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Posts Tagged ‘Jackson flood of 1979’

Poetry Friday round up is with Buffy Silverman

I recently read somewhere that students hate the word “prompt” as it is used for daily journaling. I don’t agree. A prompt for me can be the fuel I need to get a Poetry Friday post up.

I subscribe to Poets & Writers The Time is Now. I don’t respond every week. But this week the prompt reminded me of a poem I wrote a few years ago when I was considering a memoir in verse. It’s still sitting in my documents waiting, potential for something bigger, maybe. The prompt asked me to write a poem using a favorite song as a title and writing the memory that it brought forth.

In my senior year of high school, our house in Jackson, Mississippi was flooded 5 feet by the overflowing Pearl River. It was a time of great loss as well as many blessings and lessons about loss. The first album I bought after the flood was James Taylor’s Flag.

My memory of that time has aged along with me. My brother and I are 15 months apart. I recall feeling a growing closeness to him that I hadn’t felt before. We were in this tragedy together. Currently as we face the fading memory of our mother, we are again dealing with a tragedy together. And it may help the meaning of the poem for you to know that he is a musician who has been holding a real microphone for 40 years.

Up on the Roof

Across town
in South Jackson 
because North Jackson 
was under water, James Taylor
sang on the brand-new record player
we bought with the Red Cross money.

Listening, I imagined stairs to a roof, 
romantic evening sky, holding
hands with a boy
I didn’t feel safe with,
daring to kiss in the dark.

Instead, my brother pulled me back 
to dance in PJs across floor mattresses.
With no one watching,
he held a shoe
for a microphone. 

(c) Margaret Simon

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Poetry Friday round-up is with Michelle Kogan

Water Breaks

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.

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Join the Two Writing Teachers blog for March Slice of Life Challenge.

Join the Two Writing Teachers blog for March Slice of Life Challenge.

buttercups

 

Bad things continue to happen.  Bad things always happen.  Last week, my friend’s home was destroyed in a fire.  When I stopped by her hair salon to take her a bag of clothes and to offer some comfort, she said, “We’re going to be OK.”

I know she’s right.  We are all OK.

One Good Friday 37 years ago when I was a senior in high school, our house flooded.  I didn’t know it would be OK.  We left everything in haste to escape the rising waters.  The car stalled halfway down the street.  My family was rescued and, in the aftermath, well cared for by friends.  But we lost our home and many of our belongings.  We went back in a boat to rescue our pets.  There were sad moments during those days.  Many times I asked if we would be OK.

Weeks later when the flood waters had receded, 21 people from our church showed up to clean out our house.  Things were sorted.  Things were thrown away.  As I walked around my house to the window by my bedroom, something caught my eye.  It was a stick.  It was my stick.

As a teenager, I attended youth retreats with our church’s youth group. At one of these retreats I had picked up a branch and stripped it of its bark.  I carried it around like a talisman.  The stick came to symbolize finding my way in the world.  But lying on the soggy ground outside among the muddy debris, the stick meant that everything was going to be OK.

On Easter Sunday, the priest’s message was this: Everything is going to be OK.  And even in the tragedies, the times when things do not seem OK, the resurrection assures us that it will be.

 

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