that’s bad!”

Do you have any similar experiences? I’d love to hear about them!

This past week I accepted another photo challenge from Kim Douillard of Thinking Through My Lens. She invited participants to notice and photograph ups and downs through their week. With more free time than usual due to frequent snow days and the imminent arrival of winter break, I was in!

First, I looked up because I’m always drawn to the sky. Expanses of trees, clouds, light and color unfailingly grab my attention.  The photo below is a relatively frequent scene as I head down my driveway early in the morning. I love how the dark clouds highlight the colors of sunrise and how the light silhouettes the trees. The contrast between clouds and light reminds me of the value of counterpoints in our lives.

On one of many recent snow days, I spent time watching the snow fall from the gray sky and softly pile on the branches of our birch tree. Later, looking up through my doorway, I was struck by how the icicles cut through the wintry scene. Again, contrast appeals to me –this time between the straight, hard lines of the icicles and the soft curves of the branches.

Before the recent heavy snowfalls, we had a lot of mixed precipitation and ice build up. As usual, my steep, icy driveway has been the bane of my existence. It’s a constant fight to keep enough traction on it for the fuel truck to deliver our heating oil (a necessity during Maine winters!). This winter it’s been especially bad, but there’s always a silver lining if you only take the time to notice. This photo reveals the up of the icy downer–a reflected sunrise.

This past week during our winter break, warmer temperatures and sunny days lured me outside for some walks. The deep tell-tale sounds of a pileated woodpecker whacking diligently at a tree caught my attention. Looking up to follow the sound, I spied a flash of red and spotted him hard at work. Clearly this wasn’t his first visit to this tree! I couldn’t resist stopping to watch his efforts. Later, as I looped back on my walk, I found the woodpecker had moved further up into the tree. (Perhaps he wasn’t too pleased by my lengthy visit earlier.) With the sun behind him, colors are muted in this picture but I was intrigued by his profile with that hint of red, caught in the web of branches.

With warmer temperatures comes lots of melting. Wary walkers need to look down… a lot! Once I looked down, I found it hard to look up again, as the roadside puddles with their varied reflections fascinated me. Shortly after admiring the woodpecker, this view stopped me in my tracks–a mixture of straight lines, circles and the texture of clouds all captured in a transient pool of water. Oh, and there’s even some blue sky! Reflections always strike me as an invitation to enter an alternative world: a portal of sorts. I wonder where this one leads.

Finally, on a late afternoon walk, my daughter and I wandered across a local suspension foot bridge. Swaying slightly above the river, we looked down at the duck and gull activity on the ice below. I’m really not sure why I like this picture so much, but I keep coming back to it. There’s something about the random patterns of ice and water, the bird’s eye view and that brilliant orange splash of the mallard’s webbed feet.  Even as I write about it, I still can’t figure out why it appeals to me so.

So, thanks, Kim, for the invitation! Filtering my daily experiences through the lens of one of your challenges is always an interesting and rewarding experience.  I really enjoyed focusing my camera on ups and downs and hope to participate in another challenge soon!

Morning is the closest time I come to prayer and the time when thanksgiving and celebration seem to rise from me of their own volition.

Morning Song

Oh, how morning fills me!

When the sun trembles
poised on the cusp of day
and the luminescent glow
brims beyond the horizon
then overflows
spilling dawn across the landscape
my cells bend and sway
toward nascent light
and on some blessed mornings
words swell from slumber
to spill onto the page
ink seeping into fiber
coursing through interwoven grains
threading upward
like light spreading at sunrise
as the day dawns
aglow with promise
and possibility.

Oh, how morning fills me!

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Karen Edmiston. Click here to visit her blog and to access links to other poems.

Every morning starts the same way. I pour my orange juice and my coffee then I sit at the table where my computer resides and my books,papers, pens, etc. sprawl. This is where I write. This is where I work. Ok, insert the words “try to” before write and work. On the past few snow days, as all the magical found time evaporated without an appreciable diminishment in my work pile, it finally occurred to me (duh!) that perhaps my work setting is less than desirable. Or too desirable.

I mean really, is it any wonder I don’t get anything done?  I’m perpetually distracted by the world outside my window. Before the sun rises, there’s a chance I might get some morning writing done, but the lightening day offers its own allure as shadows gradually soften and dawn’s glow spreads. Then the first birds arrive and I’m lost. The parade continues from early morning until late afternoon. The chickadees, those cheerful, bold birds, gather in the nest of wisteria vines and pop in and out to access the feeders. I’m endlessly amused by the nuthatches, both red-breasted and white. I’m a rapt spectator as they indulge in their upside-down antics, walking up and down tree trunks or lingering upside down on the feeders. When they perch, they hunker down and their necks meld with their slight bodies, creating their unique endearing nuthatch-y profile. I’ve become inordinately fond of the female cardinal with her understated beauty and watch closely for her arrival, usually heralded by the showy scarlet flash of her mate. How many colors are in her soft plumage, so often overlooked? 

On the ground the juncos double-foot hop comically along the snow covered garden paths, joined by a few tufted titmice and a golden brown sparrow. Hairy, downy, and red-bellied woodpeckers swoop in and gorge on the suet cakes. Occasionally, a pileated woodpecker makes a dramatic cameo appearance, sending me running for my camera. In winter the finches have faded to a drab olive-gray but every so often the light is just right and their yellow breast shines in the winter landscape, pulsing with a promise of sunlit summer days. Flashing in on cerulean wings, posturing and squawking, the blue jays arrive in a burst of movement. They jostle for position, sending shimmering showers of snow tumbling from the branches to the ground below. Just yesterday the mourning doves returned, adding their soft calls to the chirps and squawks and their sober presence to the activity below the feeders. There’s simply never a dull moment.

I love watching the birds but clearly I need to consider doing something differently. I seldom write more than a few sentences before my attention is distracted by some flash of movement at the feeders. Perhaps I need to work in a different spot and reward myself with occasional viewing?  I considered this at length as I watched the show yesterday and finally came to my decision. There may be a loss of productivity in my current setting, but the gains decidedly offset it. There’s no way I can deny myself this natural extravaganza. In the spirit of “in for a penny, in for a pound”, I headed out to the feed store yesterday afternoon and made a few purchases. Today, I’ll take those bags out to the birch tree, pull out a new feeder or two, fill them with some tempting new varieties of seed and suspend them alongside the others. 

I can’t wait to see the show tomorrow!

Last week I drove up to Orono, Maine to watch my daughter perform in The Vagina Monologues. Eve Ensler, the playwright, allows the show to be produced, royalty-free, on or around Feb. 14th to raise funds for groups working to end violence against women. This was my first time to see the show and I found it unexpectedly moving. Funny. Harrowing. I couldn’t relate to all that was said and some of the language was a bit over-the-top for me, but I listened as young women shared other women’s stories. Stories of shame and confusion. Stories of empowerment. Stories of abuse. Stories of personal discovery. Stories of trauma and rape and mutilation. So many stories.

Midway through the show, in the dark of a scene change, the sound system crackled and a recording began. It was President Trump’s infamous hot mic comments, played from start to finish. The theater was hushed. As I listened to those words again, I felt their weight in an even more visceral way. In this theater, in this context, his words were an abomination. That so many could discount them as “locker room banter” is a symptom of a far greater problem in our culture. I remain stunned that these words were uttered by a man who was subsequently elected President of our country. How could these words and this election not reverberate, like yet one more blow, on survivors of sexual abuse?

After the recording stopped, the lights went up, and the monologues continued. The next one featured a young woman sharing the terrifying story of a survivor of extreme sexual violence in a war zone. Later in the show, I listened to the narrative of a woman who was repeatedly abused by her husband. Their stories still haunt me.

I returned home that night and the next day I wrote this poem for Laura Shovan’s February 10 Found Words Poetry Challenge. The words chosen to inspire a poem on that day were: pounds, cancel, storm, path, whiteout,avoid, slick, quickly, challenge, plummeted and a bonus: pack a punch. Clearly my poem was influenced by the stories I had heard the night before.

The Storm

Clouds gather on the horizon
Emotions storm across his face
She moves away
carefully conciliatory
willing herself into shadow
quickly thinking, thinking, thinking
fear acrid on her tongue,
anticipating the outburst
the thunder of blows
the unrelenting verbal barrage
desperate to avoid the coming tempest

But her existence is a challenge
He moves toward her
with pounding steps
she retreats
he advances
Her heart plummets,
free falls
into a slick puddle of fear

She knows he packs a punch

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

Once again I’m sharing some poems I’ve written during my sporadic participation in Laura Shovan’s February 10 Found Words Poetry Challenge.  I’m still enjoying the process (though it hasn’t gotten any easier!) but I have been surprised by the results. Maybe it’s the dark winter days or the ongoing turmoil in our country or simply some odd alchemy of the words chosen in the lists, but I keep managing to create disturbing poems. They feel dark and depressed and that’s been a bit disconcerting to me. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m out of touch with some deep inner anguish I’m experiencing!   At any rate, consider yourself forewarned. Here are two of my recent efforts:

Word list: artifact, rewrite, narrative, cylinder, porcelain, human, pseudo, skeptic, echo, plug and bonus: flourish

Her porcelain skin flushes
as she flourishes the letters
still neatly rolled into a cylinder
and restrained with a faded pink bow.
He is mesmerized by those letters
which she must have disinterred
from some dusty resting place,
artifacts from their courtship
echoes from that once-upon-a-time time
when they tossed away doubt and skepticism
and believed they had the power
to rewrite their narrative
together
a time when her hand rested in his
like it belonged.

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

Word list: screen, shoot, stickier, soft, smashing, scraping, speed, smoother, slower, sticky and the bonus: slap shoot and saliva

Warning

Her head bent close to mine,
mimicking intimacy.
She turned slightly from the crowd
screening her actions.
With one hand,
she smoothed her hair back
from her high forehead
with the other
she cocked an imaginary pistol
and pointed it between my eyes
“Bang!”
“Bang!”
I flinched as her whispered words
hit like slap shots
and spritzer sprays of saliva
strafed my paling cheek.
She spoke once more,
her soft voice scraping across her teeth,
sticky with threat and complication.
“Don’t cross me again,”
she hissed.

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

Click here to go to this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup hosted by Jone at her blog, Check it Out. Perhaps you can find something more upbeat there!