Last week I drove up to Orono, Maine to watch my daughter perform in The Vagina Monologues. Eve Ensler, the playwright, allows the show to be produced, royalty-free, on or around Feb. 14th to raise funds for groups working to end violence against women. This was my first time to see the show and I found it unexpectedly moving. Funny. Harrowing. I couldn’t relate to all that was said and some of the language was a bit over-the-top for me, but I listened as young women shared other women’s stories. Stories of shame and confusion. Stories of empowerment. Stories of abuse. Stories of personal discovery. Stories of trauma and rape and mutilation. So many stories.

Midway through the show, in the dark of a scene change, the sound system crackled and a recording began. It was President Trump’s infamous hot mic comments, played from start to finish. The theater was hushed. As I listened to those words again, I felt their weight in an even more visceral way. In this theater, in this context, his words were an abomination. That so many could discount them as “locker room banter” is a symptom of a far greater problem in our culture. I remain stunned that these words were uttered by a man who was subsequently elected President of our country. How could these words and this election not reverberate, like yet one more blow, on survivors of sexual abuse?

After the recording stopped, the lights went up, and the monologues continued. The next one featured a young woman sharing the terrifying story of a survivor of extreme sexual violence in a war zone. Later in the show, I listened to the narrative of a woman who was repeatedly abused by her husband. Their stories still haunt me.

I returned home that night and the next day I wrote this poem for Laura Shovan’s February 10 Found Words Poetry Challenge. The words chosen to inspire a poem on that day were: pounds, cancel, storm, path, whiteout,avoid, slick, quickly, challenge, plummeted and a bonus: pack a punch. Clearly my poem was influenced by the stories I had heard the night before.

The Storm

Clouds gather on the horizon
Emotions storm across his face
She moves away
carefully conciliatory
willing herself into shadow
quickly thinking, thinking, thinking
fear acrid on her tongue,
anticipating the outburst
the thunder of blows
the unrelenting verbal barrage
desperate to avoid the coming tempest

But her existence is a challenge
He moves toward her
with pounding steps
she retreats
he advances
Her heart plummets,
free falls
into a slick puddle of fear

She knows he packs a punch

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

Once again I’m sharing some poems I’ve written during my sporadic participation in Laura Shovan’s February 10 Found Words Poetry Challenge.  I’m still enjoying the process (though it hasn’t gotten any easier!) but I have been surprised by the results. Maybe it’s the dark winter days or the ongoing turmoil in our country or simply some odd alchemy of the words chosen in the lists, but I keep managing to create disturbing poems. They feel dark and depressed and that’s been a bit disconcerting to me. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m out of touch with some deep inner anguish I’m experiencing!   At any rate, consider yourself forewarned. Here are two of my recent efforts:

Word list: artifact, rewrite, narrative, cylinder, porcelain, human, pseudo, skeptic, echo, plug and bonus: flourish

Her porcelain skin flushes
as she flourishes the letters
still neatly rolled into a cylinder
and restrained with a faded pink bow.
He is mesmerized by those letters
which she must have disinterred
from some dusty resting place,
artifacts from their courtship
echoes from that once-upon-a-time time
when they tossed away doubt and skepticism
and believed they had the power
to rewrite their narrative
together
a time when her hand rested in his
like it belonged.

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

Word list: screen, shoot, stickier, soft, smashing, scraping, speed, smoother, slower, sticky and the bonus: slap shoot and saliva

Warning

Her head bent close to mine,
mimicking intimacy.
She turned slightly from the crowd
screening her actions.
With one hand,
she smoothed her hair back
from her high forehead
with the other
she cocked an imaginary pistol
and pointed it between my eyes
“Bang!”
“Bang!”
I flinched as her whispered words
hit like slap shots
and spritzer sprays of saliva
strafed my paling cheek.
She spoke once more,
her soft voice scraping across her teeth,
sticky with threat and complication.
“Don’t cross me again,”
she hissed.

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

Click here to go to this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup hosted by Jone at her blog, Check it Out. Perhaps you can find something more upbeat there!

I’m a fan of neatly made beds. My husband is not. Well, to be more accurate, he doesn’t mind a freshly made bed, but he doesn’t see the point in expending the effort involved in making it, only to mess it up shortly thereafter. Since he is almost always the last to leave our bed, it generally remains unmade. Somehow I can’t manage to generate much bed-making enthusiasm after work, so I suffer through twisted sheets and crooked comforters on a regular basis.

Then last week, this happened…

Love Letter

After I left for work,
but before leaving on his journey,
my husband straightened the tousled sheets
He pulled up the cozy blanket–
the one that shoots sparks between us
on cold, dry winter nights–
and plumped the pillows into a neat row
then drew the downy comforter
smoothly over the top
so that when I came home in the early evening
to an empty house
and eventually headed to the bedroom,
ready to sleep after a long day’s work,
I found our bed,
straightened by his touch,
waiting for me.

Sometimes a made bed is a love letter.

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

Is there anything better than the sound of the phone ringing early in the morning on a wintry school day? Today, in my eagerness to hear the anticipated announcement, I fumbled as I picked up the trilling phone, almost dropping it. I finally answered and the dulcet tones of that recorded voice were sweet in my ear. “Today is Thursday, February 9th. There will be no school today due to forecasted inclement weather.” I quickly checked my e-mail to confirm it and then listened to the message again. “Today is Thursday, February 9th. There will be no school today due to forecasted inclement weather.” I’ll spare you more repetitions, but suffice it to say, I played it once more (or maybe twice or maybe…)  because even though I know I won’t be so happy about it in June, I can’t help rejoicing today.

Snow days send my inner child into a paroxysm of joy. They are a wonderful gift, offering a sudden expanse of unscheduled time–Time to sleep, time to read, time to write…. What can be better than that?  Then, I was further delighted when I realized that today is Thursday and there was a brand new photo prompt from Laura P. Salas for her weekly 15-Words-Or-Less Poems.

Photo credit to Laura P. Salas

Her filtered photo prompt featured clouds, the moon (that blue and white blob at the top in the center) and a dramatic contrail. With much-anticipated writing time in mind, my response went in a different direction:

Beginning…

I dip my quill
into the froth of possibilities
select one slender floss
and write

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

I’ve been itching to try my hand at Laura Shovan’s 5th annual February challenge and with my bonus time, I dove right in. This year’s challenge involves creating a poem each day from a list of 10 found words chosen from current news articles. Poems can use some or all of these words (or variations of them). I’ve looked at a few of the lists but have discovered that working with a found word list is definitely more difficult for me than working with photographs (last year’s challenge).

After looking at several lists this morning, I settled in to work on February 6th’s. The words chosen for that day were: ice, chasm, buoyant, exploration, relocation, disruption, buried, edge, tow, and weather. (They were selected from a BBC News article entitled, UK completes Antarctic Halley base relocation, by Jonathan Amos.)  Here is my first effort, using 7 of the 10 words, and it went in a totally different direction than I’d anticipated. Isn’t it wonderful how words can whisk you away on unexpected journeys? Although this one is a bit grim…

Too Late

Standing at the weathered edge
of the chasm
toes curled into gravelly dirt
at the brink of geographic disruption,
of destruction,
she pauses for
one
long
moment
then pushes off with gritty toes
into a
perfectly
executed
swan dive.

As she falls
some long-buried
errant emotion
erupts
melting her icy resolve

Too late.

She screams.

Her hair streams behind her,
buoyant in the breath
of the abyss.

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

On a more pleasant note, the snow has just started here. A few soft flakes drift over the garden while a flock of finches feeds on the fallen seed beneath the feeder. A red-bellied woodpecker pecks the suet, cocks its head and flies off. Black-capped chickadees hop and weave through the tangled web of wisteria vines. Inside, the fire is hissing and popping and the cat is curled and sleeping on the hearth. Every so often the radiators emit a soft reassuring tick and my mug is filled with warm, fragrant coffee.

It’s going to be a beautiful day.

Weathering the storm

If you’re interested in reading some poetry, Katie is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at The Logonauts. Bonus: She’s featuring the Poetry Friday books!

It still surprises me and many people who know me, but I love watching football. I grew up watching the Pittsburgh Steelers win football games (and Super Bowls). As an adult I moved to Maine and quickly became a New England Patriot’s fan. (In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve won a lot of Super Bowls here, too!) There was a time when I was a pretty hardcore fan. I’d be sitting on a couch watching a game and the next thing I knew I’d be jumping on the couch hootin’ and hollerin’. I read the sports section thoroughly. I knew the stats. I knew the players. I could talk football with the best of them! One of my favorite Sunday activities was hanging out with my father-in-law watching a game.

When we got rid of television about 15 years ago, the one thing I missed was watching football. I followed the games on radio for a while but after a few years let my interest drift away. (That drifting roughly coincides with the onset of my teaching career. Imagine that!) These days I only watch the occasional game, but I can still talk football and enjoy doing so with some of my students.

Last week, with the excitement of the upcoming Super Bowl mounting, I adapted our standard Friday morning classroom greeting. Each of us greeted the class then stated if we planned to watch the big game and which team we thought would win. Score predictions were optional. In the end 22 out of 23 of us favored the Patriots to win and the child who announced that the Falcons would win noted in a stage whisper, “I’m trying to jinx them!”

My students were pretty impressed by the fact that my 50th birthday would fall on the big day. “Whoa,” one of them gasped, “It’s too bad you aren’t turning 51!”

“Yeah, wouldn’t that have been cool, Mrs. Hogan!”

Hmmmm…

At any rate on Sunday, nursing a vicious cold,  I turned 50 and got to watch the Patriots stun the nation with their incredible Super Bowl victory. Wow!

On Monday I stayed home sick.

On Tuesday I went back to school. I walked into the classroom, tentatively, wondering what to expect after a day out sick and an unknown substitute teacher. I saw it right away, sitting on the corner of my messy desk.

One of my students had apparently bought me a football as a birthday gift. He then had all the students in the class sign it for me. My face lit up–what an awesome gift!  I may be 50 now and I may never be up to orchestrating a reception like Julian Edelman, but my students think I’m still up to throwing a ball around. I’m not sure I’ve ever received a better gift! I went through the day grinning like a 40 year old!

I’ve marched before. Twice. Once in the Forsyth County Civil Rights March in Georgia in 1987 and once at the Pro Choice March in DC in 1992. This past Saturday, 25 years later, I was back on the streets, marching in the Women’s March in Portland, Maine.

I debated about participating. I’m an apolitical creature and find the world of politics uncomfortable, if not repellent. I vote and I educate myself about the issues (well, to be honest, not all of them, but most of them), but that’s about it. I don’t like talking politics and I don’t enjoy listening to political coverage. In all honesty, I also just wanted to spend a quiet day at home. 

Since the election, however, I’ve been pondering whether I need to do more and what that might look like. What is my responsibility when I see our country divided by hatred and led by someone whose behavior and agenda is abhorrent to me–someone whose behavior, in fact, would warrant intervention in an elementary school?  Isn’t silence a form of passive acceptance?  What can I do to support the causes I believe in? Voting simply doesn’t seem like enough.

“I’m thinking about marching on Saturday,” I told my husband.
“Why?” he asked. “It doesn’t make a difference.”
“But it does,” I protested, “to me, if not to anyone else.”
The more I thought about it,the more I realized that I needed to take a stand for what I believe in. Perhaps one voice doesn’t matter, but one voice added to many ups the volume. I wanted and needed to be a part of the gathered crowd, to raise their numbers by one, and to add my weight to the message of inclusion and equity. I kept thinking about that last little Who in Horton Hears a Who–the one who tipped the raised voices from inaudible to audible. We each need to do our part, no matter how small. So, I decided to participate, and my husband (as dismayed at recent events as I am though much more cynical) opted to accompany me.

Arriving in Portland,  it was easy to follow the stream of sign-bearing pedestrians to the march. People were smiling, laughing, singing. Music flowed from the open windows of neighborhood residents and occasional drum beating filled the air. Motorists beeped car horns and cheered in support as they passed the throngs.

We stood and watched the march for a while, reading the signs, watching the people, reveling in the positive energy. Then together, we stepped in. We marched and chatted with those around us. Every so often, we’d make our way to the edges of the marching crowd again and watch the continual flow of people and placards moving through the city and we marveled at the turnout. Periodically the crowd would burst into chanting. What does democracy look like? This is what democracy looks like!  or No hate! No fear! Everyone is welcome here! The energy was so positive, so up-lifting. 

Saturday’s marches were the largest one-day protest in the history of the United States. While I remain appalled by much of what is going on in our country, I am deeply thankful that in this country I can march in protest and publicly support causes not supported by the president. At the end of the day, a day where I realized how many are willing to get up and take a stand, I was also hopeful for the first time in a long, long time.

“I’m going on a walk,” I called to my husband yesterday. He nodded back, engrossed in a telephone conversation, and I headed out the door. The sun lit the brilliant blue sky and the mercury hung just below 40 degrees. It was a beautiful day and after a day of driving on Sunday, I was ready for a bit of exercise.

I had no real route in mind, just a desire to stretch my legs and maybe take a few photographs. As I walked down our road, I settled into myself, recalibrating, tuning into the sights and sounds. I listened to the papery rustle of bleached leaves stubbornly clinging to a small tree, and to the faint musical tones of a far-off wind chime. My eyes followed a flash of movement to spot a red-bellied woodpecker high in a maple tree. The breeze kicked up a bit and I tucked my hands deeper in my pockets and dipped my chin into my soft scarf. Hmmm, maybe 38 degrees isn’t as warm as I thought it was.

Picking up the pace, I headed down a local road that dips to cross a small stream. I stopped to listen to the enchanting gurgling of water flowing under and around ice. Looking down at the stream, the variety of icy formations along its length intrigued me. I stepped off the road and crunched through the snow-covered ground amidst the trees, edging carefully closer to the water, wanting to take a few pictures.

Deer tracks–I was clearly not the first visitor to this spot!

Then, as I neared the stream’s edge, I paused, rapt. Oh, my! I’d never seen anything like it. I stepped closer still. Between the moving water and the ice, some magical confluence of time, water and temperature had created swirled icy sculptures–stalactites of a sort. They looked poised to move, icy tops frozen in winter’s embrace. Simply, utterly beautiful. With the water babbling about me, I stared, watching the current swirl and flow about them and the light flicker and move through their depths. I wondered idly what process had formed them and tried to identify the border where ice ended and water began, but mostly I just marveled at them. I lingered for some time, ignoring the chill, thankful to be exactly where I was in the presence of such unexpected wonder. A gift from winter.

Brrr! It’s cold here. Winter is nipping at our  heels and the ice will not release its hold on driveways and walkways. The local lakes are studded with ice shacks. Our old house struggles to stay warm and the creaks and ticks of the radiators are a constant background static–White noise in a white world. Yesterday, temperatures were well below zero in the morning and only reached the single digits or teens in the afternoon. Last night after washing up from dinner, I checked the thermometer again. It was 4 degrees. Inspiration struck.

“Hey, do you guys want to go outside and blow bubbles?” I called to my daughters, both of whom are home from college for a few more days.

“Sure!” they answered. I was a bit taken aback, not expecting such an immediate positive response.

“Well, let’s make sure I can find the bubbles. I may have thrown them away in a fit of organization.”

“That’s why those are dangerous,” Adeline opined from the adjacent room.

Smiling and crossing my fingers, I opened the trash cupboard door and looked at the top shelf. There they were, right where I remembered–Three bottles of bubbles, a brightly colored set, still in their plastic packaging. “Here they are!” I called and the girls emerged from the family room. We ripped open the plastic and opened up the bottles then bundled up in our warmest winter gear. Pulling open the door, we quickly stepped outside, executing the New England Quick Step. (This seasonal body contortion is well known by antique home owners and involves exiting a building as rapidly as possibly by squeezing your body through as little an opening as possible to ensure as little heat as possible leaves the building.)

Once outside, the cold briefly took our breath away. The moon, a ripe waxing gibbous, shone brightly overhead and the snow sparkled with moonlight and from the spill of light through the windows. We quickly pulled out our plastic bubble wands and started blowing. At first the bubbles formed, sparkled in the frigid night air and then burst gently upon hitting the ground. “Maybe the bubble solution is too warm,” I said, expecting something more dramatic.

“Maybe it’s because our breath inside the bubbles is warm.” Lydia suggested.

“Oh, look!” Adeline said. She pointed to a bubble resting on the snow-covered table, its shiny surface transformed to a waxy sheen. She picked it up intact in her hand, laughing, then we watched it swiftly melt in her warm palm.

“Here are some on the ground!” Lydia called, a moment later, pointing to several bubbles by her feet.

We continued blowing and soon had accumulated several bubbles on the table and watched a few burst in air into frozen tendrils of solution. Our calls of “Look at this one!” “Here’s another!” and “Oooh! That’s a good one!” echoed through the night.

We didn’t last too long in the winter cold. Soon we blew our last few bubbles and hurried indoors, welcoming the blast of heat as we slipped inside and out of our heavy coats.
I had hoped for temporary bubble magic, but what I found was more enduring. As bitterly cold as it was outside, I tucked away this moment with my girls to treasure as a warming memory when they are back at school. Now, that’s magic.

I love my commute! To get to work each day, I drive on back roads through small towns and rural landscapes. The light and scenery changes with the time of day, the weather and the season, and I’m constantly surrounded by natural beauty.  Even though I travel this route five days a week, it never bores me.

At this time of year there’s little color in the natural landscape and changes are more subtle. Trees are stark sentinels, tall and bare when not draped in snow. But this week I had one of those wonderful moments–a time when I saw something usual in a new and unexpected way.  Against the backdrop of early morning skies,  I saw some birds gathered and silhouetted at the end of a branch of a tree. The phrase “birds blossomed into a bouquet” popped into my mind. Here’s the resulting poem:

Winter Bouquet

At first light
winter sun lingers
under the horizon.
Barren branches silhouette
against indigo skies.
Birds perch in a feathery cluster,
and a branch is transformed,
blossoming into
a bouquet of crows,
each sleek black head
a burgeoning bud
against the blushing palette
of dawn.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Linda Baie at her wonderful blog, TeacherDance. Be sure to stop by to enjoy some poetry.

An old fashioned bubble light softly bubbles and illuminates our Christmas tree. I like the contrast of the crisp pine needles and the soft glowing light.

I’ve been following Kim Douillard’s Thinking Through My Lens blog for quite some time now.   Each week she chooses a focus for her photography and weaves her thoughts and fabulous pictures together into a thoughtful and engaging essay. She then invites others to consider that focus as they take pictures during the week. This week I finally took up one of her challenges and focused on Light.

I’m an early riser and love to watch the morning greet each day with a revelry of light. The rising sun regularly stops me in my tracks, even if only briefly. Some days I can’t resist the temptation and turn my car on a detour into town to watch the colors dance over the bay, delaying my arrival at school but lifting my mood. The reflection of light on water never fails to captivate me.

Other times I view dawn’s light show from within my house. In this picture the sun rises through the antique glass on my transom. The three wooden slats that divide the panes are almost camouflaged as trees, but you can find them if you look. I love the combination of seeping colors and glowing light seen through a screen of trees.

And some days the moon still shines brilliantly in the early morning sky. On this particular morning, I was intrigued by the way the moonlight lit the clouds, turning them into celestial smoke and an eerie hour glass formation.

As I considered light this past week, I found myself more and more intrigued by shadows, the dark area created when light is blocked. In the picture below, the shadow tree cast on the old smoke house seems to link with the tree behind it. Without that shadow tree, the image would be far less interesting.

Low in the sky at this time of year, the sun casts interesting shadows at home, too. I found myself stopping to admire and photograph my shadow cat. (In search of affection, she wasn’t the most cooperative artist’s model.)

The winter sun plays in my kitchen as well. Late in the afternoon it shines brightly through the windows, highlighting this star, revealing its intricate pattern, something I seldom notice at other times of day or in other seasons.

As I’ve tuned into light and shadows, I’ve become more observant: I notice the light and then look for the shadow. In this case, I love the accompanying star-shadow my glass star cast on my fridge. The contrast between the intricately lit star and its flat shadow fascinates me.

Finally, on a recent visit to Nashville, there were far more lights than I’m accustomed to in rural Maine. Although I was frustrated by my limitations as I tried to capture this nighttime scene, I do love the energy and light of the final result. Note the waxing crescent moon slinging low next to the clock tower.

What I noticed most by focusing on light this week was its interplay with darkness and shadow. I’ve come full circle, back to my recent thoughts on gratitude, and to the idea that looking to the “light” helps one shift focus and see more positives in life.  But now my thoughts are more nuanced. While focusing on the light is rewarding, perhaps contemplating the shadows helps one understand where there’s a need to cast some light. Or perhaps the point is to notice and appreciate the presence of shadows and how they enhance the light. Either way, this photographic challenge reinforced for me that the two are irrevocably bound.