Category Archives: Uncategorized

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Pause

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This April, Renee LaTulippe of No Water River is hosting a wonderful month of poet visits and writing prompts. I’ve been lurking mainly, but a prompt from Margarita Engle caught my eye. She asked poets to write about making a choice, either simple or complex. Here’s one I made recently on the way home from work.

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Pause

Driving home last night
I chose to pause
to pull over on the berm
then sit and watch as
four slender deer
foraged in the misty fields
while cars whizzed by
buffeting me with their wake

Last night
I chose to linger
while deer peacefully grazed
stepping through
tendrils of languid fog
that drifted and twined about them
concealing
revealing
as the world rushed by
and dusk descended.

© 2018 M. Hogan

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Ripples

 

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Taking pictures of frogs is one of my favorite spring activities, and during this week’s break, I’ve been haunting two local vernal pools. Sometimes finding frogs is like completing a hidden picture puzzle. You look and look and don’t see any, and then suddenly realize there’s one over there. Oh! Then, there’s another! And another! Then, the challenge is to get a picture of them without scaring them away.  I’ve had limited success this year (I don’t think the frogs like the miserable weather either!), but have had great fun searching. I love using photos with poetry and thought this week I might use one of my new pictures to inspire a poem about frogs.

Then the other day, I finally had the chance to dive into Amy Ludwig VanDerwater’s book, Poems Are Teachers. What an inspiration!  I haven’t read far (too many spring break “field trips”!) but am loving it. It’s an incredibly rich brew of resources spiced with Amy’s passion for and knowledge about poetry. I’m struggling to find the superlatives to do it justice, but the bottom line is, I think this book will have a major impact on both my teaching and my writing.

Anyway, while I was toying with the idea of writing a frog-inspired poem, I read Chapter 1, and Mary Lee Hahn’s words struck me. “When I choose a photo, I notice everything in it. Then I think about who or what might be just outside the edges of the photo.” Her words inspired me to go back to some recent frog photos and push outside the edges of the image, in search of a poem.

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Ripples

I step off the river path
into cool shadows
My eyes skim the vernal pool
seeking irregularity
a broken plane
on the leaf-lined pond
where light freckles the surface
tree shadows criss cross and
reflections run riot
searching, searching
’til..
there!
The bump of your eyes
catches mine
I crouch, snap a photo
then step forward eagerly
too eagerly
and with a splash you dive
your pale amphibian legs
flexing and pushing
ghostly shadows in the murky water
’til you vanish from sight
only ripples mark
where once you were

©2018 M.  Hogan

 

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This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Tabatha Yeatts at her blog, The Opposite of Indifference. Tabatha is also celebrating the release of IMPERFECT: Poems about mistakes for middle schoolers. I’m thrilled to have a poem included in this collection. Woohoo! Pssttt—There are even rumors about a party! Head on over so you don’t miss the fun!

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What? Growing Old Together

11454297503_e27946e4ff_hWe were sitting in the living room together, enjoying a lazy weekend afternoon. Scrolling through recent posts on Facebook, I noticed that my grade school friend, Jenny, had shared a picture of her newborn horse. Knowing that my husband loves horses, I said, “Hey, Kurt, Jenny’s horse had a baby.”

There was a long pause.

“How old is she?” he finally asked.

What? How would I know how old Jenny’s horse is? Huh? 

After a second or two, it clicked. Oooooh! He clearly hadn’t heard me correctly. (This happens with some regularity in our house these days.)

“No, not Jenny! Her horse,” I said, trying to speak clearly and raising the volume a bit. “Jenny’s… horse… had… a… baby.”

There was a pregnant pause and he said to me, slowly, enunciating each word carefully, knowing something was wrong, but not sure precisely what, “Demi… Moore’s… horse… had… a baby?”

What? OMG! I burst out laughing and he joined right in, good-natured though he still had no idea what I’d actually said.

“Ah, Kurt, ” I laughed, “growing old together is going to be quite an adventure!”

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The Moon

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Today J. Patrick Lewis offers a sneak peek at his newest book, PH(R)ASES OF THE MOON: LUNAR POEMS at Renee LaTulippe’s blog No Water River. He also posts an invitation to contribute a moon-inspired poem to the community collection. I shared a moon poem quite recently (here) and wanted to revisit the idea of the moon as a weaver. Here’s my response to his prompt.

The Moon

Bright skeins of moonbeams at her feet
She weaves a lacy night replete
with shadows deep and paths aglow
and nimbly crafts a lustrous flow
a gleaming throw o’er sleeping land
moon magic streaming from her hand

©2018 M. Hogan

 

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Listen! Rhubarb’s growing!

I’ve been wanting to write a found poem for a while. Then recently, an Atlas Obscura article appeared in my Inbox. It was all about listening to the noises that forced rhubarb makes when it grows. What?! Yup. You read that correctly. When forced to grow in the dark, rhubarb grows up to an inch today and makes audible sounds as it grows. Take a listen.

Crazy, right? Who could resist the urge to write a poem about that? Not me! I was utterly entranced and once I read the accompanying article, I thought a found poem would be just the ticket.

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Rhubarb Growing in the Dark

Rustling
plant sounds
alarming rate
squeaks, creaks, and pops
sweeter rhubarb
sick beats
patient noise
listen for it
the sounds are there
out of season
in the dark
deep red stalks burst
distinct popping
squeaks and creaks
right tight to one another
sounds stand out
turn all the power things off
sit
relax
listen

©2018 M. Hogan

a found poem inspired by an Atlas Obscura article, “Listen to the Sick Beats of Rhubarb Growing in the Dark” by Eric Grundhauser

Then ( because how often do you get to write a poem about rhubarb?), I had to write another poem.

Rhubarb-Spring

Snap!
Crackle!
Tart red juicy stems
Pop!
forced to grow in darkness
cramped and crowded
They gripe, groan, and grow
with audible pain
a chorus of complaint
or…
could this be a song?
Perhaps they rejoice
stretching their stalks
celebrating the season
nudging into neighbors
jubilant in their growth
singing a song of rhubarb-spring

©2018 M. Hogan

Note: In a happy little moment of serendipity, my poems meet two Poetry Month challenges today. “Rhubarb Growing in the Dark” meets Georgia Heard’s prompt for a Found Poem on Renee LaTulippe’s Poetry Month Challenge at her blog, No Water River. “Rhubarb-Spring”  accepts Amy Ludwig VanDerwater’s invitation to write a “Title From The Text” poem in which you take a title from the text of your poem after you have written it.

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Anticipating Spring

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Now that the temperature is slightly more welcoming and the snow pack has receded, I’ve been spending more time outside. In addition to enjoying the fresh air and scouting out subtle signs of approaching spring, I’ve been taking pictures again. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it! Here are three short spring- and photo-inspired poems from the last week.

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Spring Prophecy

Along winter-bare branches
twilight raindrops
sparkle like blossoms

©2018 M. Hogan

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Foggy morning
at the cemetery
snow melts
time stands still

©2018 M. Hogan

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to stop and take a photo, but as I drove to work this week, I noticed this welcome sight:

Migrating birds perch
among emerging spring buds
like precocious blossoms

©2018 M. Hogan

And finally, a big happy birthday wish to Lee Bennett Hopkins, poet and anthologist extraordinaire. While searching for signs of spring and all things “spring-ish”, I found his poem, Spring. I love the rhythm of it!

SPRING
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Lee Bennett Hopkins

Roots
sprouts
buds
flowers

always–
always–
cloud-bursting showers…
(click here to read the entire poem)

You can find the Poetry Friday Roundup this week at the talented Robyn Hood Black’s blog, Life on the Deckle Edge. She’s also hosting the surprise birthday celebration for Lee Bennett Hopkins, so make sure to stop by and join in the birthday festivities!

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Giant’s Stairs

 

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Some whimsical soul in the past saw a giant’s staircase in the slabs and boulders along this stretch of Maine coastline, and the name has stuck: Giant’s Stairs. Today, the water crashes against the upheaved rocks, flying into the air in wild abandon. Common eiders bob in the surf. When the males dive, you can see the glimmer of their white plumage flash below the surface. Again and again, my eye follows their ghostly descent until they vanish, only to pop up moments later nearby. Amidst the rocks, snails skim in shallow tidal  pools and a piece of kelp casts its shadow. Soft silvered rock glows in the afternoon sun. Flecks of mica sparkle and stripes of quartz erupt in brilliant, hard white fissures.

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DSCN3114.jpgThis landscape tells a story of powerful forces at work, but speaks a language that is foreign to me. Almost like hieroglyphics. Each shape and bubble, each boulder and slab tells of force and movement, of time and wind and weather. I need my own Rosetta Stone to make sense of this world– Something that would explain the layers, the shapes, the cataclysm that shifted  horizontal shelves of rock until they were rotated and running in ridges perpendicular to their original orientation. Even without fully understanding, I’m captivated by the story.

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Giant’s Stairs on a previous visit — You can see the descending slabs that inspired its name.

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SOLC 2018–Day 31: Pet Peeves of Aging

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March 2018 SOLC–Day 31
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

The challenge ends today. I’m another month older, and hopefully another month wiser. This morning after a glance in the mirror at my sleep-creased face, I started thinking about getting older.  Mostly I’m ok with it (I mean the alternatives aren’t great!), but there are a few areas that bug me.

1. Hair. I’m fine with gray hair, but who decided that renegade hairs should start appearing in odd places and grow exponentially?  Even when vigilant about checking, I can find a robust black hair a half inch long protruding from my face or neck. It’s appalling! I can’t help but wonder how many other people have seen that hair and thought, “Gee, I wonder why she doesn’t pluck that?” I’ve already warned my children that I’m going to draw them a map of all the likely spots for those hairs, and when I’m in the nursing home, unaware, it will be their job to pluck them.

imgres-2.jpg2. My skin. Why didn’t I appreciate my skin when it was flexible and smooth?  Now I have thigh skin that cascades over my knees and after four babies, the skin on my stomach resembles that of a sharpei. Sigh. Dimples and dents have replaced peaches and cream.

3. Grooves. I can  handle wrinkles–those character lines that fan out from my eyes or bracket my smile. But who decided to put a canyon between my eyebrows? Actually, it’s two canyons!  Do I really frown that much or constantly furrow my brow?  I think I’m generally a happy person, but these deep, abiding frown lines make me doubt myself. And what’s up with that new charming horizontal line between my upper lip and nose?images.jpg

4. Changes in Memory. I swear I spend half my time continuing to walk down hallways or into rooms hoping that I’ll see something that will jar the memory of my original intent. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes it doesn’t. And don’t even get me started on word retrieval! Thank God I now have a trove of slices that can remind me what happened during this past month.

Writing about memory, reminded me of an aging-related poem I wrote a few years ago. Ending with that seems like the perfect segue from this month’s challenge to Poetry April.

Happy Writing and thanks to all for a most memorable month!

The Battle

There once was a hair on my chin
undetected when first it grew in
I noticed it there
Adrift in the air
And yanked it out with great chagrin.

Another one grew on my cheek.
(It happened in less than a week!)
I pulled that one too
without great ado
But with a full bellicose shriek.

It’s said that in some far-flung places
Facial hair adorns women’s faces
But I can’t sport a ‘stache
with elan or panache
I vow to remove any traces.

My tweezers now flash through the air
Extracting each invading hair
There is not a thing cute
’bout my face so hirsute
I battle with growing despair.

Each day my reflection as mirrored
Shows renegade hairs have appeared
My expression is grim
As I tweeze and I trim
Not resigned to displaying a beard.

I continue the gods to implore
to vanquish these whiskers galore
They’re more apt to dispatch
A peach-fuzzy soul patch
I win battles but never the war.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

 

 

 

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Poetry Friday: Ghost Leaf

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After two months of daily writing (minus a few days in February), my writing energy is fading, fading, fading. Thus, it seemed especially appropriate to share a trio of poems inspired by a ghost leaf.

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Rain showered
Wind scoured
Time devoured

M. Hogan (c) 2018

Autumn’s light imprint
trickles away with the breeze
sand and time disperse

M. Hogan (c) 2018

Once a fallen leaf
Now a fading memory
How fleeting it is

M. Hogan (c) 2018

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Heidi Mordhorst at her fabulous blog, My Juicy Little Universe. She facilitates a wonderful discussion with Irene Latham and Liz Steinglass, explaining the origins of the Progressive Poem and the exciting twist for this year. Skip on over to enjoy that and to get a head start on April’s Poetry Month.