Who knew the anhinga could be a beautiful bird, but through the artistic eyes of Michelle Kogan, it is. I love this painting she sent me for the Summer Poetry Swap (organized by Tabatha Yeats). And she wrote a poem dispelling the myth that this is a “devil bird.”
poem and art by Michelle Kogan
ANHINGA
Devil bird– Not I, look in my lichen-like eyes. I’ll wait while wings dry, for kindness to cleanse rumors and lies.
Michelle Kogan (c) 2019
Kindness cleanses me with this wonderful poem. We look at nature and can see ugliness or beauty. We can find danger or kindness. Michelle reminds me that rumors and lies are not real; they are on the surface. When we look deeper, we find beauty and kindness. It’s there.
See more posts at Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life
As I sit down to write this, there are 5 electric service trucks outside on my street and in my neighbor’s driveway. Hurricane Barry powered through over the weekend and took out a few branches. Nature’s way of tree trimming, but unfortunately, one of those limbs took out a transformer. We were only without power for 24 hours and thanks to a trusty, industrial generator, we didn’t suffer much. The guys working on the poles, clearing out the downed wires, and restoring electricity are heroes in my book. Many are not even from our area. They made the sacrifice to travel here in the wake of a major storm. We are grateful.
This summer my life has been busy in a different way from previous summers, no teacher workshops, no writing retreats, no foreign travel. I have not sliced in weeks because the topic feels too big for a small slice.
My parents moved to a retirement home. This is good news for many reasons. They made the decision on their own, and they are now in a place that feeds them good meals with a built in social life.
What needed to be addressed was the house they lived in for 29 years. This was not the home of my childhood, but it is the home of my children’s childhood. It was a place I took them to be loved. The house was on a lake where sunsets were glorious. My brother took my girls fishing on the dock. I watched herons and egrets and white pelicans. Sitting on the swing on the back porch was a favorite spot. Many family photos were staged there.
I’ve visited my parents every summer, so I looked back to blog posts written there. Here is a poem I wrote the summer of 2015.
Sometimes on the lake in June white pelicans fly in together and I get out the camera. Then they turn as a drum line in step, swim away swiftly in a cloud.
Sometimes on the lake in June a lone blue heron fishes. Sly step, long beak held high, drinking in the sunlight. A small boat passes by lines thrown out, catching nothing.
Sometimes on the lake in June, I wake before dawn, put the coffee on, Sometimes Dad will join me silent, reading the daily news. Mom comes in pleased to have fresh coffee. We sit on the porch, quiet content to be together on the lake in June.
(c) Margaret Simon
Sifting through the stuff of a house, the history of a life, is bittersweet. There were treasures to find, memories to share, and things to keep. My daughters and I have all taken things with us, but we will all miss the peacefulness and joy of the house on the lake.
Poetry Friday round-up is with Jone at Deo Writer.
Each summer I participate in Tabatha’s Summer poetry swap. Poetic gifts coming and going inspire me and uplift me.
My first swap came by way of email from Donna Smith. Donna has been busy selling her house in Maine and moving to Pennsylvania, so snail mail didn’t work for her. The method matters little when you receive a poetry gift. Here’s her poem for me.
poem by Donna Smith, 2019
My second gift was from Kay McGriff. She sent a notebook she had made by hand along with two bookmarks. Her poem for me is a golden shovel from a line I wrote on my blog during National Poetry Month. Both Donna and Kay included images from my life here on the bayou. I appreciate the time they took to read and learn and write a personal poem. We do this in the name of poetry love.
Golden shovel by Kay McGriff
Note about Tropical Storm Barry: Yes, we are in its path. We are ready. Our house is strong, and we have a generator named Sparky. All will be well. Thanks for your concern.
It’s Poetry Friday, and I don’t have a post prepared.
I followed links to CLMOOC, a summer gathering of writing project folks to stretch their thinking. Kevin Hodgson writes:
Here in CLMOOC, we’ve always actively pushed back on the “massive”. While MOOCs often were built to scale large, CLMOOC has often comfortably settled into the small. So, this July and August, we invite you to look closer at the world, to find balance with the small scale of things around you.
Kevin Hodgson
Kevin introduced a new term to me, feldgang.A feldgang is slowing down to notice something in a new or different way. This idea fascinates me. Poetry lends itself to feldganging (not sure if that is a real word.)
This morning I am combining feldgang with greenbelt writing, that writing that is wild and unpredictable and possibly of no real worth at all. A first draft of a poem while looking out my kitchen window:
The chickadees come to the feeder chick-a-dee-dee-deeing. They flitter their tiny bodies in the trees, and try to stay unnoticed, like butterflies to a bright flower.
I notice them and think of this simple act of feeding the birds, a small plastic feeder, some seed from a plastic bag.
I invite these small visitors to my kitchen window. I laugh at their tiny tweets. Begin my day with a lighter step.
He fell in love with the smooth flow of a pencil drawing beauty in lines becoming shapes becoming a feminine body on a 3×5 card.
I fell in love, too. Her face my child Self, that tender one I lost and seek to touch again. I hold her in my hand like a shell from an endless shore.
She knows how to love me. I am slowly learning how to be loved.
(draft) Margaret Simon, June 22, 2019 ekphrasis on drawings by John F. Simon
I wrote this poem at a writing workshop around John F. Simon’s art show at the Hilliard Museum. The first line was borrowed from Barbara Crooker’s ekphrastic poem on Van Gogh’s Field with Wheat Stacks published on The Writer’s Almanac on June 22, 2019.
The empty calendar of my summer has filled up leaving less time for writing. The cure for not getting exercise is to sign up for a class. So the cure for my lack of time to write was to sign up for a class.
At a local museum, The Hilliard, my friend Clare was offering a 3 hour writing workshop. I know from experience with Clare that she offers lots of empty space for real writing. We discussed our writing practices and our familiarity with ekphrastic writing (writing to an image). Then she sent us into the museum to the show of John F. Simon’s work.
I was immediately drawn to the piece in the photo above. It’s large, probably 5-6 feet across by 3-4 feet in width. The title of the work is Moment of Release. I love how the title really doesn’t dictate the interpretation. I gave in to this freedom to explore and released a poem.
Moment of Release
This collection of energy stored and sealed into a protective sheaf will one day open the well spilling contents of a life– rain it down like a delta flood releasing to a renewable Source.
Margaret Simon, (c) 2019
My advice to you is don’t wait for a workshop. Grab a writing buddy and head out to the nearest museum or gallery. If you take pictures, ask permission first. Gather words, images, sounds on the page to transform into a poem or prose. The poem I shared is only one of four I wrote in the hour we were given. I plan to give myself permission to take another artist date this summer. What about you?
We’ve been watching our wood duck nest box for months. The first clutch did not hatch. Overcoming our disappointment, we set out new wood shavings and hoped for the best. By and by, another wood duck hen came in and laid 18 or so eggs. (Maybe it was two hens?) Nevertheless, we watched again. She seemed to be doing it all right, turning the eggs, covering them in down before leaving to feed, and sitting, sitting, sitting.
Yesterday morning my husband texted and said, “Look in the house.” (I am away from home this week.) When I looked at the video on my phone sent from the camera in the nesting box, I saw three dark blobs. At first I was afraid they were dead, but eventually realized that hatching is hard work, so they lay still.
We are both proud parents of 12 wood ducklings. Today was Jump Day. At 7:30 AM, Momma went out and called her babies. They climbed the wire mesh my husband had nailed into the wall nearest the hole. One by one they reached the hole and jumped out.
A poem will come, I’m sure. Yesterday, Laura Purdie Salas posted her 15 Words or Less image and I wrote this little ditty.
Ripple Effect
One egg hatches then another. Soon the whole nest is chattering.
Lucretius just presents this marvelous and important idea that what we are made of will make something else, which to me is very important. There is no nothingness — with these little atoms that run around too little for us to see. But, put together, they make something. And that to me is a miracle. Where it came from, I don’t know. But it’s a miracle, and I think it’s enough to keep a person afloat.
I was listening to On Being with Krista Tippet, an old podcast of an interview with Mary Oliver from 2015. The episode repeated the week of Mary Oliver’s death in January of this year. Listening to Mary Oliver makes me feel I am in the presence of a wise yogi.
The practice of writing poetry, I am learning, is an exercise in mindfulness. To be open to the universe of words and to put them down on a page is a gift. Then there is the renewing of the words as you revise, reorder, read aloud to a writing group, and go at it all again.
This poem came from all this listening and doing the work of the morning.
Residing
If we could make of everything a sacred movement–
Digging in the deep mud watching the earthworm squirm.
Painting on of pale eyeshadow, touching my face with gentleness.
Floods begin as a drop, rain from upstream flowing– overflowing–Breaks. No control over Water’s strength or where it wants to go.
Knock out soggy walls, Strip muddy carpet, Dig through disaster. Survive. Stronger. Healthier. Build again.
At birth, water breaks, baptizes an infant wrapped in woven cloth. Mother bathes her son in warm water, rubs his clean skin.
Tears break as a single drop washing my face, bathing me in warm water, where he kisses me, says, “I love you.” This is all I need.
Margaret Simon, draft 2019
On Tuesday, I attended a mini writer’s retreat at the Teche Center for the Arts. Clare led us through brainstorming a list of water words. Then we circled ones that stood out to us or told a story. I wrote this poem draft. It’s still a work in progress. I wonder if it contains too much.
In 1979, my childhood home flooded. I was a senior in high school with so much more on my mind than loss and rebuilding. My mother was the stronghold. She handled an amazing amount of mess and muck and insurance claims. There is a story, a bigger story than this poem could contain. After 40 years, that disaster still influences me. Maybe it’s finally time to write about it.
Today, Spiritual Journey First Thursday is celebrating connections at Ramona’s site, Pleasures from the Page.
Tuesday was a tough day. I sang in the choir for a good friend’s funeral, gone way too soon after a brave battle with breast cancer. As I was talking to her best friend, the friend who had been by her side and the friend who kept me updated, I mentioned that I had sung in a community choir with the soloist. Juliet said, “My mother sang in that choir. Her name was JoEllen.”
I lost it. Tears flowed. I held onto Juliet. I had known her mother.
Connections are multi-faceted. You may connect to someone once or over a period of time. JoEllen and I sat next to each other in the community choir every fall for a few years. Once we went to a musical concert together, but we rarely got together outside of choir rehearsals. One December, she stopped coming to rehearsal. Someone said she lost her voice. It wasn’t until later that I found out that JoEllen was sick with cancer. I never saw her again.
And here was Juliet, someone I had connected with over a mutual friend’s illness. After we took a long hug, I told her, “I don’t want to lose touch.” We both loved our friend Amy. We both loved her mother JoEllen. Now we needed each other. Connections are essential, magical, and meaningful. May we all find meaningful, loving, and God-filled connections. Peace!
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 