Today I'm sharing 2 poems by Izumi Shikibu, a Japanese poet who lived more than a thousand years ago. You can learn a bit more about her at the Poetry Foundation.
From darkness
On a shadowed path
I must make my way;
Let it faintly shine,
The moon upon the mountain’s edge.
Varied are
The feelings in my heart
But
Completely
Soaking are my sleeves.
You can read more of her poems at Waka Poetry.
I do hope you'll take some time to check out all the wonderful poetic things being shared and collected today by Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference. Happy poetry Friday friends.
Friday, April 20, 2018
Thursday, April 19, 2018
NPM 4-19: Poem of the One World
Today I'm sharing a bit of Mary Oliver.
Poem of the One World
This morning
the beautiful white heron
was floating along above the water
and then into the sky of this
the one world
we all belong to
where everything
sooner or later
is a part of everything else
which thought made me feel
for a little while
quite beautiful myself.
Poem of the One World
This morning
the beautiful white heron
was floating along above the water
and then into the sky of this
the one world
we all belong to
where everything
sooner or later
is a part of everything else
which thought made me feel
for a little while
quite beautiful myself.
Happy Thursday all.
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
NPM 4-18: Invictus
I love this recitation.
Here's the poem.
Invictus
by William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
Happy Wednesday all.
Here's the poem.
Invictus
by William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
Happy Wednesday all.
Tuesday, April 17, 2018
NPM 4-17: The More Loving One
Today I'm sharing a poem by W. H. Auden, a poet I might never have read were it not for the movie Four Weddings and a Funeral. (You can see an excerpt here.)
The More Loving One
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Happy Tuesday all.
The More Loving One
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Happy Tuesday all.
Monday, April 16, 2018
NPM 4-16: Lord, the air smells good ...
Today I'm sharing a poem by Rumi.
Lord, the air smells good today,
straight from the mysteries
within the inner courts of God.
A grace like new clothes thrown
across the garden, free medicine for everybody.
The trees in their prayer, the birds in praise,
the first blue violets kneeling.
Whatever came from Being is caught up in being, drunkenly
forgetting the way back.
Happy Monday all.
Lord, the air smells good today,
straight from the mysteries
within the inner courts of God.
A grace like new clothes thrown
across the garden, free medicine for everybody.
The trees in their prayer, the birds in praise,
the first blue violets kneeling.
Whatever came from Being is caught up in being, drunkenly
forgetting the way back.
Happy Monday all.
Sunday, April 15, 2018
NPM 4-15: Ode to Ironing
Today I'm sharing a poem by Pablo Neruda.
Ode to Ironing
Poetry is white:
it comes from the water covered with drops,
it wrinkles and piles up,
the skin of this planet must be stretched,
the sea of its whiteness must be ironed,
and the hands move and move,
the holy surfaces are smoothed out,
and that is how things are made:
hands make the world each day,
fire becomes one with steel,
linen, canvas, and cotton arrive
from the combat of the laundries,
and out of light a dove is born:
chastity returns from the foam.
Happy Sunday all.
Saturday, April 14, 2018
NPM 4-14: Marathon
I'm not running a marathon, but a 10K today. This poem seemed fitting.
Marathon
by E. Ethelbert Miller
it’s a strange time which finds me jogging
in early morning
the deadness of sleep alive in this world
the empty parks filled with unloved strangers
buildings grey with solitude
now near the end of another decade
i am witness to the loss of my twenties
a promise invisible
i run without purpose
far from the north star
i run with the sound of barking dogs closing in
i have lost count of the miles
i am older and nothing much matters
or has changed
Happy Saturday all.
Marathon
by E. Ethelbert Miller
it’s a strange time which finds me jogging
in early morning
the deadness of sleep alive in this world
the empty parks filled with unloved strangers
buildings grey with solitude
now near the end of another decade
i am witness to the loss of my twenties
a promise invisible
i run without purpose
far from the north star
i run with the sound of barking dogs closing in
i have lost count of the miles
i am older and nothing much matters
or has changed
Happy Saturday all.
Friday, April 13, 2018
NPM 4-13 and Poetry Friday: This One's for Lee
How do you honor someone who's heart and soul breathes poetry?Today the inimitable Lee Bennett Hopkins is celebrating a birthday. This then, is the perfect day to celebrate all he has done and continues to do to commend, nurture and expand the world of children's poetry. While he is a noted poet and prized anthologist, Lee does so much more for children's poetry. Lee founded the Lee Bennett Hopkins Poetry Award, an award presented annually to an American poet or anthologist for the most outstanding new book of children's poetry published in the previous calendar year. Since its inception in 1993, the winning poet or anthologist has received a plaque and honorarium made possible through Lee's generosity. You'll also find his name attached to the ILA Lee Bennett Hopkins Promising Poet Award, which is given every three years to a promising new poet of children’s poetry (for children and young adults up to grade 12).
I can't say enough about his generosity of spirit, his mentoring and tireless efforts on behalf of poets both new and experienced, and his boundless enthusiasm for poetry as a medium to touch the hearts and lives of children.
On this special day, here's a short poem for Lee.
How do you honor
an icon? With poetry
crafted in love.
an icon? With poetry
crafted in love.
With much gratitude and so much love for who you are, what you do, and what you stand for, I send you the fondest birthday wishes.
I do hope you'll take some time to check out the other birthday wishes and all the wonderful poetic things being shared and collected today by Robin at Life on the Deckle Edge. Happy poetry Friday friends.
Thursday, April 12, 2018
NPM 4-12: So Much Happiness
Today I'm sharing a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye.
So Much Happiness
It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to
pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs
or change.
But happiness floats.
It doesn’t need you to hold it down.
It doesn’t need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records…
Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known.
Happy Thursday all.
So Much Happiness
It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to
pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs
or change.
But happiness floats.
It doesn’t need you to hold it down.
It doesn’t need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records…
Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known.
Happy Thursday all.
Wednesday, April 11, 2018
NPM 4-11: You See I Want a Lot
Today I'm sharing a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke.
You See I Want a Lot
You see, I want a lot.
Perhaps I want everything:
the darkness that comes with every infinite fall
and the shivering blaze of every step up.
So many live on and want nothing,
and are raised to the rank of prince
by the slippery ease of their light judgments.
But what you see are faces
that do work and feel thirst.
You love most of all those who need you
as they need a crowbar or a hoe.
You have not grown old, and it is not too late
to dive into your increasing depths
where life calmly gives out its own secret.
Happy Wednesday all.
You See I Want a Lot
You see, I want a lot.
Perhaps I want everything:
the darkness that comes with every infinite fall
and the shivering blaze of every step up.
So many live on and want nothing,
and are raised to the rank of prince
by the slippery ease of their light judgments.
But what you see are faces
that do work and feel thirst.
You love most of all those who need you
as they need a crowbar or a hoe.
You have not grown old, and it is not too late
to dive into your increasing depths
where life calmly gives out its own secret.
Happy Wednesday all.
Tuesday, April 10, 2018
NPM 4-10: When I Am Among the Trees
I've been listening to (in yin) and reading quite a bit of Mary Oliver these days. Today I'm sharing one of her poems.
When I Am Among the Trees
by Mary Oliver
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
Happy Tuesday all.
When I Am Among the Trees
by Mary Oliver
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
Happy Tuesday all.
Monday, April 09, 2018
NPM 4-9: Lilacs
When I was growing up, we had purple and while lilac bushes in the yard. The city held a Lilac Festival every year. I adored lilacs. When I moved to Virginia, I learned that Wisteria is a shoddy substitute. Since I've just returned from a trip to Rochester (a snowy one!), I have lilacs on my mind.
Today I'm sharing an excerpt from a poem by Amy Lowell.
Lilacs,
False blue,
White,
Purple,
Color of lilac.
Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England,
Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England,
Lilac in me because I am New England,
Because my roots are in it,
Because my leaves are of it,
Because my flowers are for it,
Because it is my country
And I speak to it of itself
And sing of it with my own voice
Since certainly it is mine.
Read the poem in its entirety.
Happy Monday all.
Today I'm sharing an excerpt from a poem by Amy Lowell.
Lilacs,
False blue,
White,
Purple,
Color of lilac.
Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England,
Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England,
Lilac in me because I am New England,
Because my roots are in it,
Because my leaves are of it,
Because my flowers are for it,
Because it is my country
And I speak to it of itself
And sing of it with my own voice
Since certainly it is mine.
Read the poem in its entirety.
Happy Monday all.
Sunday, April 08, 2018
NPM 4-8: When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d
Today I'm sharing an excerpt from the poem When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d by Walt Whitman.
13
Sing on, sing on you gray-brown bird,
Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the bushes,
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.
Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song,
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.
O liquid and free and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul—O wondrous singer!
You only I hear—yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,)
Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.
Read the poem in its entirety.
Happy Sunday all.
Saturday, April 07, 2018
NPM 4-7: Highway 90
I've been reading essays on poetry, most recently The Art of Finding by Linda Gregg. Today I'm sharing on of her poems.
Highway 90
An owl lands on the side
of the road. Turns its head
to look at me going fast,
window open to the night
on the desert. Clean air,
and the great stars.
I’m trying to decide
if this is what I want.
“Highway 90” by Linda Gregg from In the Middle Distance, Graywolf Press.
Happy Saturday all.
Highway 90
An owl lands on the side
of the road. Turns its head
to look at me going fast,
window open to the night
on the desert. Clean air,
and the great stars.
I’m trying to decide
if this is what I want.
“Highway 90” by Linda Gregg from In the Middle Distance, Graywolf Press.
Happy Saturday all.
Friday, April 06, 2018
Poetry Sisters Write to a Bishop Line
The challenge this month was to take one line from the poem One Art by Elizabeth Bishop and use it as a line in a new poem.
Since I have a 10K coming up in a week, running has been on my mind. In an effort to lift my spirits when I go out for longer runs, I've been wearing pigtails. Can you imagine it? A 50-something in pigtails? It makes me giggle a little when I see my shadow and seems to make the miles just a bit more fun. If you've been on Facebook you've seen the pictures. Since one of our group is not on Facebook (ahem!), I've posted it here for her viewing pleasure.
Here's the poem I wrote to the line "Then practice losing farther, losing faster." This poem couldn't decide if it wanted to be angsty or funny, so it has a bit of a split personality, but it was a good place to start my writing and thinking.
I Am A Runner
Running is my morning prayer.
A meditation on the moment,
in the silence of waking dawn,
the beauty of the world unfolds
while I sweat, ache, and complain.
I do it, but often (usually) hate it.
I don’t run to win.
There won’t be a race I’ll finish
anywhere near the front.
Hills, water stops, a stray wisp of hair,
the need to constantly adjust my shorts,
slow me down.
I suppose this practice
(losing farther, losing faster),
only serves to push me forward,
keeps me putting one expensive shoe
in front of the other.
Running is about faith -
Faith in my feet
Faith in the uneven road
Faith that I’ll get out of bed
Faith that I’ll start
because once I'm in the race,
there's nothing to do but
finish
After I got this one under my belt, I felt like I needed something more "serious." I ended up with a list poem that kept changing. Since these exercises are all about getting poems out in the world, I'm finally setting this one free, even though it doesn't actually feel finished. It actually needs some sort of lamentation at the end, but I'm just not sure what that is yet. Here's what I've written so far using the line "of lost door keys, the hour badly spent." You'll notice that in this poem and the one above, I didn't exactly stick to the selected line.
Lamentation for Things Lost
lost jobs, beloved colleagues
books lent and not returned
lost pets, time to myself
the pleasure of quiet spaces
lost door keys, hours badly spent
real money in loose change
lost oaks and pines, the Monopoly dog,
the sound of my father's voice
lost innocence, idealism
a favorite president
lost hope (every now and then)
the ability not to care
I do hope you'll take some time to check out all the wonderful poetic things being shared and collected today by Amy at The Poem Farm. Happy poetry Friday friends.
Since I have a 10K coming up in a week, running has been on my mind. In an effort to lift my spirits when I go out for longer runs, I've been wearing pigtails. Can you imagine it? A 50-something in pigtails? It makes me giggle a little when I see my shadow and seems to make the miles just a bit more fun. If you've been on Facebook you've seen the pictures. Since one of our group is not on Facebook (ahem!), I've posted it here for her viewing pleasure.
I Am A Runner
Running is my morning prayer.
A meditation on the moment,
in the silence of waking dawn,
the beauty of the world unfolds
while I sweat, ache, and complain.
I do it, but often (usually) hate it.
I don’t run to win.
There won’t be a race I’ll finish
anywhere near the front.
Hills, water stops, a stray wisp of hair,
the need to constantly adjust my shorts,
slow me down.
I suppose this practice
(losing farther, losing faster),
only serves to push me forward,
keeps me putting one expensive shoe
in front of the other.
Running is about faith -
Faith in my feet
Faith in the uneven road
Faith that I’ll get out of bed
Faith that I’ll start
because once I'm in the race,
there's nothing to do but
finish
After I got this one under my belt, I felt like I needed something more "serious." I ended up with a list poem that kept changing. Since these exercises are all about getting poems out in the world, I'm finally setting this one free, even though it doesn't actually feel finished. It actually needs some sort of lamentation at the end, but I'm just not sure what that is yet. Here's what I've written so far using the line "of lost door keys, the hour badly spent." You'll notice that in this poem and the one above, I didn't exactly stick to the selected line.
Lamentation for Things Lost
lost jobs, beloved colleagues
books lent and not returned
lost pets, time to myself
the pleasure of quiet spaces
lost door keys, hours badly spent
real money in loose change
lost oaks and pines, the Monopoly dog,
the sound of my father's voice
a favorite president
lost hope (every now and then)
the ability not to care
Poems ©Tricia Stohr-Hunt, 2018. All rights reserved.
You can read the pieces written written by my poetry sisters at the links below.
Thursday, April 05, 2018
NPM 4-5: Keeping Things Whole
Today I am sharing a poem by Mark Strand.
Keeping Things Whole
In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
“Keeping Things Whole” by Mark Strand from Selected Poems, Alfred A. Knopf.
Happy Thursday all.
Keeping Things Whole
In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
“Keeping Things Whole” by Mark Strand from Selected Poems, Alfred A. Knopf.
Happy Thursday all.
Wednesday, April 04, 2018
NPM 4-4: The Peace of Wild Things
Today I'm sharing a poem by Wendell Berry. Give a listen.
The Peace of Wild Things
by Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Happy Wednesday all.
The Peace of Wild Things
by Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Happy Wednesday all.
Tuesday, April 03, 2018
NPM 4-3: A Map to the Next World
Today I'm sharing an excerpt from the poem A Map to the Next World by Joy Harjo.
Happy Tuesday all.
You will see red cliffs. They are the heart, contain the ladder.
A white deer will greet you when the last human climbs from the
destruction.
Remember the hole of shame marking the act of abandoning our
tribal grounds.
We were never perfect.
Yet, the journey we make together is perfect on this earth who was
once a star and made the same mistakes as humans.
We might make them again, she said.
Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.
You must make your own map.Read the poem in its entirety.
Happy Tuesday all.
Monday, April 02, 2018
NPM 4-2: Sailing Into National Poetry Month
I am late to the party, having nothing planned for the month but to share poetry as it moves me.
Can two words be a poem? I'd like to think so. Yesterday at the sunrise Easter service, the sermon ended with the words "Joy wins." Those words ran through my mind all day and are still with me. I'm going to carry them for a while.
Today I'm sharing a poem Lucille Clifton.
blessing the boats
(at St. Mary’s)
may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that
“blessing the boats” Copyright © 2001 by Lucille Clifton from Quilting: Poems 1987-1990, BOA Editions, Ltd.
Happy Monday all.
Can two words be a poem? I'd like to think so. Yesterday at the sunrise Easter service, the sermon ended with the words "Joy wins." Those words ran through my mind all day and are still with me. I'm going to carry them for a while.
Today I'm sharing a poem Lucille Clifton.
blessing the boats
(at St. Mary’s)
may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that
“blessing the boats” Copyright © 2001 by Lucille Clifton from Quilting: Poems 1987-1990, BOA Editions, Ltd.
Happy Monday all.
Friday, March 02, 2018
Ekphrastic Poems With My Poetry Sisters
This month Liz offered up a photo as fodder for our poems. She took this at the Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs, Colorado.
I did a quick brainstorming exercise, but had a hard time getting away from "between a rock and a hard place." Eventually, the word wedge came to me, and I spent some time thinking about examples of wedges -- a Trivial Pursuit pie, summer sandals, a tool for splitting wood, and more. In the end, it wasn't the noun that moved me, but the verb.
Research on vocabulary learning contends we need 12 to 20 meaningful exposures to learn a word (McKeown, Beck, Omanson, and Pople, 1985). These exposures are most effective if they appear over an extended period of time.
That painful ear wasn’t
due to infection
but rather a small plastic toy
from the gumball machine
stuck where it didn’t belong
Age 4
No, my head wasn’t meant
to fit between the support
bars underneath the kitchen table
Age 5
Playing hide and seek
in the house
my favorite spot was
between the furnace and the wall
Age 7
When my older sister’s boyfriends
came to the house
I regularly charmed my way
into the space between them
on the couch
Age 11
First day of junior high
changing classes in a crowded hallway
turning sideways didn’t make it easier
to pass, but flying elbows did
Age 16
The thrill of my first subway ride
accompanied by the terror
of bodies pressed on every side
wondering how I'll ever get out
Age 17
First time on a plane
Continental airlines flight
from Buffalo to San Francisco
middle seat between two smokers
Age 19
Friday night dance lessons
female cadets in dress blues lined the wall
surrounded by Conn College coeds
in beautiful civilian clothes
Age 20
Before you set sail you learn
that you can't turn around in the head
or sit up in the bunk
Age 22
Raised voices, fists flying
trying to separate two eighth grade boys
close enough to both
to feel the spit and tears
Age 25
It's an interesting dance
trying to fit into too small
clothes - that dress, those jeans
Age 35
Eight months pregnant
stubbornly trying to thread the gap
in public spaces I clearly wasn't meant
to navigate
Age 52
Preparing dinner
Cooper jams his head
between my legs and the counter
hoping for some scraps
Poem ©Tricia Stohr-Hunt, 2018. All rights reserved.
Photo ©Liz Garton Scanlon
I did a quick brainstorming exercise, but had a hard time getting away from "between a rock and a hard place." Eventually, the word wedge came to me, and I spent some time thinking about examples of wedges -- a Trivial Pursuit pie, summer sandals, a tool for splitting wood, and more. In the end, it wasn't the noun that moved me, but the verb.
On Learning Vocabulary
WedgeAge 3
/wej/
verb
1. force into a narrow space
That painful ear wasn’t
due to infection
but rather a small plastic toy
from the gumball machine
stuck where it didn’t belong
Age 4
No, my head wasn’t meant
to fit between the support
bars underneath the kitchen table
Age 5
Playing hide and seek
in the house
my favorite spot was
between the furnace and the wall
Age 7
When my older sister’s boyfriends
came to the house
I regularly charmed my way
into the space between them
on the couch
Age 11
First day of junior high
changing classes in a crowded hallway
turning sideways didn’t make it easier
to pass, but flying elbows did
Age 16
The thrill of my first subway ride
accompanied by the terror
of bodies pressed on every side
wondering how I'll ever get out
Age 17
First time on a plane
Continental airlines flight
from Buffalo to San Francisco
middle seat between two smokers
Age 19
Friday night dance lessons
female cadets in dress blues lined the wall
surrounded by Conn College coeds
in beautiful civilian clothes
Age 20
Before you set sail you learn
that you can't turn around in the head
or sit up in the bunk
Age 22
Raised voices, fists flying
trying to separate two eighth grade boys
close enough to both
to feel the spit and tears
Age 25
It's an interesting dance
trying to fit into too small
clothes - that dress, those jeans
Age 35
Eight months pregnant
stubbornly trying to thread the gap
in public spaces I clearly wasn't meant
to navigate
Age 52
Preparing dinner
Cooper jams his head
between my legs and the counter
hoping for some scraps
Poem ©Tricia Stohr-Hunt, 2018. All rights reserved.
You can read the pieces written written by my poetry sisters at the links below.
- Tanita Davis
- Kelly Fineman
- Sara Lewis Holmes
- Laura Purdie Salas
- Liz Garton Scanlon
I do hope you'll take some time to check out all the wonderful poetic things being shared and collected today by Renee at No Water River. Happy poetry Friday friends.
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