STONEY MAN BECKONS
Cresting his summit
wetted in drifting fog
we climb higher
always harder
no panoramic views
of ridges or passes today
we count ferns, bellwort
among spring sightings
daisies and rhododendron
bracket white trillium
on tree-lined paths
at the peak, he provides
a landing, and we rest
in a silent haze.
TALKING TO GRIEF
Ah, grief, I should not treat you
like a homeless dog
who comes to the back door
for a crust, for a meatless bone.
I should trust you.
I should coax you
into the house and give you
your own corner,
a worn mat to lie on,
your own water dish.
You think I don’t know you’ve been living
under my porch.
You long for your real place to be readied
before winter comes. You need
your name,
your collar and tag. You need
the right to warn off intruders,
to consider my house your own
and me your person
and yourself
my own dog.
— Denise Levertov
I often struggle with the idea of being so public.
That’s funny for those who knew me in the days of being the social networking strategist for Powerful Learning Practice. I totally enjoyed all the connections I made through that work, but I found I tired of being “out there” so much.
These days, I write my blog as a kind of journal, a record of what I’m thinking and doing. And I spend much of my time here.
So today, for the record, I am proud to write that though I’ve had 66 rejections for poetry submissions, I’ve also had some wonderful acceptances. They say if you get one acceptance for 100 rejections, you are doing well:)
Thanks….
Brevity Poetry Review
Haunted Waters Press
The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature (forthcoming)
Curio Poetry
We Two and You
The Front Porch
Mom is settled in her new home, just in time.
The New England blizzard deposited 22 inches of snow around her building, but she was warm and safe.
While I was moving her, I discovered old boxes of letters and cards she had saved over the years. I couldn’t help taking a few minutes to sift through the piles, and I found treasures!
I recognized the handwriting in a poem I wrote to my dad while he was in Vietnam. (I think I was in fourth grade.) The first line shows my typical “big-sister” bossy self: Daddy, I had the idea of a poem first. Debbie copied me!
Daddy, we miss you such an awful, awful lot,
We hope you sleep on a soft, fluffy bed, not an old rag cot.
I was embarrassed by the second, a poorly written piece I attempted in college. I called it “On Contemplating the Thought That I’ve Finally Grown Up,” a poem letting my parents know how much I appreciated them. What a mush of sickening sweet, flowery stuff. At least I worked on line breaks:)
Whenever I read a poem that moves me, I know I’m not alone in the world
I often used NPR’s This I Believe program and materials when I taught middle school. The essays, full of powerful ideas, helped students understand how to speak with their own voices and develop experiences with specific examples.
Here, poet Gregory Orr from The University of Virginia talks about why he writes and reads poetry.
