Today’s prompt asked me to begin by picking 5-10 words from a list. Next, I was to write out a question for each word that I selected.
Then, for each question, I had to write a one-line answer— some kind of an image, without worrying about strict logic. The answers were meant to be surrealist.
After I wrote it all out, I had to place all the answers, without questions on a new page. Then I had to dee if I could make a poem of just the answers.
I have to say that my poem became its own dark entity without my knowledge or permission. It’s funny how this month of concentrated poetry writing tends to bring things out. It’s like being in a month long juice cleanse.
So on to day two…you can check it out below.
Salt, Seaweed, Thunder
Evil is in his hands, Pushing her down While her head Strains to rise
The seaweed A vessel holding The dried drunkenness Of his desperation
A place of silent tears Waits in the wings With disembodied hands For no one to hear
A thousand empty strollers Laugh as they roll The thunder of rage Setting the pace.
Yesterday’s folly A pernicious pillow Holding her head Hoping to hush.
Photo Credit: Marcus Ganahl who made this image available for free on Unsplash
The final prompt of NaPoWriMo was a challenge to write a cento. This is a poem that is made up of lines taken from other poems. If you’ve never heard of one before, join the club. I hadn’t either.
Here is an example from John Ashbery: “The Dong with the Luminous Nose,” and here it is again, fully annotated to show where every line originated. A cento might seem like a complex undertaking – and one that requires you to have umpteen poetry books at your fingertips for reference – but according to the folks at NaPoWriMo, I didn’t have to write a long one.
In spite of “tips” to help me “jump-start the process”, this was a considerable bigger undertaking than I originally thought.
Because my friend lost her daughter (and my Lizi’s best friend) on this date, I often write a poem dedicated to her on the last day of NaPoWriMo. This poem is in memory of Jacy Lynn Dettloff and in honor of my friends, Susan, Steve, and Mick Dettloff who lost their beloved daughter and sister 21 years ago today.
This year (in August) Jacy would have been 30 years old. I know this because she and my son Aaron were born just a few days apart.
The grief tears at my heart as well.
Grief In Four Parts
1.
The River
Grief is a river you wade in until you get to the other side.
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.
When grief comes to you as a purple gorilla
then maybe—just maybe—the hours will carry you
into June, when the roses blow.
The air around you fills with butterflies.
I do not know how to hold all the beauty and sorrow of my life.
The morning air is all awash with angels,
and are we supposed to believe she can suddenly talk angel?
2.
The Desert
Little petal of my heart,
I didn’t know where I was going.
I was always leaving, I was
desolate and lone.
3.
The Night
If but I could have wrapped you in myself
I would I might forget that I am I--
a smile of joy, since I was born.
Things change on the morning of the birthday—
the hope is in wakening to this your last dream.
The shadows of you are around me;
the evening shadow has sunk
gleaming. So I can
come walking into this big silence.
4.
Hope
A daughter is not a passing cloud, but permanent;
she's light and also passage, the glory in my cortex.
Dare the deliberately happy to butterfly the gnarled roots of life—
Grief dies like joy; the tears upon my cheek—
“Hope” is the thing with feathers.
--A Cento poem by cjpjordan
Grief in Four Parts (Annotated)
Grief is a river you wade in until you get to the other side.
Barbara Crooker, “Grief”
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, “Grief”
When grief comes to you as a purple gorilla
Matthew Dickman, “Grief”
then maybe—just maybe—the hours will carry you
into June, when the roses blow.
Gottfried Benn, “Last Spring”
The air around you fills with butterflies--
Katherine Garrison Chapin, “Butterflies”
I do not know how to hold all the beauty and sorrow of my life.
Cynthia Zarin, “Flowers”
The morning air is all awash with angels
Richard Wilbur, “Love Calls Us to the Things of This World”
and are we supposed to believe she can suddenly talk angel?
Mary Sybist, “Girls Overheard While Assembling a Puzzle”
Little petal of my heart!
Hilda Conkllng, “A Little Girl's Songs”
I didn’t know where I was going
Robert Vandermolen, “Flowers”
I was always leaving, I was
Jean Nordhaus, “I Was Always Leaving”
Desolate and lone
Carl Sandburg, “Lost”
If but I could have wrapped you in myself
D.H. Lawrence, “Grief”
I would I might forget that I am I--
George Santayana, “I would I might Forget that I am I”
a smile of joy, since I was born.
Emily Bronte, “I Am the Only Being Whose Doom”
Things change on the morning of the birthday
The hope is in wakening to this your last dream
Theodore Holmes, “In Becoming of Age”
The shadows of you are around me
Kathryn Soniat, “Daughter”
the evening shadow has sunk
D.H. Lawrence, “Daughter Of the great Man”
gleaming. So I can
Jennifer Richter, “My Daughter Brings Home Bones”
come walking into this big silence
Josephine Miles, “Dream”
A daughter is not a passing cloud, but permanent;
James Lenfestey, “Daughter”
she's light and also passage, the glory in my cortex.
Carmen Gimenez Smith, “The Daughter”
Dare the deliberately happy to butterfly the gnarled roots of life—
Amy King, “Butterfly the Gnarled”
Grief dies like joy; the tears upon my cheek—
Henry Timrod, “Sonnet: Grief Dies”
“Hope” is the thing with feathers.
Emily Dickinson, ““Hope” is the thing with feathers”
Thanks and shoutout to Dahiana Waszaj who made this image available for free on Unsplash.
Todays prompt asked us to write in a specific form—the nonet.
A nonet has nine lines. The first line has nine syllables, the second has eight, and so on until you get to the last line, which has just one syllable.
Maybe this is the time you want to try your hand at poetry writing. The nonnet is a form that doesn’t have to rhyme, so for all of you not-into-rhyming friends, this is a great form.
I hope you choose to have some fun with writing today.
First
The birds warmed their feet on the long wire— some thought about hot summer days, others gossiped about how Gini’s Gang was taking over Town. I mean, the absolute nerve! Go! We were here first.
I’ve been taking some time to regroup after a grueling year and a half-is of teaching. I didn’t think relaxing would be as hard as it has been. I don’t think I realized just how taxing a year of virtual work and life was until I started to slow down.
Given that Trace needed her spinal fusion immediately, her recovery has been our primary concern this summer. We had already booked plans to head down south and camp in Laurel, Mississippi, navigating our way down to Folly Beach and maybe even New Orleans, but we had to cancel all those plans to concentrate on things closer to home.
We found out in the early spring that our beautiful big red maple was causing foundation damage to our home, so out it had to come. This meant tearing up our beautiful wood deck out back. But we had to do what we had to do, so I decided if the deck was getting ripped out anyway that we would replace it with concrete. We would enjoy our summer vacation from the luxury of our own new patio. Win-win!
With the hope that all construction work would be done by the beginning of June, we ripped out the deck and threw tarps down so the dogs could still use the backyard. Well, those of you near us know the massive amounts of torrential rain coupled with brutal heat we have had this summer. Now the back yard is one muddy lake and the dogs have to be walked on leash out in the front in order for them to take care of their business.
And the construction work has yet to begin.
Except now we have an excavator taller than our house in the backyard and the contractor is heading off to vacation next week.
Sigh.
My poem today is in honor of the tiny gold finch bathing in the mud lake that is now our backyard, the late great Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., and staycations.
Heatwave
Summer came on steamy winds of spring
the torrid heat belied the month of June;
summer storms raged like May shower
bombs of heat detonating in waves.
All that remained come muggy morning
was the mucky mess of mud called garden
and one tiny goldfinch preening in a puddle
making me wish I had been born a bird instead.
--Carla Jeanne Picklo Jordan
The poetry challenge I place before you today this: I’d love for you to try writing a lune.
A lune is a sort of English-language haiku. While the haiku is a three-line poem with a 5-7-5 syllable count, the lune has two different options.
The first option for a lune is a three-line poem with a 5-3-5 syllable count. The second variant is based on word-count instead of syllable count. This means the poem still has three lines, but the first line has five words, the second line has three words, and the third line has five words again.
I chose this latter form to write my poem. Today I give you a Septet of Lunes. Try your hand at it and share it in the comments. I look forward to reading your take on the lune.
dinner on the deck
the cardinals always come-- strutting red coats, snapping seeds in a single crunch.
the dark eyed junco hops tentatively to feed, nervously glancing side to side
the chickadees flit over lightly with great decorum landing lightly on the feeder.
sparrows hide in the bushes waiting their turn, hanging out in patient packs.
the house finch dines together with the others-- sparrows, chickadee, cardinal and junco.
when the blue jay plows in to feed, the sea of birds part;
but the noisy starlings arrival clears everyone out-- iridescent bullies chasing away friends.
Sometimes things happen, and I respond with a very quick knee-jerk reactions. Other times, I respond slower, but from a deep level of understanding and personal experience.
This week I was triggered by a parent not allowing their male child to buy a pink graphic t-shirt because he was a boy and wearing pink might offend the grandmother. Since when is a child responsible for someone else’s reaction—to a color, no less?!
I say nay nay.
Keep your oppressive shame to yourself. Don’t heap it on to a child who happens to be quite comfortable in his own skin. Don’t try to cram someone else, especially a child, into a box that you have chosen for yourself.
Thanks, but no thanks. That’s a hard pass for me.
F*** shame.
The Game of Shame
Oppressive shaming Gotta get gaming Passing out naming Labeling and framing Really just aiming at a child’s heart.
Please tell me you know about this— saying to a child he will be remiss if he wears something grandma won’t like.
It’s oppressive, it’s aggressive, it’s obsessive and regressive. It tears at a child’s heart.
Generational cycles repeating and repeating. Don’t you know that fashion is fleeting? Colors don’t reflect “manliness” or sexuality.
It’s oppressive, it’s aggressive, it’s obsessive and regressive. It tears at a child’s heart.
It’s not ok to place that weight upon a child to tell him he’s responsible, to make him feel exiled all because he’s comfortable inside his own skin.
It’s oppressive, it’s aggressive, it’s obsessive and regressive. It tears at a child’s heart.
I’m sure I did it, I know that I lived it, but I’m breaking that cycle because I can admit it. I can share my story and overcome the past.
It’s oppressive, it’s aggressive, it’s obsessive and regressive. It tears at a child’s heart.
Oppressive shaming Gotta get gaming Passing out naming Labeling and framing Really just aiming at a child’s heart.
A “golden shovel” poem is a poem within a poem—like a puzzle or a mystery. Oh and puzzles and mysteries are challenges that I love.
A poem within a poem? How does that even work? I’m so glad you asked.
First I had to choose a poem to “hide” inside my poem. I chose David Whyte’s poem “Enough” because I love it.
You can check out my “golden shovel” like this: first, read my poem as a complete unit. Then read it again using only the last word from each line and you will read David Whyte’s beautiful poem, “Enough”.
After the week (or three) we’ve been experiencing over here I really felt the need for rest because somehow I can never seem to get enough rest.
Trace is walking really well. We are both amazed at how straight her shoulders have become. She can raise both arms straight up high (she hasn’t been able to do that in years) and her shoulders are even and no longer slumped.
Another benefit since surgery is that her CRPS foot pain has subsided a little. She is so grateful for that!
Lizi is still struggling with pain and trapped gas in her body from the surgery. We are praying it is absorbed into her body or released out one way or another. Ev has been staying with her to help with Little E, and she has been really grateful for his help.
The dogs are finally home, and we are continuing on with their training.
As for me…well…
I. Am. Exhausted.
Sometimes overwhelmed.
Anxious.
Well, you get the idea.
Perhaps you feel the same?
It’s ok to not be ok.
It’s ok to decide to rest.
rest
I find it enough. moments like these when sounds are few and fewer still are words these moments are enough.
no space for what if or worries about what not to do or say. Yes, in these moments I find soul words, I find space within this time to catch my breath.
if only, if only this time were not just like this life--a fading breath
if only this space for sitting for being here and present in this life of wondrous opening would allow me to receive the joy of living life in the present. we know the places we have said no--where we refused to live again; where we struggle and strive again.
I find it enough until pressures of the now rage against the still; until again I rest in the still now.
Coffee in a styrofoam cup—not my favorite, but I am happy we are able to enjoy our coffee together.
What a day!
At 7 am the nurse (under doctor orders) ripped Tracy off her pain pump without making sure her pain was managed.
I probably don’t need to tell you how awful the day was. We spent most of it trying to get back on top of the pain. Trace was crying and her pain all day was largely unmanageable. It was dreadful.
Friends, even I had a hard time.
More than once the tears spilled over in my eyes out of sheer helplessness. At one point, I realized I wasn’t helpless; I had power to help her because I still had my voice.
And one voice has power.
I teach my students this at school, and I believe it to be true. You have a voice, use it wisely. So I made a choice to use my voice and made some phone calls to her surgeon; I also reached out to the hospital case manager.
Once I started reaching out, I found many folks with empathy. The pain management doc isn’t usually at this hospital on Wednesdays, but when he heard what was going on, he came all the way from his Novi clinic after a full work day, just to see Tracy. He reordered the pain pump—administered and weaned differently—and she found some relief.
We finally (both of us) (mostly) slept.
She is up, asked for coffee and her phone and is looking at a breakfast menu. First time she’s wanted to do any of that.
Thank you God for answered prayer and (finally) a pain pump returned!
When Worlds Collide
When worlds collide, life changes in a way that is never quite the same again.
Our path lies where we choose to walk (or fly)—not the beaten path
and maybe not even the road less travelled, but where we establish our rest.
We choose life near the cool waters feasting on simple rhythms— sunrise and sunset,
morning and evening. One giant living hum— peace amidst the chaos— in the middle
of every thing. We sing our stories rejoicing in each moment when worlds collide.
Today is surgery day. I am still in the surgery waiting room and she’s been in there for four hours already. To distract myself from the bile creeping up into my throat, I wrote.
It’s what writers do.
It’s what poets do.
It’s certainly what I do.
I will keep you all posted as soon as I know something.
Trust The Wait
There’s a breathless expectancy in the hospital waiting room. I feel it in the man in blue speaking nervously on his phone;
I feel it in the woman dressed in coral slacks and matching bag as she rushes past with purpose— a faint hint of lillies wafting.
Trust the wait; live in the question— beauty is becoming in us.
Doctors and nurses bustle by eyes cast downward even as I earnestly hope one brings me news. The darkness of waiting covers
me like a cocoon; I hate this. I hate the persistent nagging of worry, the lingering doubt— the waiting and the not knowing.
Trust the wait; live in the question— beauty is becoming in us.
I am longing for this darkness to burst into glorious light; I am waiting for certainty in the middle of misgivings.
So I will close my eyes and long for days when sunshine kissed the waves, and I will set foreboding fears aside to dream of unknown shores.
Trust the wait; live in the question— beauty is becoming in us.
Denial? Perhaps there is some; I prefer resigning to rest. Not dispassionate, but rather prepossessed to my pact with peace.
Trust the wait; live in the question— beauty is becoming in us.
Poetry, Ponderings and Possibilities 