Another day and another photograph in Laura Shovan’s FOPP (Found Object Poetry Project). When I first looked at this picture, I had no idea what I would write, and was thankful it was slated for the last entry of the week as that gave me more time to ponder my response.  But as the week passed, I was no closer to knowing how to approach this photograph. So with the deadline looming, I focused on the blade and just started to write anything, knowing most of it would be deleted.  And after a lot of “scribbles” and false starts, I now have two different poems. The first feels more responsive to the photograph. The second poem is grounded in a childhood memory.

 Before the Photo
A simple blade in capable hands
transforms stick
to whittled whistle,
kisses apple’s russet skin
twirling off
one
long
swirling spiral,
and sculpts a blushing peach
into glistening golden slices,
hitching a bit as it nicks
into the deeply crevassed pit.

Wiped clean on cotton cloth
discarded with a careless toss into
the shallow metal bowl
burnished vibrations echo
and fade
as the simple blade
rocks
back and forth
slowly
to
rest.

Memory: The Blade
Once there was a theft
at our neighbor’s
down the road
and it thrilled us
while scaring the bejesus out of us
because we walked behind that house
on the way home from school
usually in twos or threes
but sometimes alone
on the shortcut that cut
through the dappled woods
and not long after that break-in
in a nearby tree
we found the dull, rusted blade,
discarded
tucked into a hollow
and we shook with certainty
just knowing it was involved
in the crime
Our urgent whispers quivered
in the shifting green shade
Should we call the police?
Tell our parents?
Fingers of fear
spidered down my spine
as I tentatively touched
that contraband blade.
After much debate
we tucked it
back into the hollow,
fearing the thief might return
and seek retribution
if his blade was missing.

I can’t recall
what happened next
and wonder
if the blade still rests
in that dusty tree hollow
in the Pennsylvania woods.

Well, this photo was a bit creepy and for some reason I just kept thinking of dolls gone bad.

Breaking News
Mass Escape from
St. Claud’s Center
for Delinquent Dolls
Just this morning
a passing photographer
captured this pivotal scene
of the notorious Brown-Haired Doll
with her famous fringed blue eyes,
gang leader, miscreant,
dimpled arm raised,
baby-blue-shoed foot
kicking out,
targeting the glass barrier,
already fractured,
and demure-looking accomplices
lurking in assumed postures
with their flat and soulless
marble gazes intent.
Look-outs.
All poised on the verge of escape.

This month I’ve been participating in Laura Shovan’s Found Object Poem Project. Each day I’ve attempted to respond to a random photo with a poem. Some days are certainly easier than others!  It’s fascinating to see the different directions that poets travel from the same photo. The whole thing intimidates me, actually, (check out some of the high-caliber poems at Laura’s site!) and I have to be sure not to read others’ entries before posting my own. I’m trusting in the process though and working hard to silence that inner critic. And, I’m writing, writing, writing, and isn’t that what it’s all about?

One Plump Tomato

In the midst of winter
one plump tomato
stirs memories of
the sun’s caressing warmth
on berry-brown bare arms
and flush freckle-dusted cheeks
of toes dipping into rich earth
and of the enticing tangled scent
of robust green vines
and sweet spicy basil

In the midst of winter
one plump tomato
sings a silent song
of summer

Check out more poetry! The Miss Rumphius Effect is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.

Here is today’s photograph. I was surprised my how quickly and viscerally I responded to this one.  It’s a good thing I live in Maine, where heat and humidity are infrequent visitors!

Ahhh, A Fan

On certain sticky summer days
when heat slaps me in the face
and my flushed skin drips
and my thoughts grumble
into curdled meanness
and a rash of spiteful words
trembles at my lips,
I would kill
for the simple respite
of a fan
with sweet hum of rotating blades
and soft, stirring air
to dispel the sour chunks
of my humid mood.

What are these things? This third photo prompt for Linda Shovan‘s February challenge certainly challenged me. I looked at it again and again trying to get some sense of context. Are these grapes? Marbles? Insect eggs? Beads? What are they resting on? How can that reflection be so deep and clear? I floundered, finding it hard to move forward without knowing more. In the end I simply had to push myself to just start writing–a good lesson, that!  I started and stopped and moved in so many directions with my response. At one point, I even tried to channel some Robert Frost:

What orbs these are, I do not know
reflections lurking dark below
in clusters of uncertain sprawl
They pulse with silken greenish glow.

I tucked that stanza and the rest of that effort away for some future fiddling. That form doesn’t lend itself to quick drafting and publishing!  In the end I opted to focus on the mystery of the objects and my desire for some sensory exploration. Here’s my effort.

Mystery Orbs
I itch to pick one up
squish it with a POP
and see what oozes out,
feel the dripping liquid
sticky on my pinching fingers.
I yearn to bite
and sink my teeth
into pale, silken green
to discover
if they are as juicy
as they look,
sugar-sweet like candy
or tongue-zapping,
puckering sour.
God forbid they’re bacteria!

Does anyone know what these are? Share any thoughts in the comments below. I can’t wait until Laura Shovan reveals the context of this photo later today!

This is Day 2 of Laura Shovan‘s Found Object challenge. (She has invited anyone interested to write a poem each day in response to a photograph prompt.) Part of the nature of the challenge is to write and post a poem quickly, without much editing, “turning off the inner critic.” This image took me in several different directions and still feels “half-baked.” It’s a poem I would usually tuck away to work on later but I’m pushing it out there in the spirit of the challenge.

A rainbow of vegetables
Cascades across the cloth
in a vegetable tangle
Richly hued glossy skins
and upright stems
like jewels from a casket
in burnished splendor
glistening with ruby lights
and polished emerald hues
A garden offering.

Soon the sharpened knife
will slice crisply
piercing taut skins
chopping, dicing, mincing
exposing seeds nestled deep in the core
or scattered throughout the flesh
carving out slivers and slices
on the scarred cutting board
stained with pooling juices
a stew?
a soup?
a sacrifice.

Author Laura Shovan is hosting the “2016 Found Object Poem Project” this February. She has invited anyone interested to write a poem (or prose) each day in response to a photograph of a found object. Here is the first photograph:

And here is my response:

Wooden Box
Capable hands
held the potential of
raw, green wood,
inspired,
rejecting spoon, platter,
a plethora of options,
crafted a secret-holder,
a box for treasures,
dovetailing corners
fitting the lid precisely
sanding smooth the slivers
and splinters,
adhering paper
with written words
whispering on wood
a destination
that has faded into memory
with the accumulating
patina of time.

Inside the box
echoes of those hands
and unknown treasures,
past and present,
breathe,
stirring dusty molecules
and memories.

Shortly after my daughter left for six months to study in England,  I was bumbling around on the internet reading poems about traveling. I stumbled upon reference to a poem entitled  “The Traveling Onion” by Naomi Shahib Nye. I’m already a fan of her work and that whimsical title hooked me, so I checked it out.

Naomi Shahib Nye prefaces her poem with a quote from the Betty Crocker cookbook that details the travels of the onion from India to Egypt (where it was apparently revered and a symbol of eternity–who knew?) to Greece and into all of Europe.  As I poked around a bit more, I discovered that there is some dispute about the actual origin of the onion that we cultivate, but most agree it probably has Asian roots.

Once again, I must lament my lack of awareness and curiosity. It’s so easy to be focused on the end goal (dinner!) and forget to be open to the possible wonders of the process. Nye, like every gifted poet, reminds me to pay attention and to consider different aspects of everything around me. I had never considered the onion much before, except to dread the stinging pain in my eyes whenever I cut into one. Nye’s poem has made me reconsider even this aspect of the onion and opened my eyes to others. Her words pay homage to this “small and forgotten” vegetable that disappears “for the sake of others.”

“When I think how far the onion has traveled
just to enter my stew today,
I could kneel and praise
all small forgotten miracles,
crackly paper peeling on the drainboard,
pearly layers in smooth agreement,…”
(click on this link to view the poem in its entirety)

I’m not sure what I love most about this poem.  Perhaps it’s the idea that there are many “small forgotten miracles” in our world if we just take the time to look. Perhaps it’s the lovely image of “pearly layers in smooth agreement” or the mouth-popping fun of the phrase “crackling paper peeling”. Certainly in part, it’s the gift Naomi Shahib Nye has for focusing on the banal and then shedding light on it so that it transcends its seemingly ordinary existence.  I, for one, will never cut into an onion again without thinking of these lines.

Please be sure to visit Reading to the Core for this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup!

Last week, prior to launching our Opinion Writing unit in my first grade class, I asked my students to write an opinion or claim and tell reasons why they have that opinion. I planned to use this piece as a pre-assessment to inform my teaching. One student, A., chose to write about ballet. Here is a page from her piece:

For those of you who don’t read first grade, I’ll translate: Ballet practice can be hard. But you don’t just dance. Dance with a joyful heart. (And for those of you who know first grade well, did you notice the beginning uppercase letters and ending punctuation?  Yeehaw!)

I’ve thought about these heart-warming words a lot since I first read them. My initial reaction was something like, “Oh, how sweet!  I love that phrase, “a joyful heart.” Then later on I thought, “I bet her dance teacher uses those words.” And later still, I began to wonder, what are the words that my students take away from our time together?  Are there phrases that I’ve instilled in them, deliberately or by chance?  Are they all positive? 

A’s piece reminds me to be mindful of the messages, spoken and unspoken, that I send each day to my students and to maximize the joy and the sheer fun of learning.  If my first graders leave my class with the message that even when things are challenging, you try your best, persevere and keep joy in your heart, well, I would be quite delighted with that. (In fact, even more delighted than with beginning uppercase letters and ending punctuation!) What a lovely, powerful message to cultivate.

I intended to use this writing to guide my teaching, I didn’t realize how much it would do so. A has also reminded me that one of the joys of teaching is learning from our students.  

I wake snuggled in a cozy tangle of fleece and down with my cat’s warmth pressing against my side. The radiators softly tick-tick-tick and in the distance the tires of a passing car hum on pavement. A typical start to the day, but the house feels foreign this morning, operating on a different frequency.

Over the past two weeks my children have returned to their rich, busy lives: Adeline heading off to England for six months of study, Connor returning to his final semester at college, and Lydia safely ensconced in her dorm again late yesterday afternoon. Our old house sighs and settles in the cold morning and so do I. My thoughts wing outward to linger gently, like a blessing, on each of my children.

Over the years at times of parting I’ve learned to speak a sort of code to my kids, encapsulating vast emotions in catchphrases like “Drive safely” and “Make good choices.” At times they roll their eyes affectionately when I repeat these phrases, and they have become a bit of a household joke. But to me, these phrases are mantras, heartfelt repeated prayers. They are shorthand for “I love you and when you go out and about in this world, I’m proud and excited and so, so vulnerable. For you are my heart. So be careful and be kind and live your life to the fullest. Oh, and have fun but don’t be stupid. You are not invulnerable and you have enriched my life and simultaneously sent it careening wildly out of my control. So, please, please remember I love you and always will and sending you off with a smile on my face is a huge act of trust and faith in both you and the universe.”

And this morning as I lie in my warm, soft bed, in the newness of their absence, my thoughts touch on each of them in turn, envisioning them where they might be…missing them, loving them, hoping against hope that this morning ritual, this mental caress, will keep them safe in this wild, wonderful, unruly world. And softly, like a prayer, I think, “Drive safely. Make good choices.”