The Sunday Night Swaggers are back to monthly challenges. This month Catherine Flynn has challenged us to write an In One Word poem created by April Halprin Wayland. See her introductory post here.
I know I am not alone in having a rough beginning to this school year. Foremost on my mind is what is best for kids. Unfortunately, there are many meetings and required gobbledygook to get to the fun part of teaching. Every year, my goal is to inspire explorers, writers, and scholars. Following April’s prompt, I went to Wordmaker to gather words that can be made with the letters in inspiration. Each line ends with a word I chose. Thinking about this exercise was just what I needed to block out the messiness.
Virtual Teacher
I didn’t warm-up for this sprint. Breathless; my hand anoints each name, a nonart list that rips into a class of sorts, a prison on screen, trap of pixels, brain strain. Who’s bringing the aspirin?
In the spirit of language, I rant. Yet, I don’t rant about you. You are the rain to my pain, showing me we can soar.
Earlier this week, I witnessed a female monarch laying eggs in my milkweed. She was an unexpected, yet welcomed visitor. I watched while she flitted from leaf to leaf. I have gathered 10 of the leaves into a net habitat to wait and watch.
My writing partner Catherine Flynn wrote an etheree today on her site, Reading to the Core. Here is the definition of the form:
An etheree is a poem of ten lines in which each line contains one more syllable than the last. Beginning with one syllable and ending with ten, this unrhymed form is named for its creator, 20th century American poet Etheree Taylor Armstrong.
Pearl on milkweed, seed for monarch, still and quiet August: Promised ingredient to Mother Earth’s recipe for autumn migration glory. Like watching the birth of a grandchild, I’m mere observer of this miracle.
Margaret Simon, 2020
For my birthday last week, Catherine sent me this sweet golden shovel. I’ve met many kind people in the Poetry Friday community, and Catherine is one of the best. We’ve been in a writing group for five years. We meet by Zoom (even before the pandemic) every other week. I am blessed to have such a kind and loving writing partner. Thanks, Catherine. The feeling is mutual.
“…all that might be gained from opening one’s heart wider. Rebecca Mead, My Life in Middlemarch
How fortunate am I that of all the people in the world that I might have met, I met you, a kindred spirit, destined to be friends. So much to give, so much to be gained by writing together, learning from you, opening my eyes to new vistas, so different from ones I know, reaching my heart, helping it grow wider.
On Tuesday I treated myself to a virtual writing marathon sponsored by the National Writing Project. #WriteAcrossAmerica. I showed up for the last stop on a journey across the country. I’m sorry I missed out on all the other stops. This last one was in New Orleans where the writing marathon originated.
Years ago I would spend some time each summer at the New Orleans Writing Marathon organized by the Southeastern Louisiana Writing Project. Three to four days of walking the French Quarter and writing led to lifelong friendships and a few memorable writing pieces.
Unfortunately, the virtual marathon happened in my own house through a screen, but because of the miracle of technology, I was able to connect with new friends and see some old ones. We had three writing sessions and shared in small break out rooms.
The third writing session led me to this poem, still quite drafty. I was just getting my writing muscle to work and the whole thing was over, not a marathon at all, but a quick 75 minute sprint.
Muses
Muses have a lost sense of time. They live in the back of Napoleon’s Bar drinking Pim’s Cups.
I’ve asked them to visit me here on the bayou steeped in cafe au lait brown buzzing with cicada song.
They come in the long shadows of a summer afternoon. or in the fractal face of a sunflower in bloom.
Muses mock me with their silver linings, here then there, then nowhere, hiding in plain sight.
Today is my 38th wedding anniversary. Yesterday I was buying a last minute card for my husband, and I told the clerk, “I almost forgot; tomorrow is my 38th wedding anniversary.”
She smiled under her mask and behind plexiglass and said, “That’s so nice.” Something in her voice made me hear her longing for love in her own life.
I replied, “It is nice when you find the right one.”
I’ve been blessed I found him so early in my life. I was not yet 21 when I walked down a long, candlelit aisle knowing with confidence I was doing the best thing I could ever do. And I was so right!
On Sundays we change the sheets. Sometimes he’ll put them back on the bed before I know it, a sweet surprise. And sometimes we make the bed together. I am reminded of this love poem by Li-Young Lee from Behind My Eyes. Li-Young Lee turns this chore into a love song.
to hold :: li-young lee
So we’re dust. In the meantime, my wife and I make the bed. Holding opposite edges of the sheet, we raise it, billowing, then pull it tight, measuring by eye as it falls into alignment between us. We tug, fold, tuck. And if I’m lucky, she’ll remember a recent dream and tell me.
One day we’ll lie down and not get up. One day, all we guard will be surrendered.
Until then, we’ll go on learning to recognize what we love, and what it takes to tend what isn’t for our having. So often, fear has led me to abandon what I know I must relinquish in time. But for the moment, I’ll listen to her dream, and she to mine, our mutual hearing calling more and more detail into the light of a joint and fragile keeping.
Last week when I hosted Poetry Friday, I asked readers to write a line or two answering the question “What is Poetry?” To create this crowsourced poem, I printed out the lines and cut them up and played with the arrangement like a child with a new puzzle. It was fun. My writing group helped me fit in everyone’s contribution.
What is Poetry? crowdsourced poem by Poetry Friday bloggers
A poem is a whisper of words that opens a secret door and invites you to walk through, a song your heart sings.
Poetry is our quickening to the life-song pulsing in us and through us, a leaf fluttering in the breeze, waves crashing, a glimpse into another soul.
Poetry balances our soul and begs our action, a pratfall or a lift, beauty never before shown, truth never before known.
Poetry is a whisper of life, distilled essence, an echo full of vibrancy and emotion, fed by the waters of creativity.
Poetry is a sudoku of words infused with energy, story, and song; words arranged to nourish the soul, truth at a slant put to music.
Poetry is a hidden treasure voicing what is inside and ready to soar outward, a butterfly caught in my net, then released.
Poetry is concentrated language, our very best words squeezed into tight spaces creating an essential spark, a kiss, a blessing, the lake dancing with the sunrise… And on and on and on!
Contributors include: Jan Annino, Michelle Kogan, Linda Mitchell, Molly Hogan, Mary Lee Hahn, Linda Kulp Trout, Little Willow, Fran Haley, Matt Forrest Esenwine, Carol Varsalona, Karen Edmisten, Alan J. Wright, Irene Latham, Catherine Flynn, Tim Gels, Janice Scully, Laura Purdie Salas, Ramona Behnke, Janet Fagel.
Poetry Friday round-up is with here! Link up at the end of this post with InLinkz.
Before the pandemic, I had applied to the Summer Poetry Teachers Institute to be held in Chicago at The Poetry Foundation. Alas, a trip to Chicago to hang out with poets and poetry teachers is a dream yet to come true, but the foundation offered a viable alternative in a 3-day virtual institute last week. It was wonderful! The presentations were all professionally done, the hand-outs were well organized, and they facilitated a real time Q & A. By far the best PD of my summer.
One of the Big Essential Questions was “What is Poetry?” This was the topic of Richard Blanco’s presentation. Oh, my! Swoon. He could read poems to me all day! For today’s Poetry Friday, let’s consider this question. Here are some quotes from the conference.
Poetry is someone standing up and saying, with as little concealment as possible, what it is for him or her to be on earth at this moment.
Galway Kinnell
Poetry is a bird. Sometimes its song is shrill, sometimes its song is sweet. It preens its feathers so they shine brightly in the sunlight. It nurtures its own and delights all who gaze upon it.
Isman, fellow institute participant
In the comments, write your response to What is Poetry? I’d love to gather them together into a collaborative poem. And don’t forget to link up your post with InLinkz.
Last week I wrote down two lines from Poetry Friday posts. The first was a line from Amy, “If you let yourself.” The second was a clunker that Linda was giving away. “the wish is the thing.”
From those two line gifts, I wrote this draft that I haven’t thrown away yet.
If you let yourself fail & appear worthless, a freedom sets in. Instead of focus on results, you can concentrate on the work of being human.
If you let yourself trust the sun to fertilize, you can leave the blooming to God & be still– the wish is the thing.
Margaret Simon, draft
I received two gift poems today from Tabatha’s wonderful summer poetry swap. Tabatha herself sent me a snake poem. Apparently July 16th is World Snake Day . Who knew? On that day, I opened my storage shed to get the hidden key to our house, and a small very wiggly snake was at my feet caught up in a spider web. I grabbed the key and ran, leaving the door open in case the little scoundrel got itself loose.
For her poem, Tabatha imagined me going on a snake hunt with my grandson. Coincidentally, Leo and I did find a dead snake in our yard a few months ago. He still remembers that snake and points to the spot where we saw it every time. “Nake gone.”
SNAKE HUNTING WITH GRANDMA
Grandma packs our drinks and snacks,
squirts sunblock and rubs it in.
I pick a stick for each of us
to peek at things hidden.
We need a map to follow—
I draw the view from east to west,
plus rainbow snakes sleeping
next to eggs in their nests.
It’s rainbow snakes we’re hunting—
I see garters every day—
A water snake isn’t rare
and king snakes come to play
(sort of). But a rainbow snake’s
a serpent I haven’t seen,
a funny kind of rainbow
with no orange, blue, or green.
Grandma and I walk and watch,
hear noisy birds, see speedy deer,
steer clear of snapping turtles,
and spook hares that disappear.
As we go, we keep our eyes peeled
for the stripes of rainbow snakes.
If we don’t spot one, we still had fun,
and we will hunt another day!
by Tabatha Yeatts
for Margaret Simon,Summer Poem Swap 2020
I also received a poem from Christie Wyman. She, too, captured the bayou life and joy of grandparenting.
Wandering and wondering Together, hand in hand Through the parish Along the Teche’s shores Among sugar cane and pages
Listening For whispers, songs, and the wood duck’s call Feeling Life in abundance Seeking inspiration
Irene Latham is as charming and lovely in person as her poems are on the page. Her new release This Poem is a Nest opens with an invitation. In Part I, we read the poem “Nest.” This seedling is divided into 4 seasons of 3 stanzas each of free verse poetry. “Nest” has everything I love in a poem, lyrical language, alliteration and onomatopoeia, imagery of nature, and inquiry that touches my heart, “Won’t you climb inside?”
Nest is the seed poem for Irene’s creativity that grows into day poems, before & after poems, calendar poems, color poems, animal poems, feeling poems, and just when you think she could not possibly find any more poems in Nest, there is word play, alphabet, and ars poetica.
With all of these nestling poems, you would think the poems would lose magic, lose originality, or become repetitive, but the experience of them is quite the opposite. Each new poem needs to be held for a minute or two. Each one reveals a surprise, all the way to the last poem:
Last Poem
birdsong nothing more
Irene Latham, This Poem is a Nest
The end papers of this wonderful book offer writing advice to budding poets. Irene gives tools to me and teachers like me who want to inspire students to write. The art of “found poetry” has been elevated to “nest-poem” or “nestling.”
I wanted to try it out, so I went to a poem by Barbara Crooker that I had cut out and glued into my journal. “How the Trees on Summer Nights Turn Into a Dark River.”
Step one: Circle words that appeal to you. I circled drizzling, air, careening.
Then I looked up careening to check my understanding of the word. “move swiftly and in an uncontrolled way in a specified direction.”
Step two: Choose a subject. I thought a lot about this. Air, careening…a kite.
Unlike found poetry, nestlings do not have to follow the order in which you find the words, so I went back and grabbed “reach” from the first line, which led me to “wonder” and “for,” finishing my image of a flying kite.
Image poem created on Canva.
Now as I look again at the nestling I created, I think it would be better like this:
How to be a Kite Careen with drizzling air Reach for wonder.
By going through this process, I realize how much work went into Irene’s book of poems. Writing nestlings is a fun challenge. I had to use critical thinking skills that are imperative to teaching students to write. I encourage you to try writing nestling poems. Thanks, Irene!
Summer means the Summer Poetry Swap which is coordinated by Tabatha. I’ve already received two poetry gifts, and it feels like summer just began.
The first poem I received came from Laura Shovan, a dear poet friend and author of The Last Fifth Grade of Emerson Elementary and Takedown. Laura sent sourdough starter, a whimsical pen, and this poem.
Bread and Water by Laura Shovan
My second poem came from Buffy Silverman. Buffy and I have never met, but I have enjoyed her poetry for years. What delight to open an email from her with this image and beautiful poem about wild iris, blue flag!
Blue Flag by Buffy Silverman
This week Linda Mitchell and I teamed up to provide prompts for Ethical ELA. This site by Sarah Donovan is a wonderful place for teachers to write and receive positive feedback. I enjoyed being a part of the community this week. The poetic responses were amazing! Here is a link to the 5 Day Open Write.
I wrote two poems in response to Linda’s prompts. The first one was a list poem. I had a receipt marking my notebook page. My oldest daughter is having a girl (Yes!) in November. At a local children’s store, I bought the first thing for this new one, a newborn gown.
For the Little Ones
Shorts Shirt Gown–> NB
white silky soft edged with pink stitching to welcome a sister now growing day by day a girl to embrace a girl to bless a girl to love
Margaret Simon, draft
The second prompt from Linda came from Linda Baie’s prompt in Laura Shovan’s Water Poem Project, to write a fiction poem. I took some quotes from my weekend with my kids and built this scene.
Heat
What is it about the 90 degree mark that turns a sunny day into fire burning you through to the bone?
They didn’t speak in the heat; Their brains thirsty, wrung out beyond droplets of sweat, couldn’t fathom anything worthy of saying.
He handed her the phone, clicked play on a video of animal faces, noses in particular, that made her smile, despite herself. She didn’t bother to ask why.
Humor finds its way into the cracks of relationship, beneath the surface of burning skin to release toxins from the crease of a smile.
I was struggling over what to post today. I didn’t prepare my post ahead of time. I considered bailing out completely. But something was tugging at me.
That tug started with an email from poets.org that sent me into a rabbit hole of Black poets. Reading, clicking, texting, reading…
Then I was discussing my dilemma with my daughter, Katherine. She works for an ad agency in New Orleans. Her co-worker, Dante Nicholas, wrote an article on Later.com “How Brands Can Celebrate Juneteenth on Social Media.” In his article, Dante states “June 19, 1865 – Juneteenth – is the oldest nationally celebrated commemoration of the ending of slavery in the United States….At its heart, Juneteenth is a day of celebration.”
In my reading, I felt a kinship to Margaret Walker. Not only did she have my name, she also lived in my home town of Jackson, MS. for a time. I wish I could say I met her or saw her speak, but I didn’t. But her words spoke to me today. Dante’s image makes me think of poets like Margaret who said, “Let a new earth rise.”
Using words from Margaret Walker from For My People, I wrote a small found poem to celebrate the freedom of Juneteenth.
For playmates in the clay singing dirges, ditties, blues, Let a bloody peace be written.
It’s time, friends, it’s time!
Margaret Simon, found poem from Margaret Walker’s For My People.
Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. She is a retired elementary gifted teacher who writes poetry and children's books. Welcome to a space of peace, poetry, and personal reflection. Walk in kindness.
