This being the first Friday of the month, our Sunday night writing group is up to a new challenge, this time from Heidi. Tabatha Yeatts recently posted a poem by Gail Martin. “What Pain Doesn’t Know about Me” makes a great mentor text for writing about nearly anything. Molly used the prompt to cleverly write about frogs!
Heidi added to the challenge to throw in anthimeria. Go ahead and click the link. I didn’t know what it was either, but I’ve likely used the technique before. Anthimeria is converting a noun into a verb, or a verb into a noun and so forth. I had already drafted a poem when I saw this added bonus, so I edited for the effect.
What Grief Doesn’t Know About Me
after Gail Martin
How I go to bed early and rise before the sun.
My duck-feet. How my surface-body is still while I paddle fiercely.
I can count syllables while walking. I lullaby babies.
He’s not taken my singing,
My generations in the South,
My ability to swim in the deep. Tread water indefinitely.
We don’t talk every day. We have coffee together on Mondays.
Now, as I watch my cat bat at a black pen on the kitchen table,
I know not to put my hand in the mix.If you ask me how my day is going, I might cry.
Margaret Simon, draft
To read how others in our group met the challenge:
Catherine Flynn at Reading to the Core
Linda Mitchell at A Word Edgewise
Heidi Mordhorst at My Juicy Little Universe
Molly Hogan at Nix the Comfort Zone
Reflections on the Teche 
Margaret! I love the liquid feel of this, the paddling, the treading, the coffee, the tears. So many great lines:
“I can count syllables while walking. I lullaby babies….
We don’t talk every day. We have coffee together on Mondays….
If you ask me how my day is going, I might cry.”
A standing appointment with grief–oof–and that ending.
Gorgeous.
I woke up thinking I shouldn’t post this poem because I am not experiencing grief and yet, grief never really leaves us ever. We just fill up with other things and then boom, it hits you. Someone is missing. Thanks for this challenge.
Margaret, your last line really hit me. There have been days when I think everything is great, then suddenly there are tears. It’s like you said, grief never leaves us completely, and something unexpected and maybe totally unrelated can make us remember.
Love the phrase “I lullaby babies” – a perfect example of anthimeria (something I’ve done but didn’t realize was a thing!)
“Lullaby babies” really is a great phrase. And, boy, we all needed that “ability to swim in the deep” this last year and a half. Lovely work. (I see you are from New Iberia. Many years ago the entire eighth grade at my school in Miss. went to that area on a three-day field trip to visit Evangeline country. Still one of the most memorable trips of my life!)
Like Heidi, I love all the water imagery in your poem and the strength it implies. Your last line captures the truth of our lives at the moment, I’m afraid. Well done, Margaret!
ooooh. Your details are so real. so specific that I feel like I understand them. I appreciate the nod to “southern” — I don’t know why. I think it’s because I like differences up against universal. What’s that? Paradox? Dichotomy? The idea of being still on the surface of the water while paddling fiercely underneath is really strong in this….and then the last line. Wow. Great take on this prompt!
I didn’t know the term ‘anthimeria” but now know it’s everywhere, isn’t it? I like your “I lullaby babies” so much, Margaret, & the details of your life, connecting the ‘what’ of ‘who’ you are. It’s a beautiful response to the challenge.
Margaret, it was fun to learn a new word today–anthimeria. And your great examples of it.
I like in your comment to Heidi that you mention grief never leaving, but holding back awhile and then to be overcome with it at a moment’s memory. This line stands out to me, the power of standing up to grief: “He’s not taken my singing,”
Margaret, this is stunning. And the ending made me tear up. Wow.
Oh, that last line got me, Margaret. ME TOO.
I love how your sharing poem moves smoothly from thought to thought without a hiccup. And what your holding onto in your middle, what “He’s not taken –and your emotion filled ending, “If you ask me how my day is going, I might cry.” Beautiful, Margaret, thanks!
Wow. This one is for the ages. Sympathy with you in your Grief. And shedding with you, in those” how’s the day going?” tears. Xo
Wow! You really rocked the anthimera here, Margaret, and I love the strength of that line “He’s not taken my singing.” You’ve woven a complex picture here with such strong images. What a great response to the prompt!
Your second line, and your last. Wow.
And also, the fact that write this not from a place of active grief, but from the fact that “grief never really leaves us ever.” #truth
This is beautiful, so contemplative. I love this line: “How my surface-body is still while I paddle fiercely.” How beautifully this expresses the act of coping …
Thank you for sharing this.
Such an interesting poem and I got caught up thinking about what grief doesn’t know. I liked especially the line “We don’t talk everyday. We have coffee together on Mondays.” Lovely details.