New York City fascinates me. There’s such energy there. I’m convinced that even if you took away all the sounds, the city would vibrate or hum. Both times that I’ve attended TC Summer Institutes at Columbia, I have stayed on 77th Street. One of the highlights of my visit is to walk up and back Broadway to 120th every day. I especially love the morning commute. The dog walkers are out in force, and merchants are opening their stores, unloading carts, carefully wrapping bouquets in sleeves, and stacking fruit and vegetables into rainbows of produce. The passing cars hum. Small groups of pigeons and sparrows feast on offerings of bread. Sunlight glints off the top of buildings and dew drops still cling to the blossoms in planters and parks. Although they say NYC is the city that never sleeps, to me, those early morning sights and sounds are the city waking and preparing for the upcoming performance of the day.

New York Symphony

In New York City
day dawns
the quickening air pulses
with vibrations
the deep heavy rumble of delivery trucks
the click clack of carts
crossing sidewalks with a rhythmic
ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk
the contented coo of feasting pigeons
a burst of beating wings
as a startled flock takes flight
evading the percussive
thump-thump-thump
of approaching runners
or the staccato clicks of high heels
the punctuating steamy exhale of the buses
a crescendo of trumpeting car horns
a blazing siren
and the steady swish of tires
and humming engines
threaded through with
the cheerful calls
of vendors and passersby
and the sweet strains of bird song
All tuning up
for a day in the city
a New York City symphony

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

Check out this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at Carol Varsalona’s blog, Beyond Literacy Link. She has a bounty of poetic offerings this week: her Springsations gallery unveiling, a sonnet to read aloud, a poem about fried chicken and an invitation to write about mac ‘n cheese at next week’s Roundup in honor of National Mac and Cheese Day .

I step out of our comfortable New York city hotel, grimacing slightly when my feet hit the pavement after yesterday’s touristy 27,000+ steps. Walking up to Starbucks for my morning Americano, I look up, admiring the light glinting off the tops of the buildings, noticing new stonework details, enjoying the early morning pulse of the city. 

I turn after crossing the street and notice two feet, peeking out from beneath a blue blanket. A man sleeps against a building at the edge of the sidewalk. His two feet are clearly visible…pale and clean…surprisingly clean. Where are his shoes? Does he have shoes? I imagine them clutched to his chest, held safely, though I can’t see beneath his blanket.

Two feet. That’s all I can see. In my mind I frame them, those two feet swaddled in blue, and snap a picture. I think of baby pictures, those sweet shots that zoom in on tiny hands or feet nestled in the folds of a blanket. I wonder who once washed these feet. When did this man’s path go astray? What steps has he taken to arrive in this place? Are there loved ones who worry for him? Who tried their best? Or did their worst?

Two feet. A blue blanket. A New York sidewalk.

And then I walk by him and continue on my way.
How many others will do the same today?

I’ve had a tough time slicing lately. Somehow Tuesday comes along before I know it and once again, I’m floundering. Last night I was determined to have a slice to share today, so I fell back on the tried and true “Currently” structure. Please bear in mind that I wrote this last night. (My morning beverage of choice is a more acceptable orange juice with a splash of cranberry.)

Currently I am…

Wishing… for a nice cool breeze. The temps hit the low 90s today and it’s still sticky. I finally took the flannel sheets off the bed. (I hope I wasn’t too optimistic and that I don’t regret it in a few days!)

Looking at…the flowers blooming in my garden. The first of the rugosa roses have made an appearance and “…the green fists of the peonies are getting ready/ to break my heart…” (Mary Oliver—I recently read her poem Peonies for the first time (Thanks, Tara!) and then read it again…and again…and again…)

Planning… for the final two weeks of school. These may be the longest or the shortest two weeks in the history of the world.

Reading… my e-mail from TC about the June Reading Institute. Is anyone else going?

Writing… comments for report cards and trying not to repeat what I wrote in the last two trimesters. Searching for the perfect phrase…

Watching… the wine level in my glass go down.

Listening… to the evening chorus of the birds and to the far off sound of some motivated (or irate?) neighbor who is chopping or banging something.

Drinking…I’ll give you one guess 🙂 (Hint: see Watching…) I’m pretty convinced there’s some major evaporation going on here as well!

Eating…pretzels. I have a major pretzel problem—not just any old pretzels though. It’s Snyder’s Snaps all the way for me!

Mood…vacillating –so much to do, so much to reflect upon, so much to anticipate, so much to regret, so much to enjoy.  So much!

If you haven’t yet read Elaine Magliero’s book “Things to Do”, I strongly encourage you to do so.  I owe a big shout out to Jama Rattigan for her delightful interview with Elaine Magliero, which inspired me to pick up this enchanting book.  I shared some of the poems with my class, and they were eager to try out this form. So was I! It’s a wonderful entryway into persona or mask poem writing. Ever since reading it, I’ve found myself thinking differently. What might I do if I was…moss? a cat? a house? Thinking this way, I looked at my favorite birch tree in a new light. It now seemed like the perfect subject for a Things to Do poem.

Things to do if you’re a birch tree

Greet the rising sun
Sparkle with dew
Wave au revoir to the morning star
as each day starts anew

Shelter singing birds
Dangle a swing
Spread your skirt of dappled shade
Jewel your core with rings

Stretch your pale limbs wide
and reach up high
Create a crackled quilt of color
in azure summer skies

Sway with the breezes
Rustle your leaves
Cradle the full moon in your branches
on a soft and sultry eve

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

To enjoy more poetry, make sure to visit this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at Buffy Silverman’s blog, Buffy’s Blog.

Last Friday, after arriving home, I stepped out of the car into yet another dreary, damp evening. This dying dandelion immediately caught my eye. I’m not sure what strange combination of temperature, moisture and atmosphere was at play, but it blazed like a star above the grass. I put everything down and stopped to take a picture. The next morning when I went back to admire it again, all those purple-tipped stellar spikes were lying meekly against the stem. Maybe my cosmic dandelion had gone back to its alter ego stage. Who knew it was capable of this burst of startling beauty?

Early Saturday morning I read Kim Douillard’s weekly challenge, and I knew immediately that Friday night’s dandelion was a starting point. Kim invited readers to find beauty within the seemingly ugly and I was already in that mindset.

Later this weekend, a walk on the beach yielded more unexpected beauty. We arrived late in the afternoon, and the beach was strewn with tide-staggered lines of ocean debris, scenting the air with their pungent sea smell. A closer look at the seemingly ugly, homogenous piles revealed a treasure of texture and a rainbow of colors.

Unusual shapes and objects created multi-hued natural collages. With a vivid splash of color, the polka-dotted kelp air bladder glowed in the afternoon sun as if lit from within. The delicacy of a single white feather contrasted with coarse strands of kelp, the entirety sprinkled with crystalline grains of salt or sand. Each glimpse revealed more variety and beauty. Once started, I could have poked through piles of seaweed for hours.

Back at home in the garden, the skeletal remains of last year’s hydrangea blossoms have a delicate beauty of their own, especially when a petal cups around a drop of water.

After some time working in the garden, I noticed this unexpected visitor. This moth lingered on our window screen for most of a day. I posted its picture on Facebook, asking “Does anyone know what kind of moth this is?” The first response was succinct and, to me, surprising: “ugly.” As other responses came in, most people intimated it was scary or intimidating or in some way unpleasant. I, on the other hand, was fascinated by the scalloped edges of its wings, its curved body, the delicate tracery of lines in its wings and the subtle beauty of its subdued coloring. This was an unexpected twist on Kim’s challenge–something I found beautiful and others did not.

This whole exercise reminded me of the beautiful-eyed skunks in Naomi Shihab Nye’s “A Valentine for Ernest Mann” and the line “Nothing was ugly/just because the world said so.” Kim’s challenge and Nye’s words encourage us to reinvent the world around us by shifting our lens to see the beauty in what at first glance appears ugly or merely unnoteworthy. As Nye writes:

April may be Poetry Month, but I’m so enjoying reading and writing poetry in May with my class.

Here are some comments overheard in my class today as students wrote poems:

“Z. wrote a reverso!”

“Dude, this is soooo good!”

“I’m starting a new poem and I think I’m going to do really good on it.”

“I need 5 minutes more…please!” begged a student urgently as I announced there were about two minutes left. ” This is the end of my free verse poem.”

“I want to work on using better words. I want to make sure my reader sees what I want them to see.”

“Mrs. Hogan, we have to read you this. It’s so sad and so good! It’s a free verse poem.”

His friend and co-author piped up, “It’s two perspectives!”

“Can you think of another word for beach? Beaches are sandy and I’m thinking more of rocks and stuff, not sand….maybe… shore?”

“I have to read you my sky poem.”

The most wonderful thing is that poetry feels accessible to my students, and they are energized by the freedom intrinsic in it. Students are burning to share their work and eager to make changes to improve it. They are making very deliberate choices as they write and considering the impact on their reader. Conversations about craft moves are common and there’s a general air of happy productivity and positive energy in the room. It’s delightful!

Ahhh….The magic of poetry at work!

My husband has wanted to buy a tractor for years and years and years. There’s been a lot of increased discussion about this over the past few months–mostly him elaborating about all the great things he could do with one (and needs to do with one) and me suggesting that renting is always a viable (and reversible) option. Just to clarify (in case you couldn’t tell already), this whole tractor scheme definitely falls under the umbrella of “Not My Idea.” It’s expensive and I’m not sure how much horsepower is safe for my husband to have unlimited access to.  Don’t get me wrong: He can fix or make anything, but there’s often a bit of collateral damage along the way.  Combining tractor power with a love of demolition and an impulsive nature seems like a volatile combo to me. (Here’s hoping he doesn’t read this post. He can be a bit sensitive about this topic.)

Anyway, one day last week while I was at work, he drove to the farm store, plunked down a chunk  of change, signed some papers, and finally bought himself a tractor. Then, much to his dismay, he found out that he had to wait for it to come. The tractor would not be delivered that day and might even take a week or two. Imagine the look on a 7 year old child’s face, bright and early on Christmas morning. Now, imagine if you had to tell him that Christmas was delayed and wouldn’t occur until next week….or maybe the week after.  Yup. That’s about what he looked like. I know this because even though I wasn’t there, he still looked that way hours later when I got home. Poor guy.

Late yesterday afternoon, I drove home through the unceasing rain and turned into our driveway. We have a steep gravel driveway and when I left for work yesterday morning, one area had some ruts and shallow channels that had been carved by recent rainfalls. When I returned yesterday, I immediately noticed that the damaged section of the driveway was looking much worse for the wear.  There were big tire tracks and uneven piles of gravel and grit interspersed with ruts and divits. What happened? I wondered. It looked like some sort of big vehicle had gotten stuck and churned around. Then the light went on.  Oh, wait, I know! I bet they delivered the tractor today and the delivery truck did this. They must have had a hard time with the grade. I looked closer. Wow! That looks really bad. I can’t believe they dug the driveway up that much. I wonder if they’ll repair it. I maneuvered my car carefully around the damaged area and continued up the hill. Then, sure enough, at the top of the driveway I saw the big, orange tractor parked in my yard.

A few minutes later, walking into the house, I called out, “Oh, your tractor came! You must have been so excited.” (I’m trying to be positive about this–remember, Not My Idea.)

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “They delivered it this afternoon.”

“Wow,” I commented, “That’s great!”  Then I added on, ” They really dug up the driveway when they delivered it, though. It looks awful!”

“Oh, no! That was me,” he replied, smiling happily. “I was trying to smooth out some of the ruts with the tractor just to see what it could do.”

This does not bode well.

Pitter patter…sprinkle…sprinkle…drip drop drip. Spring in Maine this year has been marked with lots and lots of rain. Lots. The temperatures have been hovering right around raw. After a lengthy, snowy winter, it’s been tough to slog through day after day of chill and drizzle. In fact, it’s downright aggravating. I’d stamp my feet in frustration, but I’m pretty sure I’d splash myself.

In an effort to pull myself out of the pit of despair when it started raining again tonight, I decided to try to think of the positives of this unrelenting, depressing, miserable  streak of weather. Here, in no particular order, is my list of 10 reasons why it’s good that we’re drowning in experiencing a bountiful rainfall this spring:

1. Nature is beautiful when sprinkled with raindrops.
   

   

2. I don’t have to mow my lawn when it’s raining.
3. The peepers still sing in the rain and I suspect they’re happy to be perpetually moist. (At least someone is!)
4. It’s easier for both teachers and students to be inside at school when it’s gross outside than when it’s 75 and sunny.
5. There’s a lower risk of forest fires and the ground water supplies in southern Maine are being replenished.
6. It’s perfect weather for cozying up on the couch with a cup of coffee and a book. (and a blanket–because it’s still darn chilly out!)
7. The drainage area outside my classroom window is a full-fledged pond and it’s fun to watch the ducks visit.
   
8. Foggy mornings are common, which makes for an atmospheric ride to work.
   
9. No one’s getting sunburnt.
10. The best reason of all–on the rare occasions when the sun comes out, you really, really, really appreciate it!

Hope you’re enjoying your spring, rain or shine!

A trip to the beach on a rare sunny day

“Oh my gosh!” I exclaimed. I jumped from my seat at the restaurant and ran over to the window which was plastered with a colorful assortment of flyers.

“What’s wrong?” my husband asked, clearly startled by my mad dash.

“Naomi Shihab Nye is speaking in Augusta this week!” I exclaimed.

“Oh,” he said, “I thought someone got hit by a car.”

I took a picture of the flyer to capture the details and bubbled and babbled with enthusiasm, explaining to my husband who Naomi Shihab is, why she is so amazing and how stupendously happy I was that I could go hear her speak.

“Do you want to come?” I asked, after finally taking a breath.

“Um…no,” he answered.

Two nights later:
I’m at the University of Maine at Augusta and people are gradually filling the seats in the small auditorium. My eyes drift over the audience, pausing on each face, expecting to recognize someone. It’s sort of a game for me: Maine is a small state and it’s unusual not to see someone you know in a crowd–even if it is half an hour away from home. I continue to gaze until…Yes! That woman sitting down in the third row. I know her! But how do I know her? From where? Oh, from the bookstore downtown? …Maybe…Then it hits me. The forehead smacking DUH! Of course I recognize her! It’s Naomi Shihab Nye! Sitting in the audience, I enjoy the ridiculousness of that moment and my simultaneous fan giddiness. I’m sitting in a room and breathing the same air as Naomi Shihab Nye. Wow!

After some prize presentations and readings from local poets, she takes the stage. She is warm, funny, and simply wonderful. She shares a number of poems and weaves in conversation and amusing anecdotes as she reads. Her somewhat husky, low voice adds another layer of enjoyment to the poems. There’s something magical about hearing a poet read her own work, isn’t there? (If you’d like to hear her voice, here is a link to her reading a very short poem “Please Describe How You Became A Writer.”) She reads one of my favorite poems, Famous, and an audience member comments that it was recently recited by a judge in a court case. (Click here if you want to read more about that amazing story. Poetry in the courtroom–Now that’s something to celebrate!) The audience is rapt, spellbound by the worlds she weaves with her words. Some funny. Some profound. Many both. Her work highlights the common places, the places where our lives intersect and converge, where our shared humanity is fully visible. In her poem “A Valentine for Ernest Mann” (another favorite of mine), Shahib writes “poems hide…” and then she elaborates, “…what we have to do/is live in a way that lets us find them.” I’m so thankful that she is adept at finding and sharing the hidden poetry in her world.

After the show, I wait in line to talk with her, to have her sign my books. She is kind and gracious and we speak fondly of a common friend, the same friend who first introduced me to her work. On the drive home, I play and replay our conversation in my head, cringing at my phrasing and nervous comments, sparked from that fan giddiness I spoke of earlier. Ugh…why did I say that? Ah, well, I hope that her keen vision sees past my inept small talk to my unadulterated appreciation and admiration.

Later that night, back at home, I page through my new books of her poetry and old ones as well. In my newly purchased book, 19 Varieties of Gazelle, I tumble into love with her poem, “Staying Close”, from the first delightful image. Here’s the first stanza for you to enjoy.

Staying Close

On your tree surprised lemons
wore small caps of snow.
The bowl of steaming lentils
opened its wide mouth as we sat and sat,
stitching the seam of talk,
till the man with the rug from Baghdad arrived
rolling out its long length inside your door.
….
Unfortunately I couldn’t find a link to this poem, but if you’d like to explore more poetry, click the next link and head on over to Poetry Friday Roundup at the blog Teaching Authors. Enjoy!