A Rotten Afternoon

slice-of-life_individual“So, please introduce yourself and say why you want to be in Writing Club.”

We worked our way around the circle.

“I’m here because I want to finish writing a story I started last year.”

“I’m here because I really like writing.”

Then a student started giggling and announced, “I’m here to write about Chicken Nuggets!”

Multiple students dissolved into gales of laughter. After order was restored, we continued. A student started to introduce himself by his given name, and his friend interrupted him, “No, you mean you’re Timmy!” she cried.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, “I’m Timmy!” and laughed maniacally.

“Chicken Nugget!!” another student called out, accompanied by more laughter from some, and confused and/or annoyed looks from others.

And so it went on.

I made it through the hour. Barely. I spent most of my time redirecting, reprimanding and regretting my decision to have an after-school Writing Club. My only bright spot was that somehow quite a few students actually wrote to the prompt and had something to show for their independent writing time. I have no idea how, given my largely unsuccessful efforts to lower the volume to a reasonable level.

Now I’m home, drinking wine, and regrouping. I didn’t have the energy to go to my own Writing Group, which made me even sadder and grumpier.

Sometimes you just have to tell it like it is.

Poetry Friday: National Author’s Day Challenge

downloadLinda Mitchell posed our monthly Swagger challenge this time around. She suggested that since November 1st was National Author’s Day, we should find a mentor author and create a poem inspired by that individual. I loved the idea! I brought home Jane Yolen’s Owl Moon, considered some Ogden Nash poetry and also revisited Helen Frost’s fabulous Step Gently Out. After much debate, I decided to use the latter as my mentor text. This beautiful book pairs Frost’s poetry with Rick Lieder’s gorgeous photographs. It’s a winning combination and a favorite of mine, combining two of my greatest pleasures–poetry and photography.

Step Gently Out

It begins,
“Step gently out,
be still,
and watch
a single blade
of grass.
An ant
climbs up
to look
around.
A honeybee flies past.”

I worked last minute to pull this all together, so I could post tonight, but it’s still drafty.

foggy start (1)

pink sky eagle (1)

dual herons (1)

gilded cormorant (1)closer kingfisher (1)

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whole world come alive

Step gently out,
be steady
and slow.
Watch
tendrilled fog
mime river’s flow.

An eagle perches
in pinkened skies,
observes the scene
with ancient eyes.

Two herons soar
high above,
silhouetted in
silent flight.

A cormorant
skims along the river
gilded in
dawning light.

Kingfisher pauses
after rattling call,
then plummets in
plunging dive.

Rising sun
crests the trees.
Feel your spirits
spark, revive.

Mornings at the river…
watch the whole world
come alive.

©Molly Hogan, 2019

To visit my fellow Swaggers and check out their National Author Day-inspired posts, click on their names:
Margaret Simon
Heidi Mordhorst
Linda Mitchell
Catherine Flynn

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Tabatha Yeatts at her blog, The Opposite of Indifference. She’s sharing two fabulous poems by Samantha Reynolds and an invitation to a winter poetry swap.

#Poemtober Day 12: Dragon

 

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Autumnal Conflagration

flicker, flutter
fire, flame
autumn embers
kindle bright
as if a roaring rush
of dragon’s breath
has brushed the landscape
igniting, brightening
lighting with flares
of crimson maple and golden oak
leaves crackling with color
piercing smoky grey skies
until even the river
is ablaze

©Molly Hogan, 2019 (draft)

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Navigating a New Course

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Twenty minutes after I leave home, I pull onto the access road to the hospital. Thinking how routine this already feels. Thinking I don’t want this to be a new normal. I navigate without conscious thought, easily finding my way to patient visitor parking. I park and walk toward the building, eager to see you, wondering how your night was. The doors open automatically as I approach, and I enter, turning left toward the stairs that will take me up to your room.

I’ve been up and down these stairs dozens of times in the past two days. Going to the bathroom. Trying to get cell phone reception. Calling people to give updates. Running to the car to grab something. Bringing your cell phone down so that texts will come through. Moving just to move.

At the bottom of the stairs this morning, I stop and look up, feeling my anxiety ratchet up. How will you be? How was your night? Will we get any answers today? Will they be reassuring or not? What happens next?

The steps stretch up before me. I take a deep breath and mount them slowly.

One.

Two.

Three.

The wall along the stairs is decorated with large paintings, primarily Maine land- and seascapes. I haven’t looked at them closely, but in my many trips up and down, one in particular has drawn my eye again and again. Perhaps it’s because of its location–at the top of the stairs. Or perhaps because of its subject–a single sailboat underway in the midst of a vast expanse of ocean. The waters sometimes appear calm to me, and sometimes seem more turbulent. It must depend on the angle. Always, though, the sailboat looks the same– small and so vulnerable in the midst of so much water. No land in sight.

I climb the stairs slowly, my eyes lingering on that painting. On that small boat. On the blue seas surrounding it. I think of this journey we’re on, and wonder where we’re going. What will our destination be?

Finally, I reach the landing.

It feels selfish and cowardly, but I stand still for just a moment. Just one. I want to exist in this brief space of not knowing anything more. Just for a minute. One, long minute when nothing changes. Even though this minute is fraught, it could be easier than the next one. Or the next one could be easier, I remind myself. Though that’s just not the way I think. I’m so scared.

I take the moment. Stretch it out for a bit longer. Then I step forward, turn the corner, and walk down the hallway to your room.

 

NYC Poems

74707-poetry-friday-logoI’m in New York right now, participating in Teachers College Summer Institute for Reading. What a week of learning this has been! I’m always inspired to write by the sights and sounds of the city around me, but it’s tough to find time and mental energy to devote to it. Here are a few in-the-works poems inspired by the sights and sounds of NYC. 

Broadway buzzes by
he curls around his black bag
a sleeping question

©Molly Hogan, 2019

A Subway Moment

swept into the subway
by torrents of rain
and arcs of lightning
I stumble onto the train and stand
pressed against passengers
a humid mass
of bedraggled humanity

through the window
I see a man
sitting on the platform
his hands dance gracefully in the air
drumming an inaudible tune
against an invisible drum

his bag of belongings behind him
he sits in his island
taps and beats until
his hands agitate
as if tripped up, bumping up
against microscopic motes
He grimaces
cocks his head
his hands still
Until…in a moment
his face smooths and
he resumes
his drumming

above us thunder booms
rain pummels the city
my train pulls away

Molly Hogan ©2019 (draft)
(Note—I edited this after first posting)

Journey

A man slept on the street
his naked feet
pale and surprisingly pink
peeked from beneath
a dingy blanket

Who washed these feet
when they were small?
Did anyone count and kiss
each precious toe?
Chase the little piggies
all the way home?
wee wee wee
What a journey

Molly Hogan ©2019 (draft)

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by children’s author, poet and wonderful photographer, Buffy Silverman at her blog (here). She’s sharing a peek into Helen Frost and Rick Lieder’s book “Hello I’m Here” and a wonderful original advice poem. What a delight!