As I peer through bleary eyes at the end of a long week after a week off, I am remiss to find a proper poem to post, but Alas! Kat Apel has saved the day. She created a form just right for this occasion.
What is a lamipofri? It’s a poetry snapshot that’s quickly scribed, to give people an insight into the world around you at a given point in time – that point being the last minute as you’re scrambling for a Poetry Friday poem to post! Hence the name: LAst MInute of a POetry FRIday!
Buffy Silverman is a children’s author-poet and a new friend because of an Artist’s Way group that meets each week. She lives near a lake in Michigan and finds her sacred space in the nature and quietude there. I reviewed her latest book On a Snow-Melting Day here. She’s currently offering a giveaway on Twitter.
I found Buffy’s image on Facebook. I was drawn to the composition within the bare tree branches. Please join me today by posting your own small poem in the comments. Encourage other writers in the comments.
Photo by Buffy Silverman
Tufted titmouse, snowball fluff, twitter me a song. My day’s been rough.
It’s Friday, and I had a week off, the first few days as part of an expected Mardi Gras break (no Mardi Gras activities, though) and the last few due to the winter storm that blew through the south (It’s still only 28 degrees.) Our plumbing system is not prepared to handle freezes. Nevertheless, these days of lazing in PJs next to a warm fire without much to do have been luxurious and allowed me some writing time.
On Wednesday evening, I joined Laura Purdie Salas’s first Write Alone, Together session. She started us off with an image and a roll of metaphor dice. The image came from a National Geographic article here. (Fair warning, it’s a rabbit hole you may fall into.) The metaphors were 1. Home is a well-worn zoo, and 2. Your body is a bootleg blessing. Rather than use these metaphors as complete thoughts, I split them up to create a poem. The photo prompt made me think of a piano that we gave away to a local school. Here is the draft I wrote in my journal:
Arctic Dreaming This home– well-worn, frosted with shards of stains, a zoo of strays– holds a corner space where the piano once was, now empty, inviting something new or old (an antique desk chair, perhaps). You choose the thing to fill the space, with a blessing and a dream.
Leo is learning the difference between his reflection and his shadow. He sees himself in a mirror, says, “Cute Shadow!” I am finding myself fascinated by how his little brain makes connections. How does language develop? What I am learning is that it is not at all linear. We start by repeating things a big person says. Leo parrots often. I was writing a card to a friend and said, “Dear Ellen.” He took the paper using the pen to draw right over my words and said, “Dear Ellen.” But then he kept scribbling hard and said, “Words!” And then some gibberish I didn’t understand. I took a video on my phone and sent it to Ellen.
I don’t have much video from my own children growing up. I’m sure I was as fascinated, but I was also busy being their mom. Being grandmother allows me time to reflect. I am writing things in a notebook for him. I’ve decided not to worry whether or not he will care about this when he gets older. That is not the point. I think that so many times as someone who wants to write, I worry too much about audience.
I read this morning on the Writer’s Almanac that Toni Morrison felt free when she wrote. She didn’t worry about her audience. She just marveled in the way writing consumed her. “But the writing was the real freedom, because nobody told me what to do there. That was my world and my imagination. And all my life it’s been that way.”
I don’t expect to be Toni Morrison, but I can take a bit of freedom from her. Let go and just write what comes. Ruth’s invitation today was to write fast. This was a quick write, about 20 minutes or so. Just enough time to bake a brownie or write a post. Both are sweet in their own way.
Join this weekly photo poetry prompt community by leaving a poem in the comments.
This has been a frigid week in the deep south. The ice storm has caused widespread power outage and water loss. Our home was without power for 12 hours. Our house plumbing is fine, but my husband’s office had a burst pipe. Southerners just aren’t equipped to handle this extreme cold for an extended period of time. The temperature rose to 36 degrees yesterday, but we are staying home from school due to low water pressure.
But ice can be beautiful. My friend and poetry writing group partner Molly Hogan lives in Maine, so she is well-versed in cold. She is also an amazing photographer. She recently posted photos of ice on plants and this one she claimed as her favorite. I can see why. There’s a poem waiting there. Leave your own small poem in the comments and respond to others with kindness and encouragement.
Poetry Friday gathering is at Molly’s place in Maine, Nix the Comfort Zone.
I am taking a creative-inducing drug called A-Poem-a-Day. It’s good for me. But it doesn’t always make me happy. Poetry is a place where emotions become raw. This week I heard of another community member’s death from Covid. He was 75 and battled for months. His family was dedicated, by his side, and hopeful until they couldn’t be. I don’t know this kind of loss. I’m a lucky one, and sometimes that makes me feel guilty.
Laura Shovan does a poetry writing project every February. This year the theme is body. If you are interested in seeing the week’s prompts, go to her site here.
Heather Meloche posted the prompt “lungs” with a profound graffiti art piece “I can’t breathe”. Not only do I wish I could breathe for those who can’t, I also wish I could take away the pain of loss. This empathy came out in my poem.
Misty morning fills my lungs with living.
On this day I pray for air,
a way to not care people are drowning.
They can’t breathe. A machine breathes for them.
I wish for a way like roots of trees breathe together underground,
If you are a reader of my blog, you know that I love spending time with my grandchildren. A few weeks ago I took Leo to visit his great grandmother. We wandered around her backyard. Minga picked a camellia, a common winter flower here in the South. She handed the beautiful pink blossom to Leo. He held it out to me and pointed up, “Tree!” So, of course, I placed the flower into the tree. Off went Leo, satisfied and ready to romp across the yard.
Camellia blossom in an oak tree. Photo by Margaret Simon
With a line borrowed from Ellen Bass, I offer this small poem. Leave your own poem in the comments. Please encourage other writers with response to their poem-gifts.
The thing is to love life, to hold a flower in your hands, and then give it away.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Amanda Gorman is an icon these days. She’s everywhere. Even at the Super Bowl. While I didn’t care much for the game, I do care about poetry and am enthralled by Amanda Gorman.
For writing time Monday morning, I showed this video of her performance. At first we just watched and listened. Then my students and I collected word groups. Amanda not only writes with rhyme and rhythm, she also plays with the inner sounds of words. Here are a few of the groups we collected:
captain action impact
need lead exceeding succeed
expectation limitation uplifting
wound warfare warrior share
nonstop hot spots laptops workshops
acting courage compassion
charge champions carry call captain
neighbors leaders educators healers
schools tools
Chloe said “Her tongue’s a trampoline.” I grabbed that line as a first line to this poem.
Amanda
Her tongue’s a trampoline! Words bouncing, beginning a charge for compassion, acting, not reacting with a force for choice. Nonstop flips and jumps, swinging above expectations with a landing, a bow, and branding a voice for now, an example of how, Amanda amps the vow– Wow!
The Writer’s Almanac comes daily in my email inbox. Some days I barely have time to read it, but others I find a kernel of inspiration, a poem, an author, a rabbit hole. On this day, I remembered Catherine’s prompt and tucked the poem into a document to work with later.
The process was fun. I used the suggesting tool in Google docs editor. That way I kept the original underneath the new text I added. In Greg Watson’s poem, the main character is a yellow lab waiting for its owner outside a coffee shop. We don’t have a yellow lab, but my little schnoodle Charlie goes bonkers when our resident raccoon visits to steal our outdoor cat’s food.
When I’m up early, I feed the cat before dawn. When the raccoon comes, I let Charlie out to the side yard when he goes crazy. One morning, I actually saw the raccoon. It did not run away as I expected, but just stood still like a stone creature from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Watson’s poem gave me the perfect structure to capture this surprising moment.
Raccoon Outside the Back Door
The raccoon outside the back door today does not move; but instead,
still with ever-expectant energy, like a heron perched for the catch,
forepaws poised in the air above the leaf-littered sidewalk,
he stops without making a sound, knowing that any moment
the cat food will disappear, slipped back into the human house,
and night will suddenly fall into day: every sound, sight, and aroma
disturbed, the door swinging open and shut, with a backward glance
awkward silhouette, following, as if it had somewhere to go.
Spiritual Journey First Thursday is being gathered today by Fran Haley.
Take Heart is Fran’s choice for our Spiritual Thursday posts. In my Mississippi childhood, Dear Heart was a common feminine expression, similar to cher in the Cajun culture I now live in. Dear heart is an expression of endearment that could have a connotation of condescension.
But Take Heart is not at all condescending. In a sense, its meaning is quite the opposite. To Take Heart is a way to overcome the troubles of the world.
“I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” — John 16:33
Take Heart means to live a life that understands there is trouble, there is hardship, there is pain, but there is a greater spirit that overcomes and offers hope. As I read Out of the Dust with a student this week, he identified the theme, “There is always hope.” A pandemic is a kind of Dust Bowl for our time. We have little control over who the virus will target next. Our handkerchiefs are our masks. We stay distanced to avoid the dust. Yet, there is hope. There is always hope.
I started thinking about ways I overcome and find peace in my own life and wrote a “Things to do” poem.
Things to Do to Take Heart
Notice the singing of morning birds. Begin each day in prayerful meditation. Read poetry. Write poetry. Write a letter to a girl in prison. Fold an origami heart. Sing a lullaby to a new baby. Take a child to the park. Swing with him on your lap. Kiss the screen on Facetime. Laugh with your partner. Go to sleep to the owl’s call.
Margaret Simon, 2021
My students and I are making origami heart messages for V-Day.
I live on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. I love teaching, poetry, my dog Charlie, my three daughters, and dancing with my husband. This space is where I capture my thoughts, share my insights, and make connections with the world. Welcome! Walk in kindness.
Reflections on the Teche 