I can just picture kiddos and doggo glowing gold in the sun! What a beautiful image. And thank youso much for introducing me to the word 'apricity', which might be my new favorite word now. When I googled its meaning, I found this lovely list of rare wintry words that all seem to be begging to be brought to life by poems - https://www.merriam-webster.com/wordplay/winter-words
I was feeling a bit lazy and thought I might not look up the word apricity, but I did and I'm so glad -- it made me gasp! I so feel this where I live just shy of the 49th parallel, every scrap of sunshine so important this time of year -- and sun shining through falling snow onto playing kids and a dog is about as magical as it gets. Thank you for this lovely scene.
l'm with Lisa - what a delicious word "apracity" is!!! This is lovely in the simplicity of these images. The whole poem,, not just the kids and dog, glistens.
A., you have lifted up the magic and wonder of that lovely phrase to most kids--"Snow day." I recall Noah and BRady often askimng us "do you think it will be a snow day tomorrow/" and "
"I am praying for a snow day." I always thought to myself, " I hear you loved ones..' Our whole world needs snow days, sabbath days, sabbatical time, jubillee years. and thinking of Kaitlin Curtice's post this week on capitalism and consumerism, I believe capaitalism needs a whole lot of snow days, aka slow days.
I really love and enjoy the way your poems always make me think and ponder far beyond what I would have other wise.
I loved Kaitlin's post this week, too! And I agree, we all need more snow/slow days. It was hard having to explain to Sybil why daddy had to go to work even though she was staying home.
Oh I love it! We live in the south so snow days were special for my kiddos too. Well, actually my 23 year old grad student who lives at home was watching the university social media with bated breath this week as well!
I love that! You're never too old to get excited about snow. We're located in upstate New York, so the snow isn't exactly a new occurrence (though we hadn't had much this season until now) but it's our first official snow day since Sybi started pre-k this year, so it definitely felt special. We had hot chocolate and everything.
Aww how sweet! It's funny, I am not the snow person. In Arkansas we maybe get snow once a year (ice more often) so I like to see it but not be in it. But my husband loves it and wants to go out in it and was always the one to go out with the girls. And he still was asking Sarah (the 23 yo) every day several times "so do you want to go outside and just walk around," "it's not that cold" - it was like 10 degrees. Our normal lows are in the 20s and 30s. She humored him a few times. :)
I've found I don't really like to play in the snow, as much as I was excited to do so as a kid - I think it was more participation in a timeless sort of ritual that I enjoyed. But I did enjoy watching the kids and the snow as I sat on the deck bundled up! Generally I'm more of a sit inside and watch the snow from under a blanket sort of person. 😅
I tried to write something new, I did. But when I checked the headlines, I just saw one subject and I am afraid my ranting on that one might get me on a watch list ;) and I didn't want to focus on him lol.
So I went back to a poem I wrote that is pretty simple and rhyme-y but is heartfelt. I wrote this in November of 2017 and I had to actually go and look up what tragedy preceded it. Isn't that pitiful - so many shootings we forget. It was a church shooting in Texas. I shared this poem a couple days later on FB and then again on 02/15/18 - that time it was for Parkland.
I love this, Karri, especially the ending - “remain aware, continue to care and live to love another day.” It’s hard to stay both fully aware AND allow yourself to keep caring because that’s where the grief comes in - but it’s where love lives, too.
I join the chorus of comments expressing appreciation for this heartfelt poem, which struck me as a prayer for peace. I love the idea of "holding on tight" to those you love *and* those you meet. I think you did quite a lot with your grief, Karri, by writing this, sharing it back then, and sharing it again now. It's truly (and somewhat sadly), a timeless poem-prayer-petition. Thank you for sharing your beautiful heart here.
This is beautiful, Karri. If everyone lived by the code you express here -- practicing care for others, staying aware of our country's problems, courageously speaking up, working for real change while staying hopeful -- in other words, a lot more than "thoughts and prayers" -- we'd be in a whole different place. I love how in this one poem you are able to meaningfully grieve for what has happened (and is still happening) but keep the overall feeling in love/hope.
Sometimes it feels like it's never going to end, but this poem is such a beautiful example of exactly what each of us can do when we feel helpless. Thank you for sharing.
This is splendid Karri. And I am struck how you write a poem for one event, and quickly another comes where the poem applies, and another, and another. Thank you for capturing the feelings of helplessness, hopelessness and hopefulness and a committment to keep moving for change.
I wrote this just now after reading a recent interview on NPR about the 3 ingredients for fun. A topic of mystery for one who was raised by rather Calvinistic parents.
Keith, wow! You had me laughing out loud in the first section - Key Play Indicators, omg! And then, my defenses down, you went straight for the gut. What an incredible turn you created with the lines "Why is it, I wonder, that what we most need to remember, we are most likely to forget. And what we most need to forget, most likely to remember?" And like everyone else, I was utterly charmed by your repeated mention of "I, and by that, I mean we."
Maybe you (or at least some of you) are a very fragile and sensitive flower, friend, and maybe play is a fragile flower, too, but you (whichever yous took turns at the keys) have written a very playful poem. It makes me think of the roughhousing play of my kids . . . . play, play, play, fun, fun, fun, laughter, then BAM punch to the gut! But in the good way.
Thanks, Lisa - so glad you enjoyed this, and especially the hairpin turn in the middle! Yes, it's interesting to think about which "me" is writing...it's definitely a joint collaboration. I love the metaphor of the poem having been like your kids' roughhousing! :)) I actually *can* remember that sort of play, even from my own childhood.
"I, and by that, I mean we because there are many of me" This made me picture a whole field of beautiful, fragile, sensitive flowers just basking in the sun together.
I absolutely love this poem, Keith. At the beginning it felt like you yourself were playing, using deliciously dry humor to quote the fun expert and tell us about planning play and seeking outside help to meet Key Play Indicators. From there it would have been easy to land in "what is wrong with our society?" talk, holding the topic at arm's length -- but instead you pivot into vulnerability, helping us to see the many yous who don't have an easy relationship with play, who may not feel safe in play. And then you finish with more gentle play by bringing us back to the fragile / sensitive flower image. I hope this isn't a misreading! It's how it "played" out for me and it was so lovely.
Thanks so much, Rebekah - so glad you liked this - and thanks for telling me how it unfolded for you! Your read of it aligned with my intentions in writing it, but even if it hadn't, it wouldn't have been wrong, in my way of thinking. I sort of look at it as I "write" it (really, something bigger than me plants an idea), but it belongs to the reader, once I offer it. All that to say, I loved your interpretation, it was beautiful *and* it rang true for me :))
This is a strikingly beauitful poem, Keith. I, too, love this phraiseing: "I, and by that, I mean we
because there are many of me," so lovely and a wonderful turnuing oif I into we, individual to collective. We are so very frsfgil, "like a sensitive flower." Why is it, I wonder,
that what we most need to remember, we are most likely to forget..." oh my, so true. Your poem is full of these tender and piericing moment, beauitful in the way a truly classic song is magnificient in its full scope and in its individual lines. I admire and am grateful for your skillful, artful and genuine poems.
Thank you so much for your kind and complimentary feedback, Larry! What a warm way to start a very cold day :). I'm glad you liked the "I/me/we" bits. I was thinking of the double-meaning there, as in Walt Whitman's "I contain multitudes" and we as the collective we being all one in the bigger spiritual picture. Thanks for picking up on that.
I felt inspired to write about a different sort of cliff, one that I am perhaps too misanthropic to worry about. It's based largely on this opinion piece about the looming human population peak: https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2023/09/18/opinion/human-population-global-growth.html. Also some more recent reporting about China now being in population decline, and countries around the world scrambling to boost their fertility rates. Apologies for the million lines here, I was trying to draw an exponential down curve that may or may not come through...
I love this so much and love the image of you dancing your old heart out with a gaggle of woodland creatures, like an aging and perhaps slightly unhinged Cinderella. There are so many evocative images and lines in this poem. One of my favorites is "all my double helices throwing up their strand-hands in unison."
Oh, and for the record, I think you are THE BEST human!
That's so funny, I was picturing myself as an aging and unhinged Snow White! But I'll accept any geriatric Disney princess labels you want to throw at me. ;)
I can only imagine you and your old heart dancing with creatures with very different steps than the reckless maneuvers of personal choice and statistics, regardless of which geriatric Disney princess you choose! This was a terrifically clever op-ed poem, Rebekah! I too loved several of the lines, including Lisa's fave: "all my double helices throwing up their strand-hands in unison" and also "when the spike we've been nursing for the past 200 years grazes the ceiling before turning around."
Thank you for your kind words and reflections, Keith! I'm really warming up to this geriatric Disney princess thing, I'll have to get that party started early. ;)
I love this, Rebekah. I think i started crying at "I pledge allegiance to no particular genome." If I make it that far, I will be dancing along with you.
Thank you, A! I worried my poem was a little scandalous -- but I love what kindred spirits we all seem to be here! I would be honored to dance with you.
You are truly amazing, Rebekah! This is a jazz infused manifesto, speaking from your heart and carrying so many others with you! Your "I pledgce allegiance to" reminded me of this fine poem by one of my favorite poets, Gary Snyderf. It is called "For All."
Oh my goodness, now THAT is a poem! I read it out loud to myself, really slowly, two breaths per line, and teared up of course. Sooo true for me, and can't you just feel yourself splashing through that icy creek? I haven't read much Gary Snyder, but I will now! Thank you so much for sharing, Larry -- and for all your kind words about my offering.
You are welcome, Rebekah. You are a true intuitive and open hearted gift and blessing.
Gary Snyder is a treasure, too, and he was a teacher and mentor to my older brotherr, Bill, a poet, writer and teacher who left this earth far too young to cancer. Gary is in his nineties, ahead of me, but his poem "What Have I leanted" reminds me of one simple thing us elders are called to do:
I love your prompts and sharing, Lisa. So much that, after a long day, weary and worn, I am writing and reading rather than sleeping. Perhaps in my drowsiness, this emerged.
Larry, this is so painfully beautiful - “that is miracle enough sometimes” really got me, as did “out of tune hymns for the silence.” It seems to me that drowsiness is a muse for you!
Larry, this was a poem in D minor...it hit me right in the gut. The combination of the dystopian news roll call, your humility about your own self-righteousness (so relatable, let me hasten to add), your heartfelt angst over your own powerlessness, our powerlessness to make it better - what a powerful, tight weave.
"Out of tune hymns for the silence" -- so beautiful and somber. I love, too, the way you juxtapose war on peoples and wild lands with our "clown car circus show on the hill." I mean I love it and hate it because it conveys so achingly what's going on. Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem, Larry.
I really love and feel "Snow-Loss Cliff." Our ability to cast existential threats to people and the rest of nature as "party banter" is mind-blowing and feels like an enormous obstacle to me. Your poem describes the problem and urgency in such a visceral way and leaves me with the sense that we will be able to come together someday, albeit at (or below) a life-changing precipice. Thank you, Lisa!
Amazing. Simply amazing - like somebody get you on All Things Considered or some such at the end of a segment on climate change. This was just extraordinary.
Very powerful poem Lisa! Poignant! I really loved, "You want to change by degrees, they say, but you must change exponentially" And "I wonder what precipice we must reach before we agree: this is more than party banter." So much here to unpack and dive into. Thank you!
Lisa, this poem is so powerful. "I wonder what precipice we must reach before we agree" is a sentiment that is so familiar to me and can extend far beyond this singular issue, but I especially love the way you tied together your dad's ski accident and the repercussions he's just now coming to understand with the climate crisis and the way we are, collectively, approaching a metaphorical cliff where there may be literally no snow to catch us, the repercussions of which we likely will not fully understand for generations to come (if they survive it).
Thank you, A! What a perceptive comment. One thing that I find really interesting about writing poetry or working with metaphors in general is that often I come up with a metaphor and only later discover its layers . . . I hadn't thought about this particular parallel (not fully understanding the full ramifications of skiing off a literal or metaphorical cliff until long after its happened) and really appreciate your pointing it out.
This is both beautiful and jarring, Lisa. I love the way you've made such a compelling cautionary argument about something universal (climate crisis!!!) by leaning into the deeply personal (what I sense as mixed emotions about your dad's accident and his post-treatment of his accident). "You want to change by degrees...but you must change exponentially." Such an inconvenient truth! And so applicable to any sort of change that involves letting go of something big and longstanding.
Thank you, Keith! I was just barely in utero when my dad had his skiing accident, so I never felt any of the fear of it. I’ve just been privy to the very gradual understanding (they just found the hole in his brain last year) of the damage the accident actually caused.
What a powerful and penetrating post and poem, Lisa. I am here on the side of the road waiting for my flat tire to inflate and reading this. I don’t know where this plunge into oblivion may lead us. I am grateful that your presence, your words and your wisdom, will be with us along the way. 🧡
Lisa, we got 8 inches yesterday, fortunately light, fluffy snow, the stuff most of us love! My ittle air compressor got me up and going in abpout 15 minutes, though since it also happened on the way to work on Sunday, it is likely an ongoing problem. I am quite happy I had your amazing writing to read while I waited!
I did not have it in me to go searching out news, so I used the alert from my daughter's school yesterday as my prompt:
The text read:
"due to weather conditions...
schools are now closed"
but what I read --
what I got to tell
my 5-year-old
for the first time --
was, "snow day."
I sat watching
as the kids and
the dog played
in the still-falling
flakes of white,
all of them glistening
in the apricity of the
mid-January day.
I can just picture kiddos and doggo glowing gold in the sun! What a beautiful image. And thank youso much for introducing me to the word 'apricity', which might be my new favorite word now. When I googled its meaning, I found this lovely list of rare wintry words that all seem to be begging to be brought to life by poems - https://www.merriam-webster.com/wordplay/winter-words
I love that! Thank you for sharing the link!
Thank you for that link!
I was feeling a bit lazy and thought I might not look up the word apricity, but I did and I'm so glad -- it made me gasp! I so feel this where I live just shy of the 49th parallel, every scrap of sunshine so important this time of year -- and sun shining through falling snow onto playing kids and a dog is about as magical as it gets. Thank you for this lovely scene.
It was one of those moments that I'm so glad I didn't miss.
l'm with Lisa - what a delicious word "apracity" is!!! This is lovely in the simplicity of these images. The whole poem,, not just the kids and dog, glistens.
I wholeheartedly agree, apricity is a keeper! You all have me scrambling to explore all these words that are new to me!
That's such a kind way to put it, Keith. Thank you.
A., you have lifted up the magic and wonder of that lovely phrase to most kids--"Snow day." I recall Noah and BRady often askimng us "do you think it will be a snow day tomorrow/" and "
"I am praying for a snow day." I always thought to myself, " I hear you loved ones..' Our whole world needs snow days, sabbath days, sabbatical time, jubillee years. and thinking of Kaitlin Curtice's post this week on capitalism and consumerism, I believe capaitalism needs a whole lot of snow days, aka slow days.
I really love and enjoy the way your poems always make me think and ponder far beyond what I would have other wise.
I love the idea of giving capitalism a snow day!!!
I loved Kaitlin's post this week, too! And I agree, we all need more snow/slow days. It was hard having to explain to Sybil why daddy had to go to work even though she was staying home.
Sybil's curiousity on that makes sense--why do we have to go to work when the schools are closed?
Love. And love that new word too ☀️
Oh I love it! We live in the south so snow days were special for my kiddos too. Well, actually my 23 year old grad student who lives at home was watching the university social media with bated breath this week as well!
I love that! You're never too old to get excited about snow. We're located in upstate New York, so the snow isn't exactly a new occurrence (though we hadn't had much this season until now) but it's our first official snow day since Sybi started pre-k this year, so it definitely felt special. We had hot chocolate and everything.
Aww how sweet! It's funny, I am not the snow person. In Arkansas we maybe get snow once a year (ice more often) so I like to see it but not be in it. But my husband loves it and wants to go out in it and was always the one to go out with the girls. And he still was asking Sarah (the 23 yo) every day several times "so do you want to go outside and just walk around," "it's not that cold" - it was like 10 degrees. Our normal lows are in the 20s and 30s. She humored him a few times. :)
I've found I don't really like to play in the snow, as much as I was excited to do so as a kid - I think it was more participation in a timeless sort of ritual that I enjoyed. But I did enjoy watching the kids and the snow as I sat on the deck bundled up! Generally I'm more of a sit inside and watch the snow from under a blanket sort of person. 😅
I tried to write something new, I did. But when I checked the headlines, I just saw one subject and I am afraid my ranting on that one might get me on a watch list ;) and I didn't want to focus on him lol.
So I went back to a poem I wrote that is pretty simple and rhyme-y but is heartfelt. I wrote this in November of 2017 and I had to actually go and look up what tragedy preceded it. Isn't that pitiful - so many shootings we forget. It was a church shooting in Texas. I shared this poem a couple days later on FB and then again on 02/15/18 - that time it was for Parkland.
Love Another Day
It’s too much I think.
The pain, the grief, the tears.
The loss of lives, the fear.
What can I do? Nothing I do can help.
Nothing can make this right.
So I just hold on tight.
To those I love, to those I meet
I can offer a smile, I can greet
This new day with hope and not despair
I can remain aware
Of the world and things that I can change.
I can speak on the issues, continue to try
To change hearts and minds not just hide and deny
The problems our country faces today.
If we work together, surely there is a way.
So I keep on trying, do more than just pray.
Remain aware, continue to care
And live to love another day.
-Karri Temple Brackett
11/7/17
I love this, Karri, especially the ending - “remain aware, continue to care and live to love another day.” It’s hard to stay both fully aware AND allow yourself to keep caring because that’s where the grief comes in - but it’s where love lives, too.
I join the chorus of comments expressing appreciation for this heartfelt poem, which struck me as a prayer for peace. I love the idea of "holding on tight" to those you love *and* those you meet. I think you did quite a lot with your grief, Karri, by writing this, sharing it back then, and sharing it again now. It's truly (and somewhat sadly), a timeless poem-prayer-petition. Thank you for sharing your beautiful heart here.
This is beautiful, Karri. If everyone lived by the code you express here -- practicing care for others, staying aware of our country's problems, courageously speaking up, working for real change while staying hopeful -- in other words, a lot more than "thoughts and prayers" -- we'd be in a whole different place. I love how in this one poem you are able to meaningfully grieve for what has happened (and is still happening) but keep the overall feeling in love/hope.
Sometimes it feels like it's never going to end, but this poem is such a beautiful example of exactly what each of us can do when we feel helpless. Thank you for sharing.
This is splendid Karri. And I am struck how you write a poem for one event, and quickly another comes where the poem applies, and another, and another. Thank you for capturing the feelings of helplessness, hopelessness and hopefulness and a committment to keep moving for change.
I wrote this just now after reading a recent interview on NPR about the 3 ingredients for fun. A topic of mystery for one who was raised by rather Calvinistic parents.
Fun is very fragile.
Like a sensitive flower,
said the fun expert.
Then, expounding,
she advised thinking back
to moments of fun past,
taking note of what
felt fun.
Prioritize that, she said,
as you plan your play.
Or, noted the interviewer,
if that stresses you out,
if you don’t have
time or patience
to reflect on fun, nor
to plan your play,
you could pay someone
to advise you on
how to play right,
how to succeed at playing.
You know, a consultant
to help you meet your
Key Play Indicators,
keep your to-do list moving.
Why is it, I wonder,
that what we most need to remember,
we are most likely to forget.
And what we most need to forget,
most likely to remember?
I, and by that, I mean we
because there are many of me,
can scarcely believe
it safe to visit a memory
of play, let alone fun,
let alone ask it to stay, let alone
bring it forward today.
I, and by that I mean we,
are very fragile.
Like a sensitive flower.
Keith, wow! You had me laughing out loud in the first section - Key Play Indicators, omg! And then, my defenses down, you went straight for the gut. What an incredible turn you created with the lines "Why is it, I wonder, that what we most need to remember, we are most likely to forget. And what we most need to forget, most likely to remember?" And like everyone else, I was utterly charmed by your repeated mention of "I, and by that, I mean we."
Maybe you (or at least some of you) are a very fragile and sensitive flower, friend, and maybe play is a fragile flower, too, but you (whichever yous took turns at the keys) have written a very playful poem. It makes me think of the roughhousing play of my kids . . . . play, play, play, fun, fun, fun, laughter, then BAM punch to the gut! But in the good way.
Thanks, Lisa - so glad you enjoyed this, and especially the hairpin turn in the middle! Yes, it's interesting to think about which "me" is writing...it's definitely a joint collaboration. I love the metaphor of the poem having been like your kids' roughhousing! :)) I actually *can* remember that sort of play, even from my own childhood.
"I, and by that, I mean we because there are many of me" This made me picture a whole field of beautiful, fragile, sensitive flowers just basking in the sun together.
This is such a warm , soothing image. It is making me feel tremendously happy :)) Thank you, A.
I'm so glad! That's what it did for me as well. When play is hard, at least we can sit and be fragile together. ❤️
I absolutely love this poem, Keith. At the beginning it felt like you yourself were playing, using deliciously dry humor to quote the fun expert and tell us about planning play and seeking outside help to meet Key Play Indicators. From there it would have been easy to land in "what is wrong with our society?" talk, holding the topic at arm's length -- but instead you pivot into vulnerability, helping us to see the many yous who don't have an easy relationship with play, who may not feel safe in play. And then you finish with more gentle play by bringing us back to the fragile / sensitive flower image. I hope this isn't a misreading! It's how it "played" out for me and it was so lovely.
Thanks so much, Rebekah - so glad you liked this - and thanks for telling me how it unfolded for you! Your read of it aligned with my intentions in writing it, but even if it hadn't, it wouldn't have been wrong, in my way of thinking. I sort of look at it as I "write" it (really, something bigger than me plants an idea), but it belongs to the reader, once I offer it. All that to say, I loved your interpretation, it was beautiful *and* it rang true for me :))
This is a strikingly beauitful poem, Keith. I, too, love this phraiseing: "I, and by that, I mean we
because there are many of me," so lovely and a wonderful turnuing oif I into we, individual to collective. We are so very frsfgil, "like a sensitive flower." Why is it, I wonder,
that what we most need to remember, we are most likely to forget..." oh my, so true. Your poem is full of these tender and piericing moment, beauitful in the way a truly classic song is magnificient in its full scope and in its individual lines. I admire and am grateful for your skillful, artful and genuine poems.
Thank you so much for your kind and complimentary feedback, Larry! What a warm way to start a very cold day :). I'm glad you liked the "I/me/we" bits. I was thinking of the double-meaning there, as in Walt Whitman's "I contain multitudes" and we as the collective we being all one in the bigger spiritual picture. Thanks for picking up on that.
Bless you for referencing Walt Whitman, Keith. I truly admire your creativity and insight. We are all one--One Love!
I felt inspired to write about a different sort of cliff, one that I am perhaps too misanthropic to worry about. It's based largely on this opinion piece about the looming human population peak: https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2023/09/18/opinion/human-population-global-growth.html. Also some more recent reporting about China now being in population decline, and countries around the world scrambling to boost their fertility rates. Apologies for the million lines here, I was trying to draw an exponential down curve that may or may not come through...
They
say that
because
I am
human
I should
care about
human
depopulation.
Should fear
that split-
second in
the 2080s
when the
spike we’ve
been nursing
for 200 years
grazes the
ceiling before
turning around.
Should care
because (1)
innovations,
advancements,
magna opera
show up more
often in a
many-bodied
world, (2) a
shrinking society
is an aging society,
not enough young
backs on which to
place the load, (3)
bad actors could
exploit the crisis,
limit reproductive
freedom and other
kinds, too. But
when they get to
the punchline – the
thing I am supposed
to abhor at the
molecular level, all
my double helices
throwing up their
strand-hands in unison –
that without a course
correction we’ll slump
below two billion and
keep slumping, no
end to this as long as
personal choice and
statistics stay locked in
this reckless dance, I
feel only relief. I am
not a very good human.
I wouldn’t sell us out to
aliens or push the button
myself, but there is no
way I’ll ever panic about
exponentially less babies.
I am a lover of many
kinds of souls. I pledge
allegiance to no particular
genome, but if Earth ever
holds an election for ruler
of the next Epoch, I know
who I will not be voting for.
I hope to have taken flight by
the 2080s, but if not, then when
they make the announcement, I will
creak onto my feet and dance my old
heart out with all of the other creatures.
I love this so much and love the image of you dancing your old heart out with a gaggle of woodland creatures, like an aging and perhaps slightly unhinged Cinderella. There are so many evocative images and lines in this poem. One of my favorites is "all my double helices throwing up their strand-hands in unison."
Oh, and for the record, I think you are THE BEST human!
That's so funny, I was picturing myself as an aging and unhinged Snow White! But I'll accept any geriatric Disney princess labels you want to throw at me. ;)
Rebekah--you deserve your own magical Disney persona!
I echo that!!!!
I can only imagine you and your old heart dancing with creatures with very different steps than the reckless maneuvers of personal choice and statistics, regardless of which geriatric Disney princess you choose! This was a terrifically clever op-ed poem, Rebekah! I too loved several of the lines, including Lisa's fave: "all my double helices throwing up their strand-hands in unison" and also "when the spike we've been nursing for the past 200 years grazes the ceiling before turning around."
Thank you for your kind words and reflections, Keith! I'm really warming up to this geriatric Disney princess thing, I'll have to get that party started early. ;)
I love this, Rebekah. I think i started crying at "I pledge allegiance to no particular genome." If I make it that far, I will be dancing along with you.
Thank you, A! I worried my poem was a little scandalous -- but I love what kindred spirits we all seem to be here! I would be honored to dance with you.
Yes, I feel like you are all my people!
You are truly amazing, Rebekah! This is a jazz infused manifesto, speaking from your heart and carrying so many others with you! Your "I pledgce allegiance to" reminded me of this fine poem by one of my favorite poets, Gary Snyderf. It is called "For All."
For All
Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up,
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.
Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel.
I pledge allegiance
I pledge allegiance to the soil
of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon dwell
one ecosystem
in diversity
under the sun
With joyful interpenetration for all.
https://www.poeticous.com/gary-snyder/for-all-ah-to-be-alive
Oh my goodness, now THAT is a poem! I read it out loud to myself, really slowly, two breaths per line, and teared up of course. Sooo true for me, and can't you just feel yourself splashing through that icy creek? I haven't read much Gary Snyder, but I will now! Thank you so much for sharing, Larry -- and for all your kind words about my offering.
You are welcome, Rebekah. You are a true intuitive and open hearted gift and blessing.
Gary Snyder is a treasure, too, and he was a teacher and mentor to my older brotherr, Bill, a poet, writer and teacher who left this earth far too young to cancer. Gary is in his nineties, ahead of me, but his poem "What Have I leanted" reminds me of one simple thing us elders are called to do:
WHAT HAVE I LEARNED
What have I learned but
the proper use for several tools?
The moments
between hard pleasant tasks
To sit silent, drink wine,
and think my own kind
of dry crusty thoughts.
-the first Calochortus flowers
and in all the land,
it’s spring.
I point them out:
the yellow petals, the golden hairs
to Gen.
Seeing in silence:
never the same twice,
but when you get it right,
you pass it on."
I love your prompts and sharing, Lisa. So much that, after a long day, weary and worn, I am writing and reading rather than sleeping. Perhaps in my drowsiness, this emerged.
Weeping Willows
I read, listen or watch
every morning, for the news, assuring myself
that the world has survived another day.
That is miracle enough sometimes.
My dear colleagues and I
spend hours shaking fists,
writing screeds, preaching and teaching,
always implying we know what Jesus would say.
Or do.
Or be.
Out of tune hymns for the silence.
This morning, news of wars
and wild lands decimated.
Clown car circus show on the hill,
wind blown avenues where all sound has ceased.
Perhaps I will find you there,
weeping quietly into the madness.
Larry, this is so painfully beautiful - “that is miracle enough sometimes” really got me, as did “out of tune hymns for the silence.” It seems to me that drowsiness is a muse for you!
I am forever weeping quietly into the madness. Thank you, friend.
A., I am glad to find you there!
Larry, this was a poem in D minor...it hit me right in the gut. The combination of the dystopian news roll call, your humility about your own self-righteousness (so relatable, let me hasten to add), your heartfelt angst over your own powerlessness, our powerlessness to make it better - what a powerful, tight weave.
Thank you Keith. I love that description, a poem on D minor! Thank you for your thoughtful and sensitive comment.
"Out of tune hymns for the silence" -- so beautiful and somber. I love, too, the way you juxtapose war on peoples and wild lands with our "clown car circus show on the hill." I mean I love it and hate it because it conveys so achingly what's going on. Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem, Larry.
Thank you Rebekah. People like you ring the silence!
I really love and feel "Snow-Loss Cliff." Our ability to cast existential threats to people and the rest of nature as "party banter" is mind-blowing and feels like an enormous obstacle to me. Your poem describes the problem and urgency in such a visceral way and leaves me with the sense that we will be able to come together someday, albeit at (or below) a life-changing precipice. Thank you, Lisa!
Amazing. Simply amazing - like somebody get you on All Things Considered or some such at the end of a segment on climate change. This was just extraordinary.
😂 Well you just made my day.
Very powerful poem Lisa! Poignant! I really loved, "You want to change by degrees, they say, but you must change exponentially" And "I wonder what precipice we must reach before we agree: this is more than party banter." So much here to unpack and dive into. Thank you!
Thank you so much, Julie!
Lisa, this poem is so powerful. "I wonder what precipice we must reach before we agree" is a sentiment that is so familiar to me and can extend far beyond this singular issue, but I especially love the way you tied together your dad's ski accident and the repercussions he's just now coming to understand with the climate crisis and the way we are, collectively, approaching a metaphorical cliff where there may be literally no snow to catch us, the repercussions of which we likely will not fully understand for generations to come (if they survive it).
Thank you, A! What a perceptive comment. One thing that I find really interesting about writing poetry or working with metaphors in general is that often I come up with a metaphor and only later discover its layers . . . I hadn't thought about this particular parallel (not fully understanding the full ramifications of skiing off a literal or metaphorical cliff until long after its happened) and really appreciate your pointing it out.
It's funny how that happens, isn't it? I love finding those kinds of connections.
This is both beautiful and jarring, Lisa. I love the way you've made such a compelling cautionary argument about something universal (climate crisis!!!) by leaning into the deeply personal (what I sense as mixed emotions about your dad's accident and his post-treatment of his accident). "You want to change by degrees...but you must change exponentially." Such an inconvenient truth! And so applicable to any sort of change that involves letting go of something big and longstanding.
Thank you, Keith! I was just barely in utero when my dad had his skiing accident, so I never felt any of the fear of it. I’ve just been privy to the very gradual understanding (they just found the hole in his brain last year) of the damage the accident actually caused.
What a powerful and penetrating post and poem, Lisa. I am here on the side of the road waiting for my flat tire to inflate and reading this. I don’t know where this plunge into oblivion may lead us. I am grateful that your presence, your words and your wisdom, will be with us along the way. 🧡
Thank you, Larry! I hope it’s not too cold out there on the side of the road and that your tire inflates quickly (and stays inflated)!
Lisa, we got 8 inches yesterday, fortunately light, fluffy snow, the stuff most of us love! My ittle air compressor got me up and going in abpout 15 minutes, though since it also happened on the way to work on Sunday, it is likely an ongoing problem. I am quite happy I had your amazing writing to read while I waited!
8 inches of fluffy snow sounds beautiful! I'm glad the tire didn't strand you for long and hope it will be an easy peasy fix.
I still slap my arms, but mostly in wonder about life, and our frailty. Doodad
Oops. I mistyped. Instead of slap it should say “flap”.
This poem is wonderful. I hate that we are headed for that cliff, but I’m thankful for the poets and scientists trying to point the way.
Thank you so much, Lindsey! I’m new to writing poetry, and I confess I just got a thrill when I realized you’re calling me a poet!
I couldn’t tell that you’re new to it! That weaving of the story of your dad with the snowy cliff is just beautiful. 👏🏽👏🏽