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Posts Tagged ‘The New Yorker’

Poetry Friday: Erasure

Posted in Poetry, Poetry Friday, Writing, tagged , , on September 8, 2023| 18 Comments »


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.

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Spice of Life: The Artists

Posted in Slice of Life, Writing, tagged , , , on September 5, 2023| 17 Comments »

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 poem The 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.

Margaret Simon, draft

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