July is a popular travel month. Heidi challenged the Inklings to write a postcard poem for this first Friday. “Write a short postcard poem with choice details of your vacation/holiday/getaway/escape location and activities. Conclude with “Wish you were here” or some variation!”
Unfortunately, we had to cancel a Europe trip due to my husband’s injury. I have been perusing social media and pondering the travel of my friends. This is not a healthy situation. I’m having bouts of travel envy.
A friend recommended John O’Donohue’s interview on the On Being podcast. O’Donohue died young in 2008. His interview with Krista Tippett was inspiring. I was especially attracted to his poem “Beannacht” found in his final book: To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings and used it as a mentor poem for my poem “Blessing for Travel”
My grandson Thomas “Tuffy” (age 4.5) is visiting. I took him to get ice cream at a shopping center near the bayou. There is a gazebo that has a bayou lookout up a small metal spiral staircase. I was worried about going up and coming down, but Tuffy and I did it. Tuffy did it over and over, coming carefully down by sitting on each stair.
Photo by Thomas
I had my phone out to take pictures. When I gave it to him, he knew exactly what to do. Some of the shots were selfies of his face in different expressions. But one of them missed his head altogether and became an intriguing photo of the spiral stair. This made me think of the Fibonacci sequence (1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13…) that mathematically makes a spiral. Today I am echoing Langston Hughes’ line “Life is no crystal stair.”
Life can be a spiral stair anchored gracefully to solid ground–imagining a future full of open sky, pathway to purpose. Margaret Simon, draft
Please respond with your own small poem. You can use the Fib form if you choose. Leave encouraging comments to other writers.
The annual Summer Poetry Swap is coordinated by Tabatha Yeatts.
This week I received my first poetry swap poem from Rose Cappelli. Rose sent a dreamy note tablet, a Mary Oliver poem, and a cascade poem about peonies. As Rose explained, in a cascade poem, each line from the first stanza repeats as the final line of each subsequent stanza. Rose does this seamlessly.
Thank you, Rose, for the lovely cascade poem.
My mind has been on the flowers, prompted by Mary Oliver, Rose, and Maggie Smith. I subscribe to Maggie Smith’s Substack newsletter. This week she wrote about naming things.
“I love when I can accurately identify things when I see (or hear) them: a bird, a tree, a flower, a constellation, a kind of nest. (As the poet Pattiann Rogers once said in an interview, ‘naming is a form of honoring something.’)”
Maggie also writes about not knowing the name of something and how that can lead to wonder and discovery. I found a flower in my mother-in-law’s collection of pots that she nor I could identify. We could tell it was a type of hibiscus. I began by writing a list of metaphors. I am still playing with how to insert the not knowing, but wanted to share the small poem that I wrote in my notebook.
Hibiscus Moment
You are Love’s red lace, blooming beet-red bow on a woman’s flowing gown.
You open only for a day flirting like a spool of yarn to a kitten, taunting us
to feel unhinged with marvel. So much bravery in your fleeting face. (Margaret Simon, draft)
Great Blue Heron on Purple Creek, Ridgeland, Ms. by Margaret Simon
On a recent visit to Mississippi, I caught this flight of a great blue heron on my phone camera. The wingspan of these birds amazes me. They fly low across the water and perch near the water’s edge to forage for minnows and other small aquatics. This photo reminds me of a drawing my father did of a heron over the water.
Heron in Flight by John Gibson
I invite you to write today using these photos as inspiration. Leave a small poem in the comments and support other writers with your responses.
The Flight of the Great Blue Heron
Poised dawn glider Horizon solitude Regal wave to God
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
On Saturday morning, my husband and I set out on an adventure to buy a puppy. The previous day, Friday, the eggs in our wood duck house began to hatch. This year we did not have a wood duck, though. The sitting mother hen was a black-bellied whistling duck. We have a Ring doorbell camera mounted in the nesting box near the bayou. We’d been watching the comings and goings of this hen for 30+ days.
Black-bellied whistling duck from Creative Commons
Wood ducks hatch on one day and jump from the nesting box on the next day, Jump Day. So do whistlers. Because we were on the road, we were watching the jump from my phone. I became distressed when I realized one of the babies had not jumped. He was jumping and flipping, but not toward the metal mesh that serves as a ladder. Time passed, so I was convinced the mother and the other 14 babies were well on their way down the bayou. What should we do?
Call Ric, of course. I tried Ric and his wife as well as my neighbor Shirley. All became concerned. And the next time I checked the camera, the baby was gone. At first I assumed he had finally made the leap. Then I got a call from Ric’s wife, Svitlana. She is well known for rescuing animals, cats, dogs, and owls. (Here is a link to the owl story.) She had the baby duck and was researching what to feed it.
On Saturday, we successfully found a new puppy. He is settling in and bringing us joy. We walked over to visit the baby duckling. He is also settling in and bringing joy. His (or her) little life was saved. Ric and Svitlana will keep him safe until he’s big enough to fly. Whistlers are migratory birds, so they have an instinct to leave. The owl has not left the area. He still calls across the bayou every evening to remind us that wild animals can be saved.
“Utochka” Ukranian for little duck. Baby Black-bellied whistling duckling- take a look at those big feet!
Poetry Friday is hosted today by Tracey Kiff-Judson at Tangles & Tails.
Here we are again with a monthly Inkling challenge. This month Molly challenged us with a prompt from Pádraig Ó Tuama who said “A poem is a word-event going in many directions at once. Sometimes the “you” of a poem is a specific person, at other times it’s the poet, or a general audience, and at times there’s no you at all so the poem addresses itself to the world.”
Molly asked us to write a narrative poem that includes observations about the world and explores the craft of address, the you of a poem. On a recent morning walk, I spoke two observations into my notes app. I felt invaded upon when a truck high up on oversized wheels revved its engine at me as it passed. The other observation was not connected at all. I saw oak tree arms leaning on electric wires. We’ve had a number of sudden storms this summer, and each one is frightening. That’s all to say that poetry is a place where I can vent; I can let steam rise and fall. I address this poem to the you of a random monster truck.
Grandmother Oak Sunrise June 6, 2024
You disturb my peace.
You! with your hot wheels rumbling down the road, motor revving, disrupt this peace of mind I’m in writing a poem in my head about birds singing.
Birds sing as you pass, your rolled-up windows beat-boxing, shaking a rhythm
of my walking, heart pumping brow sweating. I’m in this groove you move your hard edge against.
My poem wants to be kind, but I cannot wash away your harsh sound that erases the wind heaving a heavy sigh
like the old oak arms leaning on electric wires holding heavy vibration– a lightning bolt I cry
to be saved from.
Margaret Simon, draft
Take a look at how my Inkling friends approached this challenge:
In these first few weeks of summer, I find myself lingering. Taking my time on my morning walk to stop and take a picture, visit with a neighbor, enjoy the bird songs. I linger over morning coffee. I know this is how it should be, but there’s this little mouse in my brain that thinks I should accomplish things. I sing to myself “It is Well”.
When peace like a river, attendeth my way When sorrows like sea billows roll Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say It is well, it is well, with my soul
It is well With my soul It is well, it is well with my soul
Audrey Assad
Peace is my one little word for 2024, so I pay attention. Peace comes to me in songs, in the sounds of the birds, in the slowing down of summer.
When I stopped to take pictures in my neighbor’s garden, she said, “Now write a haiku.” She laughed, but that is what I did. Haiku is a perfect form for peaceful nature noticing.
Canopy of oak arms reaching, tossing tumbling light– peace attends my soul. photo and haiku by Margaret Simon
Freckled lily blossom Lonely lighthouse beacon Pool of goldfish beams photo and haiku by Margaret Simon
On Memorial Day, I visited a sunflower farm out in the country with my family. I brought a bucket load home and made 5 vases full. It was fun to give them away to neighbors. I kept this large one for myself. It made its happy face known in my kitchen. Since the sunflower seed head is a fibonacci sequence, I decided to write a fib poem. A fib poem is 20 syllables as each line follows the sequence, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8.
Face it! I glow yellowbright on tables, in fields– Happiness grows if you let it.
Margaret Simon, draft
Please leave your own poem in the comments and encourage other writers with responses. Happy Summer!
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
On Friday evening, Francisco invited me to dinner. At the time, I didn’t know who would be attending. Fran has been visiting from Argentina, and we’ve been meeting weekly for a few months now. We usually meet in a coffee shop with one of my former students to read and write poetry. Corrine is hosting Fran and suggested that they cook a meal for a few friends. I was delighted to see Carolyn was there.
Carolyn and I taught together years ago and have stayed friends, but we don’t see each other often, especially during the busy school year. We are on summer break and maybe that made us giddy, or maybe it was the wine, but we were laughing a lot.
Fran suggested we play “Exquisite Corpse.” I kind of knew what it was; I think I’ve done it with students, but I didn’t think of it as a common party game or a very reliable way to write a poem. Fran insisted this would be good. “It’s making new art–authentic,” he said.
I didn’t take it as seriously. Especially when Carolyn added the line “two left feet.” I laughed so hard.
Exquisite Corpse is a game that inspires creativity. As a sheet of paper is passed around, each person writes a line and folds the paper so the line is hidden for the next writer. After we wrote a few very rough verses, Fran and Daniel put the words to music. I believe good musicians can make anything sound good, even the words, “two left feet.”
I recently wrote a poem about the loss of an old oak for the sake of a new road. We discussed my poem in the Inklings writing group on Sunday. Molly texted this photo to the group. “I thought of our conversation when I was walking in a nearby town and discovered they’d cut down tons of trees as they repair the sidewalks. It made me so sad. Someone had placed these small cloth notes on the remains.”
I was considering a butterfly photo for today, but when she sent this, it hit me in my gut. We have to use poetry to resist. This itself is poetry of resistance.
The roots are sewing messages of sorrow– saying goodbye to their masters, the trunk and branches they served for years. Underground, the roots hold hands in solidarity grieving and wishing the world would understand. Margaret Simon, draft
Please leave a small poem in the comments paying homage to the trees. Remember to respond with encouragement to other writers.
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.
