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Last week I read my teacher-blogger-writer-friend Molly Hogan’s Slice of Life post. It touched the poet in me. Molly wakes early and goes on photography quests. When we’re lucky, she takes us along on her Facebook posts or blog. Last week she wrote this post entitled A Generous Morning.
Inspired, I copied her words into a found poem. Her generous morning became my generous morning. That’s how it works with creativity; it’s all big magic.
A Generous Morning
Lightening sky in the east as surely as the birds were migrating south, I missed the swallows.
The sky seemed lonely. Then a couple of swallows dart and dive through the air currents, and a bird approaching in the distance-
a heron
Sun rose higher, lit the mist. Cedar waxwings flittered. I watched it all, the generosity of morning.
a found poem by Margaret Simon using Molly Hogan’s words.
The children’s poetry community lost a friend and a mentor when Lee Bennett Hopkins died on August 8th. I never had the pleasure of meeting him, but in everything I’ve read about him, he was a gentle leader and proud father of poetry.
Among his many anthologies, I have Amazing Places on my classroom shelf. In it, Lee Bennett Hopkins collected poems about places around our country. His contribution was a poem titled Langston.
Though his professional writing was successful, it was the death of poet Langston Hughes in 1967 that proved to be a spark for Hopkins’s career of anthologizing poetry for children.
By Shannon Maughan | Aug 13, 2019
Amazing Places: Poems selected by Lee Bennett Hopkins, Lee & Low Books, 2015.
While borrowing a few lines as well as the form of this poem and reading his obituary on Publishers Weekly, I wrote this poem for Lee.
His Dusts of Dreams after Lee Bennett Hopkins “Langston” for Lee Bennett Hopkins, 1938-2019
Who would have known a young boy of divorce, a poor student inspired by a teacher would find his footing in education–
from student to teacher to collector of poems, With greetings to all Dear Ones, he left his dusts of dreams.
We started our first Monday together with this quote. I introduced notebook writing. Begin with a quote, talk a bit about it, then write for 10 minutes. Writing alongside my students gives me great joy. I’ve missed this over the summer and happy to have it back.
Here’s a little peek into my notebook musings:
There’s a book by Parker Palmer with the title “The Courage to Teach.” I read it years ago, and I can’t remember much about it, but the title still resonates. I’m entering my 32nd year of teaching. I would be what they call a “veteran” teacher. You could say I’ve earned my grey hair, but I rarely feel like an expert. Everyday teaching requires courage. You must put aside the headache from lack of sleep (or lack of caffeine, or both), and be ready to listen and see each student as a child who needs you to love them, to know them, and to understand them.
Currently I am listening to Cornelius Minor’s book We Got This. I highly recommend it even though I’m just a few chapters in. Cornelius speaks of the courage to teach as well as the necessity that we be intentional with our every step. We need to teach in a way that meets the needs of our students. And we get to know these needs by listening.
I’m encouraged that what I do for my students (notebook writing, independent reading, etc.) are courageous steps toward being a compassionate teacher. I need to trust the years of experience to guide me and comfort me in the knowledge that I Got This. Courage doesn’t always roar. It’s a daily walk, a listening ear, and a loving heart.
Christie Wyman has invited the Poetry Friday community to write about trees this week. I am back in school and have so missed the days of writing alongside my students. Because I am itinerant and teach at three schools, I have three opportunities to write during the day. That gave me time to write, read aloud, revise, write. Not to mention the joy my students felt to be back in the saddle of writing.
We used “That was Summer” by Marci Ridlon as a mentor text. The repetition makes this form an easy one to mimic. I chose to write about the different trees we see each season.
Seasons of Trees after Marci Ridlon “That was Summer”
Remember that time when the rope swing hung from the old oak tree the knot round and rough? You wrapped your skinny legs on tight let someone give you a push your head leaned back tongue out, tasting the breeze. That was summer.
Remember that time you gathered pecans plopping one by one into grandfather’s tin bucket? You held the brown nut to the metal cracker, and turned the handle until Crack! Tasting hickory butter sweetness. That was autumn.
Remember when the wind turned cold, Flakes fell softly on the trees, and you bundled up and walked with your sisters through rows and rows of Christmas spruce, playing hide and seek and searching for the just-right one. That was winter.
Remember how the warm sun rose on the Japanese magnolia prompting firm blossoms to open like helium-filled party balloons? Remember how you walked near to smell the strong rosy scent that could make you sneeze? That was spring.
One of the joys of summer is participating in Tabatha Yeatts’ Summer Poetry Swap. Tabatha creates the matchups, and we enjoy sending and receiving poetic gifts.
This week I received a gift from Jone MacCulloch. Jone took an amazing trip this summer to Page, Arizona where she took photos in Secret Canyon. She wrote a beautiful poem capturing the feeling of being there. She had the image printed onto a plaque that has a stand, so it all becomes a piece of art to display.
I took a quick trip to the beach in Florida last week with my daughter. I posted an interesting image on Instagram and invited friends to write a haiku to it. I had a few takers. The catch was they couldn’t use the word “sun”.
Beach reflection, photo by Margaret Simon
reflective water meets the blinding summer’s jewel they kiss in between
Kaylie Bonin ( a former student, now college freshman)
day’s ending water ignites one final moment
Linda Baie
yellow and white light drawn together by nature reflects the divine
Evelyn Migues
my eyes catch the light bright reflection from above I need sunglasses
Gloria McKenzie
If you want to play along, leave a haiku response in the comments.
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Thoughts and Prayers by Kelli Broussard Kaufman
When we don’t know what to say, art can speak for us. This painting was done by Kelli Broussard Kaufman. She’s a Lafayette artist I follow on Facebook. (Her parents are good friends and neighbors.) I asked her permission to post the image here, and she also told me about her process. Her playlist while painting included Simon and Garfunkel’s The Sound of Silence. Her art, the song, and her process notes inspired this poem.
In the sound of silence, we think no one cares. The words have all been said. Prayers are empty now.
Silence like a cancer grows. The wax burns, drips, soils the flag we want to save us. How many more?
In the naked light I saw a flicker of candles in the wind drawing strength from one another burning bright and singing out–
This is not who we are. This is not our story. We are one people. We are better than this.
Today my Sunday Poetry Swagger writing group is celebrating a new form invented by our colleague Heidi Mordhorst, who is hosting the PF link up.
Heidi’s definition of a definito is “a free verse poem of 8-12 lines (aimed at readers 8-12 years old) that highlights wordplay as it demonstrates the meaning of a less common word, which always ends the poem.” A few weeks ago during one of our Sunday night critique meetings, she asked us each to try writing our own definito.
I’ve been following Teach Write on Facebook and each day they post a word to jump start writing. In the month of July, they posted “voracious vocabulary”. One day the word was “zephyr.” This was a new to me word that I thoroughly enjoyed learning about. A definito is a great way to explore a word’s meaning through writing. I will be using this activity with my students this year.
Zephyr
Zero in. Feel the wind blow oh, so, slow, lightly feathering the sleepy moss, slightly rippling the shore. Not a gale or hefty gust, blustery bora or frigid buster. This Greek god is a gentle one waving from the western sky… easy-breezy zephyr. (draft) Margaret Simon
I am gathering Spiritual Journey first Thursday posts. Scroll down to link up.
Sometimes I marvel at how things do not change. I wake up at the same time every morning, make coffee, feed the dog and cats, read my email, check Facebook…routines that keep me grounded and moving forward.
But the truth of life is change. Nothing really stays the same.
We age. We lose. We gain. We grow. We change.
Some changes bring new life. I have had the privilege this summer to share in the care of my sweet grandson, Leo. Now he can sit up. He eats mushy food. He squeals and grunts and interacts with me. I especially love how he grins and hums when I sing to him. Pure love. The changes we watch are marvelous and miraculous.
I never get too many Leo kisses.
Some changes are harder. My parents are aging. I’ve tried to deny this for years, but when they made the decision to move to a retirement home, I had to face it. This was the best place for them to be. Their health remains, and I am grateful for it.
My school year begins next week. There will be changes, new students, a new school to go to, new classrooms, but part of the excitement over beginning a school year is living into the changes and celebrating them.
Over the last few weeks, I watched black swallowtail caterpillars eat a lot of parsley and grow. Then they sat dormant in a strangely shaped chrysalis. Each one emerged as a complete and beautiful butterfly that I released into the air. The life cycle of a butterfly never ceases to amaze me.
There are changes we can see and some that hide inside a chrysalis emerging later, surprising us again and again. When I keep my faith centered on Love, I can accept change with peace and understanding.
Posing with my daughter Katherine, whose womb holds another beautiful butterfly baby to love. (due date Sept. 5)
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Earlier this summer I traveled back and forth three times to help clean out my parents’ lakeside home in Mississippi. I wrote about the sadness over leaving the home that has been a summer sanctuary for me in a slice a few weeks ago.
What I haven’t written about are the treasures we found. My parents had no recollection that my godmother’s estate had come to them. It was all buried in a brown envelope in a desk drawer in their bedroom. I had resolved to look at everything in the house and decide if it was to keep, to trash, or to sell. When I opened the envelope with the simple label “Hollingsworth,” I didn’t know what I would find.
It’s been years since my godmother died. I barely remember a visit to her when I was a teenager. I was afraid of her because of her age and her suffering. I never knew her as a healthy person, but I dearly loved her son. Bill was my father’s best friend and lived as a monk in Covington, Louisiana. He was small in stature but big in personality. He died in December, 2015. I miss visits with him.
My parents gave me a sculpture my godmother Jane had made and some sketches of her that her husband, William Hollingsworth, had drawn. But I knew nothing of the jewelry she left behind.
The most charming item of jewelry was a pearl ring. And it fit me perfectly. Pearls are one of my signature jewels because the name Margaret means “pearl.” Seems meant to be.
Another treasure I brought home with me was the portrait of my maternal grandmother. Again someone I didn’t know. She was Margaret Shields Liles, and she died three months before I was born. As I was named for her, the portrait passed to me. It was painted in 1943 when my mother was 7 years old. My mother remembers traveling to Memphis to have it done. I grew up with this image hanging first in my grandfather’s house, then in ours. The angel in a white dress cradling her violin became my guardian angel. Now, she hangs beautifully in my dining room.
Portrait of Margaret Shields Liles, 1943.
There is a feeling of loss with these treasures. The wonderful women I never knew feel like a part of me in some small way. The passing of a legacy, a history. Treasures lost; treasures found.
Poetry Friday round-up is here! Scroll down to link up.
Laura Purdie Salas started a sharing group on Facebook around the journal companion to Steal Like An Artistby Austin Kleon. One of the exercises asks you to steal a title to create your own story.
I recently attended an art show for my friend and SCBWI colleague, Denise Gallagher. The title of her show was “A Teaspoon and a Bit of String.” She is currently involved in an ArtSpark grant for her upcoming middle grade fairy tale. This is her title illustration.
A Teaspoon and a Bit of String by Denise Gallagher
I stole (like an artist) this title to write a poem. For a few weeks this summer I was cleaning out my parents’ home. They moved to a retirement home. I found treasures as I whittled through drawers and closets. A teaspoon and a bit of string fit just right.
A Teaspoon and a Bit of String*
We live in shared spaces thirty years or more storing things away for someday when you need a bit of string.
Tie it to your shoelace or round a simple gift. Hand it to your lover to remember you with.
Down in the abyss of the silverware drawer, a teaspoon speaks of years of sugar measured, perhaps the purple medicine to calm a cough.
I tuck this teaspoon into days-old news tie with a bit of string and carry it with me into next time.
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 