Creative endeavors are returning to me. It feels good and right. I recently read the poems in The New Yorker of August 28, 2023. The poem What’s Poetry Like? by Bianca Stone was popping out to me as a perfect erasure poem. I enjoy whittling down to essential words. I found another poem here with a slightly different meaning than hers. I hope she is the type of poet who knows the highest form of flattery is imitation.
Poetry
Poets play love essential moment, shared written
resuscitate wildlife disappearing ourselves
Poetry finds deficient words, immortal hunt
you’re trying to get back bittersweet tongue, all the emoting, all the surrender
reckless insight, hidden wisdom slips into truth
the form itself words that sing yet-
unspoken things wafting waiting to be opened.
Margaret Simon, erasure poem from What’s Poetry Like? by Bianca Stone The New Yorker, August 28, 2023
The Poetry Friday round-up today is with Amy Ludwig VanDerwater at The Poem Farm.
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.
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.
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 poemThe 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.
I’m not sure where I first heard of The Sealey Challenge, but I found this information when I Googled it. The Sealey Challenge is a public challenge to read one poetry book each day in August. I decided to give it a shot this year. I received some good advice a while ago that if you want to write poetry you should read poetry. That sounds obvious, but taking on a challenge that pushes me to do what I should do is helpful. My current list is as follows:
Mary Oliver: A Thousand Mornings (I’ve read this one before and it’s a comfort read.) Pádraig Ó Tuama: Poetry Unbound (Reading a chapter a night) Jim Kacian: Long After (This is a visual haiku masterpiece!) Spirits of the Gods by John Warner Smith, Illustrated by Dennis Paul Williams Call Us What We Carry by Amanda Gorman (I borrowed a line and wrote an anniversary poem here) Tap Dancing on the Roof (Sijo Poems) by Linda Sue Park
Wish For someone to read a poem again, and again, and then,
having lifted it from the page to brain–the easy part–
cradle it on the longer trek from brain all the way to heart.
Linda Sue Park, from Tap Dancing on the Roof
What is Goodbye? by Nikki Grimes, Illustrated by Raul Colon (Novel-in-verse told by two siblings whose older brother died) The Watcher by Nikki Grimes, Illustrated by Bryan Collier (A book of brilliantly written golden shovel poems using the lines of Psalm 121 while telling the story of two students who learn to overcome their rivalry.)
I made a trip to our public library and found few live poets there. The children’s section was better. I have an idea to set up a meeting with the head librarian to state a case for live poets. They should at least have the books from our state poets laureate as well as the national ones. I have a mission to change that!
I recently visited the newly renovated Roy House on the campus of ULL. The Center for Louisiana Studies has done a beautiful job of this old house, but the best part is the book store. The grand opening is next week on August 16th. I got a preview when I met with the editor and publisher to discuss an upcoming book. (Stay tuned for that news.) I bought John Warner Smith’s book of poetry written to Dennis Paul Williams’ artwork. John Warner Smith is the new director at The Shadows on the Teche in New Iberia. He was poet laureate of Louisiana from 2019-2021.
Have you ever read a poem that just grabbed you in the gut? That you had to read again and again, not to understand, but to absorb it into your soul (like Linda Sue explains in her poem Wish above)? This poem Survivor by John Warner Smith did that for me.
Reading poetry is watering the fertile valleys inspiring me to be the best poet I can be, not just for me, but for an audience who needs poetry to live a richer and more compassionate life.
Deep down south we have many varieties of dragonflies. I love to watch them. They fascinate me and take me away from worry to a place of gratitude. Who doesn’t love a good Google search for meaning?
“Dragonfly’s can be a symbol of self that comes with maturity. They can symbolize going past self-created illusions that limit our growth and ability to change. The Dragonfly has been a symbol of happiness, new beginnings and change for many centuries. The Dragonfly means hope, change, and love.” https://dragonflytransitions.com/why-the-dragonfly
That first sentence grabbed me “self that comes with maturity” because this is the week of my birthday. I will be 62. If there is an age of maturity, I’d go with anything past 50, but now that I’m in my 60’s, stuff keeps happening that requires me to be mature, to change the things I can, and accept the things I cannot change.
Consider writing with us today. You can choose one of the many things that a dragonfly symbolizes or write whatever comes. This is a safe place to explore. Perhaps time yourself for 7-10 minutes. Turn off the critic and let the words flow. Leave encouraging comments for other writers.
Dragonfly dazzles a dry branch, revealing self-purity
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Yesterday, August 7th, my husband and I celebrated our 41st wedding anniversary with a nice dinner made complete with tiramisu. For our 25th anniversary trip to Italy, I started a tiramisu quest. Each dinner we had in Italy, I told the waiter that I was on a quest for the best tiramisu. They would give me special treatment and hover in anticipation for my first bite. I found that every tiramisu is its own unique experience.
In Florida with my daughter last week, the tiramisu had a chocolate, nutty icing. Mmm! Who doesn’t love chocolate. Last night the icing was white and light and just right. I enjoyed every bite. So the quest continues.
I’m reading poetry books for the Sealy Challenge and this stanza by Amanda Gorman from Call Us What We Carry moved me.
How Can We not Be Altered?
By a toddler at the table next to us bouncing in pure delight playing peep-eye with us. I share our delight with her parents who ask, “What is the key to a long marriage?”
“Communication,” I say, but know that’s not all. Long marriage comes when you travel through tough stuff and taste sweet tiramisu on a mountain in Italy. It comes with a soft hand when a parent dies, a long hug when your heart hurts. It comes from the grin of your granddaughter who looks just like the daughter you created together. Long marriage is not magical. It’s marveling at the slant of light at the end of the day, stopping to take a photo of the rainbow or the field of sunflowers. Long love is mistakes and madness, messages and miracles every day.
Mary Lee has the round-up and we Inklings are posting Catherine’s challenge.
Robin Wall Kimmerer teaches us that “It’s a sign of respect and connection to learn the name of someone else, a sign of disrespect to ignore it…Learning the names of plants and animals is a powerful act of support for them. When we learn their names and their gifts, it opens the door to reciprocity.” Look closely at the flowers, birds, trees, or other natural features in your neighborhood (or if you’re traveling, a new-to-you species) and write a poem about your chosen species. Free choice of format.
Catherine’s challenge for August
I wrote a poem in July. One of those poems that comes out while walking. As I’m sure you’ve heard, Louisiana is experiencing our hottest summer in history. Who knew this was going to happen? Duh, everybody. I just hope the meteorologist who said the extreme heat is keeping the hurricanes away is right, but it’s probably not. The Gulf will heat up and get angry soon enough.
For now I am listening to endless cicadas during the day and tree frogs through the night. And because we haven’t had rain, I’m watering, watering, watering. The good news is sunflowers are blooming in my butterfly garden.
When in July
When in July, the cicadas buzz all day, when tree frogs near the bayou peep through the night, when crepe myrtles brighten sky with pink and pink and pink, when I walk alone and visit the old oak tree leaning toward the ground inviting me to join her in homage to this unceasing humid heat that calls like the cicadas to our spirits to play like children play running through sprinklers, spreading arms wide like dragonfly wings, then July leaves us with sunflower-smiles.
August is for the Sealy Challenge: reading a poetry book each day. Mary Lee shared her list for the first few days. Here’s mine: Day 1: Mary Oliver: A Thousand Mornings (I’ve read this one before and it’s a comfort read.) Day 2: Pádraig Ó Tuama: Poetry Unbound (Reading a chapter a night) Day 3: Jim Kacian: Long After (This is a visual haiku masterpiece!)
Linda Mitchell has the Spiritual Journey on the First Thursday round up at A Word Edgewise.
When Linda chose the topic of turning for our Spiritual Journey writing this month, I thought of turning from the long, free days of summer to the short, frantic days of school. Teachers go back tomorrow. Yes! The earliest we’ve ever gone back. To say I’m not ready is an understatement. I haven’t even been to my classroom all summer. I am grateful that a colleague did my bulletin board and later today some of my former students will help me arrange my classroom. It’ll get done.
But the turning that I am focused on these days is the changing relationship I have with my children. Since the loss of my father and the Alzheimer’s of my mother, I am coming to realize that I’ve lost my advisors. The two people I turned to no matter what, who would talk, share, advise, and love me unconditionally are no longer available to me. I guess I should be praying more. I am trying to meditate more, but I am spinning a top of woeful angst.
My daughters are busy with their difficult jobs, their young children, and generally making a life for themselves. The last thing they need is a mother who needs them. But I need them. They know me the deepest and strongest (next to my husband, of course). They love me unconditionally. They show up when I ask them to. But is it fair that I turn to them for friendship now?
Last weekend I was sitting on my youngest daughter’s couch catching up on emails. Her husband was lying on the floor watching and playing with baby June, and he told her that he knows one day she will argue with him and think he’s uncool, but today she only had eyes for him. He was soaking it all up to prepare himself for the teen years.
I get a poem-of-the-day from the Poetry Foundation. I read the poem The New Speakers by Gloria Anzaldua and took a striking line from her poem to write a golden shovel.
We don’t want to be Stars but parts of constellations.
In the midday light that blinds, we play Paul Simon Radio and don’t follow the tune, fake the words. We want to be stars in the eyes of our children, but they grow, they change, the parts we play become the connecting lines of their constellations.
Margaret Simon, draft
I want to be in a constellation with my daughters. But this new relationship will take time to nurture. As all turning does, we have to move in its direction, in the centrifugal force, and let it take us where we want and need to be.
Inspired by Denise Krebs at “Dare to Care”, I am writing a quick post on my phone at a coffee shop near the beach. Denise’s poem begins with These hands.
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.
Reflections on the Teche 