Tag Archives: mindfulness

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 30 Grief In Four Parts

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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”

NaPoWriMo 2022 Our Lady of the Garden

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Hummingbird right: Photo by Kelly Colgan Azar/flickr/CC.

Today’s prompt was based on the aisling, a poetic form that developed in Ireland. An aisling recounts a dream or vision featuring a woman who represents the land or country on/in which the poet lives, and who speaks to the poet about it.

Today’s challenge was to write a poem that recounts a dream or vision, and in which a woman appears who represents or reflects the area in which I live.

We shall see how this goes today. We shall see what form my dream-visitor takes.

Happy reading!

Our Lady of the Garden

In the garden
a tiny, perfect 
bird landed
on my shoulder.

Jewel-toned
and stunning,
the bird 
morphed into a 
beautiful woman
right before 
my eyes.

The trumpet vines
flashing brilliant
orange flowers 
shone in the sun 
like a halo
around her head.

My angel with 
her flaming crown,
and delicate hands,
she felt
born of spirit,
born of dream.

Sing, she told me
Sing of the Universe.
Sing of the beauty
of the earth.

In my dream-state 
I sing her song. 

I see in her
the land and sky;
she connects me 
to water and earth.
The waves roll
in her laughter;
the plants flourish
under her hands.

From my heart
I sing of us.

We become
a tapestry,
woven together—
garden and bird,
woman and earth.

When I wake,
it is daylight.
I look out 
my window
and see
a hummingbird—
wings whirling
without resting—
sipping nectar 
from flaming goblets 
shaped like 
trumpet flowers.

—cjpjordan




NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 23 Ghosts in Late Summer

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Thank you and shoutout to Ashkan Forouzani who made this image available for free on Unsplash.

Today the challenge was to write a poem in the style of Kay Ryan, whose poems tend to be short and snappy – with a lot of rhyme and soundplay. They also have a deceptive simplicity about them, like proverbs or aphorisms.

Once you’ve read a few, you’ll see what the poetry task was all about. You can read them here: “Token Loss,” “Blue China Doorknob,” “Houdini,” and “Crustacean Island.”

I’m not sure if I accomplished it, but here is my poem for today.

Happy reading!

Ghosts in Late Summer

Words hung 
softly, but still
too loud
for a dead 
thing. All that
remained of summer 
seemed spent, so
I ran straight 
away into 
the chill
of autumn
nipping. Never mind 
the plotted hours
of living where 
we found 
stolen strength 
to see past
what was 
in front of
our eyes. When
I heard 
your last 
whisper through 
the wall, I 
wasn’t ready
to face winter 
alone. I felt 
lost, for we
loved deeply
and without 
many words. Imagine
then my surprise
at the loud 
voice of 
your ghost.

 —cjpjordan

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 22 The Owl Sees

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Thank you and shoutout to Richard Lee for making this beautiful photo available for free on Unsplash.

The prompt for today was in honor of today being the 22nd day of Na/GloPoWriMo 2022, and they challenged me to write a poem that used repetition. I was invited to repeat a sound, a word, a phrase, or an image, or any combination of things.

So, here you go fellow poetry loving friends. Not as repetitious as some poems I’ve written, but there is that element throughout.

Happy Weekend to you!

The Owl Sees

Where the mind ends, the owl sees—
through Ominous golden eyes
It breathes in stealth and exhales 
darkness gliding through blue-black skies. 
Underneath the fern unfurls,
shivers in the windy wake.

Where the mind ends, the owl sees—
with certainty of vision
and a clarity of mind;
she free falls into the darkness,
her mournful cry resounding
into the boundless cosmos.

Where the mind ends, the owl sees—
the wilderness unconstrained,
the weeping child whose wailing
seeps into the warping twilight.
Inside echos of sadness
the owl and child grieve as one.

—cjpjordan

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 20 The Blossom

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Thanks to Eleni Trapp @elenies for making this photo available freely on Unsplash.

Today’s prompt challenged me to write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food. I’m not sure I really accomplished this, but I certainly managed an idea to the cherry blossom.

Can you tell I’m longing for spring?

My bones miss the energy of the warm sun on my skin. Each morning they beg for mercy from the chill of frost and bitter wind.

My nose misses that honey sweet scent mixed with the musty wet earth that accompanies the spring blooms.

Please come quickly!

The Blossom

Born in boggy sorrow, blossoms 
billowing in the breeze after 
the harrow of heavy spring rains.

Sunshine and spring leave their stamp on 
stained fingers and lips sealed with a 
kiss of ruby goodness. Juicy

life carefully cultivated 
from the bitterness of winter—
the making of a miracle.

I raise my cupped hands to drink in
sweet almond and honey fragrance—
so delicate that it’s nearly 

indiscernible. The secrets 
of spring in a solitary 
word: cherries are a metaphor

for life—the taste is tart, the scent
is sweet, the process leaves its mark
lingering on our skin for days.

I am certain the Cherry knows 
the full weight of power possessed
for it returns year after year.

Hope comes alive in each blossom;
otherwise we would waste away
in a world of constant winter.

—cjpjordan

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 19

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Thank you to Mikołaj who made this image available for free on Unsplash

Today’s challenge was to write a poem that starts with a command. It could be as uncomplicated as “Look,” as plaintive as “Come back,” or as silly as “Don’t you even think about putting that hot sauce in your hair.”

By the time I started writing today, I was completely exhausted. I had so much work to do after I got home, and by the time I sat down to write, it was 8:20 pm.

Short and sweet is what the day demanded. 

The Story

Open the book
Read the prologue
And you’ll know
All my intent

Open the book
Read the epilogue
And you’ll know
Where I went.

Open the book
Read the chapters
And you’ll know
What I meant.

—cjpjordan

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 16

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Thanks to Greg Rakozy @grakozy for making this photo available freely on Unsplash.

Whew! Today’s prompt was a doozy and just what I needed to recharge my brain.

Today we were challenged to write a curtal sonnet. A curtal sonnet is a variation on the classic 14-line sonnet. The curtal sonnet form was developed by Gerard Manley Hopkins, and he used it for what is probably his most famous poem, “Pied Beauty.”

A curtal sonnet has eleven lines, instead of the usual fourteen, and the last line is shorter than the ten that precede it. The rhyme scheme is 11 lines rhyming abcabc dcbdc or abcabc dbcdc with the last line a tail, or half a line.

There is some mathematical formula Hopkins used to precisely curtail the typical sonnet, but the real cog in the works is the sprung rhythm that breaks away from the traditional iambic pentameter of Shakespeare or Dr. Seuss.

To be completely honest, I have no idea at all what I am doing. I researched and read a number of examples, but each one was different from the other in some critical form/stylistic way.

So, I’m not sure if this is really a curtal sonnet or not, but it is my poem for the day. I chose to use 12 syllable lines and the abcabc dcbdc rhyme scheme.

Happy Saturday!

Mottled Soul

Over all, under and through, the mystery lasts.
Look how I trust and hope even after I rolled
Down the hill with darkness closing in on all sides. 
I realize now the truth of how light contrasts
With hope invisible and her friend harrow bold.
Oh the tragedy of how disaster divides!

Loneliness overstays; isolation befriends—
And I am left wondering how the earth provides
For everything missing or lost at the threshold.
Look with wonder at how simplicity amends 

and instinct bravely guides.

—cjpjordan

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 14

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Thanks and shoutout to Annie Spratt who made this luscious lemon photo available for free on Unsplash.

Today’s challenge was an interesting one. I was to write a poem that takes the form of the opening scene of a movie depicting my life.

This year the prompts have all been similar in some ways. There’s not much focus on form. Instead, the focus is just on using words to paint pictures. It’s been a challenge and has tightened my connection with words (or the lack thereof).

I don’t always know where the ideas come from. As I fall asleep, I prick my fingertips and they bleed onto the page. When I wake, the words have formed a poem.

When folks say things like “it’s all about the journey”, believe them. Every word is true.

Here is what I have learned halfway through this month. It is nothing new or even particularly profound, but it is the story of my journey: embrace the past (you can’t escape it), face the future (it’s coming so you might as well face it), and live in the now.

Lemon Groves

I turn off 
Main Street 
and head south—
top down,
breeze blowing.

I push
my hair back,
and suddenly
I can see.

Behind me
lemon groves
bear fruit;
my trunk
full of lemons
as proof.

With the heat
of midday,
I smell
delicate decisions—
citrus songs,
fermenting fruit.

Intersections 
define direction;
not all roads
lead back home.

I suppose
home lives
in the trunk
with the lemons,
fermenting 
into luscious 
limoncello.


—cjpjordan

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 13

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Today, in honor of the potential luckiness of the number 13, I was challenged to write a poem that, like the example poem here, joyfully states that “Everything is Going to Be Amazing.”

Sometimes, good fortune can seem impossibly distant, but even if you can’t drum up the enthusiasm to write a riotous pep-talk, perhaps you can muse on the possibility of good things coming down the track.

As they say, “the sun will come up tomorrow,” and if nothing else, this world offers us the persistent possibility of surprise

Hum of Hope

I heard 
the low steady, 
insuppressible hum;
it was always running 
like a droning dial tone 
from days gone by.

Many people 
looked curiously at me
because they heard
only silence.

But I am a gatekeeper 
with a finely tuned ear.

The cadence careens
down the halls, 
dashing into rooms,
echoing with memories, 
with experience, 
and with desire.

The hum of hope,
is my song;
it is the vibrance 
of being alive—
my joy 
that cannot 
be hushed.

—cjpjordan


NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 7

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Thanks to Dylan LaPierre @drench777 for making this photo available freely on Unsplash

Today’s prompt was the challenge to write a poem that argues against, or somehow questions, a proverb or saying.

They say that “all cats are black at midnight,” but are they really? Surely some of them remain striped. And maybe there is an ill wind that blows some good. Perhaps that wind just has some mild dyspepsia. 

I chose a phrase from Emily Dickinson who had become my muse for this poetry writing month. It’s rather a metaphor than a proverb but that’s close enough for me today. I’m feeling the joy of tweaking a piece I wrote some time ago when Ryan was still living directly underneath the Brown Line “L” Train in Chicago.

when death comes
 
emily says dying is a wild night and a new road.
i say dying is sort of like walking too close to the rails 
when the chicago “l” whizzes by--whooosh! 
nowyouseeme.
nowyoudon’t.
dying tastes like a quiet color 
in explosive rainbow proportions. 
i hear the clacking coming,
i feel the rush of wind,
i touch the steamy air 
just before that silver bullet train whizzes toward me.
 
i wonder if the actual moment of death feels 
like being a rider on the train 
watching the people stare 
as i pass by them.
 
i wonder if death feels like new life.
 
i wonder if becalmanddie 
would make a good slogan on a billboard 
to advertise dying.
 
perhaps emily is right after all;
perhaps there should be a billboard sign
lit in blinking neon lights,
guiding the way home on the new road,
which just happens to pass a tad too close 
to the Chicago l tracks—

whooosh!

—cjpjordan