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Winter Light

I was the one to set this month’s challenge for the Inklings. I took part of a prompt from James Crews’s new book, “Unlocking the Heart,” and invited everyone to “begin with a specific sensory experience (of taste, sight, smell, sound or touch) and see where that leads you.”

Weeks after setting this challenge, it occurs to me that a wide-open prompt can be more difficult to enter into than a more defined one. Too many choices, maybe? I suppose it’s like the way that writing within a tightly structured form can actually free ideas. Maybe they bounce off the boundaries and meet up with each other in new and unexpected ways? At any rate, I was hoping to tap in to some evocative smell or sound or even texture (an ode to oatmeal?), but over and over I kept coming back to sight.

To me, winter is all about the interplay between dark and light. There’s such a lush generosity to the light at this time of year. It is transformative. As a photographer and a writer and a human being, I’m drawn to it over and over again. I find it quite challenging to capture both in words and in photographs, but here are a few unrelated small poems and photos attempting to do so:

within deepest snow
winter’s cold heart
blazes a brilliant blue

patient square of amber light
awaits in the dark, chill night
welcome home

late sun gilds the meadow
winter-bare oak tree
glows like an alleluia

You can check out what the other Inklings did with the challenge by clicking on the links below:

Linda @A Word Edgewise
Mary Lee @ A(nother) Year of Reading
Margaret @Reflections on the Teche
Heidi @my juicy little universe
Catherine @ Reading to the Core (She’s opting out this week, but her blog is always worth a visit!)

Carol is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday roundup at The Apples in My Orchard.

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PF: Kindling the light with small poems

I’ve been trying to fashion small poems lately. To root through the ashes and find small sparks, then breathe on them gently like kindling, hoping to ignite a flame, to create a little light. I like to write Wordle poems sometimes, but one day this past week my guesses wrote a very succinct poem without any tinkering from me:

That wasn’t quite what I was going for, but who am I to reject a poem when it’s staring me in the face?

Here are a few other poems from this week:

fire warm at my back
coffee in hand
gold on the horizon

©Molly Hogan

jays bombard the feeder
the view fractures, shifts, renews
kaleidoscope blues

©Molly Hogan

This week’s Poetry Friday is hosted by Ruth at her blog, There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town.

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Small lights in the dark

This morning as I walked out to the car, the horizon was aglow, lighting up the dark. It was lovely, but it didn’t stir me as it usually would. Its impact felt muted. Beauty is having a tough time finding its way inward these days. There’s so much to slog through first, I guess. This feeling has been hard to shake, and honestly, I’m not even sure that I should shake it.

As I moved forward, there was an unexpected flash of color in the doorway of our free-standing “office”. I took a small detour to check it out, and the sudden incongruity of the reflection pleased me. I snapped a photo with my phone.

As I stood there, I suddenly heard rustling and crunching out beyond the zone of visible light.

“What’s that?”

It was probably deer. Probably. Most days I would have imagined bears, coyotes and/or a roaming raving maniac, and would have stepped lively back into the light and then scampered into my car. But this morning I didn’t care. These days I vacillate between deadened and defiant. I’m not sure which was dominant at this point, but I took another step into the dark, gazing about me. The noises got louder, seemingly closer. Whatever was out there clearly wasn’t worried by my presence. I was still pretty sure it was deer. My eyes scanned the field in the dim light. I could see nothing, other than the dim shadows of trees and the hint of high weeds in the fields. The noises continued. Finally, the awareness of time passing pulled me back toward to my car.

As I drove down the driveway, I kept my eyes peeled. I drove a bit slower. Glanced to the left. Glanced to the right. And then, sure enough, there it was, barely visible in the dim light. A small deer standing in the front yard. I’m sure there were probably more of them, based on all the noise I’d heard, but this was the only one I saw. And yes, deer are plentiful in Maine. And yes, I see them frequently. But still, this sighting somehow felt like a small victory. A small light in the dark.

At the end of our driveway, I turned to head out toward the main road. As I pulled onto Main Street, another flash of color caught my eye. At some point during the last 24 hours, our neighbor had carefully wound brightly colored lights around each segment of a tree. A bold rainbow tree now decorated their side yard.

My spirits lifted just a bit.

Yet another small light in the dark.

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Finding My Way

It’s been hard to find my footing after the events of last week. The best analogy I have read is Anne Lamott’s in which she says: “If you are anything like me, you can barely remember having ever felt so stunned, and doomed, except when someone very close to you died, or divorced you, or the godawful biopsy results came back.

It’s a little as if the godawful biopsy results came back, and 73 million people cheered and gloated.“

In the aftermath, I’ve been reading a lot, writing a little, lamenting and brooding. And trying to find a way forward. What does one do? I don’t know, and neither do most of my go-to gurus. But I’ve been gathering ideas from different places.

One powerful piece of advice that always offers a way forward, comes from the recovery community: “Just do the next right thing,” they say. Apparently, this originated with Carl Jung who wrote, “And so the best we can do is walk step by next intuitively right step…”

Of course, determining what that step is can be a bit trickier.

This week Katherine May suggested that taking time to pause and tap into our resources is critical at this time. She defined resources as “something that we can draw on when we need to; or, better still, something that we can turn into a habit that becomes protective of our sanity, part of our steady functioning”. When I followed her prompts to consider my own resources, writing and writing communities were near the top, along with nature and photography.

And then Mary Lee Hahn of A(nother) Year of Reading put out a call to write haiku for healing (#haikuforhealing).

I’m weaving all these influences together, quite haphazardly, but it does seem like they create a path of sorts to follow. I remain uncertain what the next right thing is, but at least I’ll be doing something. As I ponder the magnitude of this moment and what it says about our country, I want, no need, to celebrate beauty, connect with community and dwell in gratitude. So, each day I’m writing, often haiku, trying to kindle some light in these dark times. It feels a bit like lighting a candle outside during a brutal gale…but I guess it’s something:

rainpatter slows…stops
patches of blue sky appear
soon there will be sun

©Molly Hogan

in the dark front room
the Christmas cactus bloomed
unnoticed until now

©Molly Hogan

day nears its end
late-hanging leaf and gold finch
compare their fading hues

©Molly Hogan



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The Day Looms

The day looms before me. I can feel myself pulling away from it. Wanting to hide. Seeking anywhere to linger in a bubble of ignorance. I try to ground myself to this moment. Listen to the slight trickle of water in the aquarium. Hear the faint tick-tick-tick of the clock in the kitchen. Outside it’s still dark. The day awaits. There’s nothing I can do right now.

Later, I’ll go to school for a half day of PD (professional development). No one’s mind will be on what we’re doing. Then I will vote. I will not tune in to the media today. Why crank up the anxiety volume? I’m not even sure I’ll check the news on Wednesday morning. I don’t expect that things will have been decided yet, and I’m so concerned about what might be coming. I can feel anxiety growing like a toxic algae bloom, deadly and smothering.

So, again, I breathe in and feel my lungs expand with air. I listen to the water trickle in the aquarium. I hear the far off hum of tires on the road. Others have begun their days. I’m trying to remember that we are all linked, but I feel the embers of anger stirring beneath my anxiety. How have we gotten to this place?

A faint tapping begins on the windows. I can hear raindrops hitting the fallen leaves. The water still trickles. The clock still ticks. No light has yet appeared on the horizon.

The day still looms, but now I’m writing. Soon, I’ll post these words to share. I’ll read other posts. Comment. Connect.

Later, I will vote.

That’s what I can do right now.

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November Challenge

Poorly Chosen Craft Move

Conferences plus Covid
alliterative perhaps
but assuredly not poetic

Ugh! So, there’s some context for you. I’ve been swimming in conferences, fever, unplanned absences, cancelled conferences, sub plans, election angst, rescheduled conferences, cancelled rescheduled conferences, etc. And although I can now smell, I still have a very limited range of taste. Somehow, that just seems to be the sour icing on this unpleasant cake I’ve been consuming. But, on the bright side, I’m getting better (yay!), I only have two more conferences to make up, and Linda set us a lovely challenge for the month. Thank goodness for writing friends and challenges!

For our Inklings challenge, Linda shared Joy Harjo’s poem, “Fall” and asked us to respond to it in any way we chose. For some reason (in the midst of fever perhaps?), it seemed like a good idea to print out the entire poem, cut apart the words and then use every single one, some still in phrases, to write a new poem. So, that’s what I tried to do. It was a mixed success.

Ultimately, I took that poem and removed some words and phrases away to come up with this. Every word in this poem is in Harjo’s poem (unless I’ve lost track!), but I’ve chopped out quite a few. Mostly it still feels a bit fever-dreamy to me.

In the Aftermath of Lament

With you on my mind
I cry a forever blue song,
another hanging perfectly
in a necklace of days.

Sky is slightly overcast.
A jay is there again.
The divine yellow leaves
now dark, damp,
a jacket for the earth,
might open the hallway
into this day.

If I need forward,
if I hear the rain,
will your story keep in mine?

©Molly Hogan

To see what the other Inklings did with this challenge, click on their names:

Catherine Flynn
Mary Lee Hahn
Heidi Mordhorst
Margaret Simon
Linda Mitchell

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Patricia J. Franz at her blog.

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Some Wordle Poems

There’s just something about a random group of words that inspires me to connect some dots and create a poem. In other words, I’ve been playing around with Wordle poems again. They’re such a fun, low-stakes way to keep myself writing. In general, my rules are to use all the words I guess when playing Wordle, in order, within the poem. Variations on the words are okay. Here’s one I wrote with these words from a recent game: gutsy, dream, pearl, farer, carve.

On This Morning

With a hopeful, gutsy stride
I step from my dreams,
cradling the pearl of wisdom
granted to all wayfarers
who travel the currents of night:
The day is open before you
Carve your own way
Always seek the light.

©Molly Hogan

Late last month I was inspired by this photo of a friend’s sister’s newly painted porch. Isn’t it gorgeous!?

It was obviously in my mind when I started playing Wordle a few days later, so I began guessing with the word “porch”. Usually I put my Wordle word guesses in the poem in the order in which I guessed them, but this time I moved them around a little. My words were: porch, clone, cloud.

“My house is where I like to be …”
Daniel Pinkwater*
for Jules Myers

No clone to convention,
she painted her porch
a stirring orange.

Now she’ll sit
amidst sunbeams,
contentedly watching
the clouds drift by.

©Molly Hogan

This line is borrowed from Daniel Pinkwater’s book “The Big Orange Splot”, which is a huge favorite of mine. Any other fans of Mr. Plumbean out there?

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Jama at her blog, Jama’s Alphabet Soup. She’s celebrating all things donut in a scrumptious post! Be sure to check it out and the other links you’ll find there.

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A New Process for a Wordle Poem

WARNING: Spoiler alert!!! If you play Wordle and haven’t yet played today, wait to read this post. This post will reveal the word of the day!!!

I play Wordle every single day. Every so often I write poems from my guessed words. Recently, I’ve been doing this with more frequency. I enjoy having a pool of words to work with and try to combine in interesting ways.

I’m not a huge Wordle strategist. I don’t begin with the same word every time, or worry about vowels. I just wait for a word to strike my fancy. Sometimes it’s my mood, or the weather, or sometimes it’s just a random word winging it’s way into my brain. This morning I started with “tired” (Ok. I’ve definitely begun with that word more than once! Hmmmm….wonder why?) and then I decided to try something new. I would write a line or two for a poem after each guessed word, before taking my next guess. I was intrigued by the idea of not knowing where the poem was going. I’ve bolded my guessed words as they appear.

Tired hums in my veins
It stains my vision
bleaching out color
like a sepia photo
Night has advanced
creating its own home
deep within my bones
I grope for tinder and flint
anything to strike,
to light my way
to point to a path forward
Still, I’m utterly weary
I feel the weight of age
in every joint.

©Molly Hogan

Well, that was a bit dark! Really, I am fine. But even though it’s not the lightest of poems, I did enjoy the process. I suspect this will become a new part of my morning routine. On a side note, I’m not sure if I was disheartened or inspired by having 6 words to work with. It was not a stellar Wordle performance, for sure, but it definitely provided more fodder for a poem. Another upside to writing Wordle poems, I suppose!

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Pythagorean Poem

Margaret posed us a doozy of an Inkling challenge this month. She shared a new poetry form, called a Pythagorean Poem, created by Shari Green. Here’s the description she shared,

“Pythagoras’ theorem is a2 + b2 = c2. One possible “triple” is 3, 4, 5.
3×3 + 4×4 = 5×5
9  +   16  =  25

Using the triple, the poetic form works like this:
1st stanza: 3 lines of 3 words each
2nd stanza: 4 lines of 4 words each
3rd stanza: 5 lines of 5 words each, and this third stanza must be composed of all the words found in stanzas one and two (in any order; variations okay). The third stanza should be a progression of sorts, a product of the first two in thought or theme or meaning.”

Easy-peasy, right? Eep!

Writing this poem felt like a construction process, and one in which I finally ended up deciding to live with the result at a certain stage, even if it didn’t quite match the vision in my mind. In the final somewhat desperate construction stages (deadline approaching!), I turned to the computer to color code words to keep track. It ended up looking like this:

Early Morning Trip to the Marsh

Alarm rings and
dreams fade away
scattered like floss

Mirror, later, reflects fatigue
I splash water, refresh,
feel the day’s energy
seep into my veins

Later, like a mirror, water
reflects scattered floss and I
feel fatigue seep away. My
veins dream. The day’s energy splashes,
refreshes. Alarm fading into rings…

©Molly Hogan, draft

What I was thinking of as I wrote

Here are my final thoughts on writing this poem:

Pythagorus

This polymath known through the ages
was surely the wisest of sages.
His hypoteneuses
still guide building crews as
they construct skyscrapers in stages.

But when building a poem, I must say
his ideas lead from stable to sway.
Though I build a strong base
with each word in its place
true coherence keeps slipping away.

©Molly Hogan

Thanks, Margaret, for the challenge!

If you want to see what the other Inklings did with it, please check on these links:

Mary Lee Hahn @ A(nother) Year of Reading
Catherine Flynn @ Reading to the Core
Heidi Mordhorst @ My Juicy Little Universe
Linda Mitchell @ A Word Edgewise
Margaret Simon @ Reflections on the Teche

Then, head over to Poetry Friday! The wonderful Tabatha Yeatts is hosting this week at her blog, The Opposite of Indifference.

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One Positively-Charged First Grader

It was recess and P, an exuberant first grader in a printed T-shirt, came barreling across the playground and threw herself against me for a hug. Her brother, C, was in my class last year, and that’s granted me premium hug-target status.

“Hi, my Positive Proton!” I said, reading her shirt’s inscription as I returned her hug. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” she said.

She stood by my side for a moment or two, joining my colleague, Haley, and I in surveying the playground.

Suddenly, P enthused, “It’s soooo exciting!”

Haley and I exchanged confused glances, and simultaneously looked around the playground trying to figure out what she was talking about.

“What’s exciting?” I finally asked.

“Is it recess?” Haley asked.

“No! C lost a tooth!” She was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Oh, that is exciting!”

“Yeah!” she replied.

We began to follow up with the essential tooth questions, “When did he lose it?” “Which one?” etc, but she interrupted us both and stated matter-of-factly, “Actually, it happened a long time ago.”

“Ooohhkay,” we responded, once again exchanging bemused glances.

Then P happily skipped off, whirling her way across the basketball court.

“And that,” stated Haley, “pretty much sums up conversations with first graders.”