September | 2023 | Reflections on the Teche

Archive for September, 2023

Spiritual Journey: Grace

Posted in Gratitude, Poetry, Spiritual Growth, Writing, tagged #grace, #Septemberbeauty, Patricia Franz, spiritual journey on September 7, 2023| 10 Comments »

Spiritual Journey posts are gathered by Patricia Franz.

Patricia sent the Spiritual Journey bloggers (all are welcome) her topic for September: “Life at the speed of grace.” This topic is fitting for me as I have been forced to slow down to a full stop because of illness. I have moved beyond why and into acceptance. Each day in September I am posting a photo on Instagram of #Septemberbeauty.

I’ve never thought of September as a beautiful month. It’s still hot. The school year is usually moving along quickly after Labor Day. But when I stop, when I look, notice nature and my immediate surroundings, I can see beauty.

Hummingbirds come in September. Since I’m home, I can sit for a while and watch them frolic. Yesterday, the male and female at my feeder mated right before my eyes. It was like a hummingbird tornado, how they twirled in a fury dance. Then flew off in separate ways.

Patricia wrote a small poem here. I’m borrowing a line to do a quick write of my own.

Grace is Here

Grace abides here–
a hummingbird mating dance
a flutter of evening owl.

Grace fills me–
supermarket flowers
a friend tells a story.

Grace heals me–
words in a poetic card
light from the window.

Grace meets me
in this lonely space
God listens.
Margaret Simon, draft

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This Photo Wants to be a Poem: After the Storm

Posted in This Photo Wants to be a Poem, Writing, tagged Hurricane Hilary, Lynette Barravecchia, mist over Pacific Ocean, photography, small poems on September 6, 2023| 19 Comments »

Patricia Franz sent me this photo a few weeks ago following Hurricane Hilary near La Jolla, CA. The photo was taken by her friend Lynette Barravecchia. This photo has a definite Pacific Coast vibe about it. I live near the Gulf Coast, and the Pacific behaves very differently, much rockier with large waves are to invite surfing. I don’t think I would feel safe wading into the waves. I love to watch them, though.

After the storm, near San Diego, California by Lynette Barravecchia.

A ghostly mist
rises over ocean flow
bidding mystery
Margaret Simon, draft

Where does this photo lead you? Are you drawn to the invitation to write? Leave your small poems in the comments. Encourage others with your responses.

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Spice of Life: The Artists

Posted in Slice of Life, Writing, tagged #beingmamére, Major Jackson, narrative poem, The New Yorker on September 5, 2023| 17 Comments »

Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

I often find that when I read poetry, I am inspired to write poetry. Yesterday I read the poems in August 28, 2023 issue of the The New Yorker. I loved Major Jackson’s poem The Nature of Memory. In this poem, he describes a happy memory using the specific names of his children. His final line grabbed me: “I hope they love themselves loud as that day,/ light-drunk, kicking up sand. I opened my notebook and poured out the story of Sunday afternoon as I observed my grandchildren Leo (4.5) and Stella (2.5), and their friend Nils, side-by-side creating their own art under the watchful yet permissive eye of my daughter. Did I ever allow such free art in my own children? I hope so.

Love Themselves Loud

I watch the side-by-side
play of toddlers. Leo like a turtle
crouched on the table laser-focused
drawing a rocket heading to earth, a round
blue and green ball. Stella paints her hands
pressing layers of color into a star of hands.
She moves

to her feet making them pink
like her beach shoes. Nils beside
her paints his hands and feet green–
his body a canvas for a green monster.

Later they come together
in toddler madness jumping from the top bunk.
“Only jump onto the bean bag.”
No one is injured before the game changes
to Lego building and pizza.

I hope they love themselves loud
as this day painting a landscape,
making their mark.
Margaret Simon, draft

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Poetry Friday: Enjambed Life

Posted in Gratitude, Poetry, Poetry Friday, tagged #poemsofpresence, Bayou Teche, enjambment, healing, Inklings challenge, Jack Bedell on September 1, 2023| 42 Comments »

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Ramona at Pleasures from the Page.

Today is the first day of September and it comes with a full Blue Moon and slightly cooler temperatures pointing the way to fall. Ah, me! I breathe in deeply and sigh.

August has been a dark month for me, and I am just beginning to emerge from the cocoon of illness. When I asked the Inklings to study and use the tool of enjambment in a poem, I had no idea how my whole life would be enjambed. My hysterectomy in June had the worst possible complication, an opened and infected incision. I had a second surgery on Friday, August 18th. I was in the hospital for 5 days and in bed at home for 10 days following. As I begin to feel better and the cloud is lifting, I am cautiously optimistic that I am healing.

For the enjambment challenge, I offered my friends a model poem from former Louisiana poet laureate Jack Bedell.

Ghost Forest
—Manchac, after Frank Relle’s photograph, “Alhambra”

1.

Backlit by city and refinery’s glow
these cypress bones shimmer

on the still lake’s surface.
It’s easy to see a storm’s

coming with the sky rolling
gray overhead and the water

glass-calm. Even easier to know
these trees have weathered

some rough winds, their branches
here and there, pointing this

a-way and that at what
we’ve done to this place.

Read the rest here.
Jack Bedell

One early morning this week, I sat outside (at the urging of a close friend) and watched the bayou. This small draft of a poem came to me. I offer it here because it’s the only thing I have and doing this makes me feel normal again. Thanks to all of you who have expressed concern and sent cards and messages.

Is it
the play of light
on the surface
or air bubbles moving
over glass-calm

water I watch
still, quiet bayou
breathe, like me,
slow and deliberate
taking in life-
giving oxygen.

We are trying to survive,
bayou and I,
trying to make this day
meaningful
all the while knowing
breath is all
that matters.
Margaret Simon, draft