100 Poems is still brand new, with all its connotations of wobble and shine, but the comments thread on these posts is quickly becoming one of my favorite online spaces.
This is such a beautiful braid of metaphor and complexity - regret and bypass and the difficulty of fully inhabiting our emotions in real time. I'm once again struck by the way in which poetry can be such a beautiful way for us to make sense of our complicated experiences. Thanks so much for sharing this, LIsa...and for the prompt. I'm going to share two poems about the Mill River, aka "Millie," who I have come to have my own complicated relationship with after moving to an apartment near her banks last spring. The first poem is one that I just wrote. The second is one I wrote last spring, when Millie and I were in our honeymoon period. Thanks for reading:
I want this second poem to be a song! It has such musicality to it. And I love the cycling through different stages of your relationship with Millie in the first poem. The initial rush of infatuation, then the storm of reality, and the coming back to see her beauty in a new way and with new eyes. I like the thought that maybe Millie is tracking your changes, too. "Keith has a new hat today!"
I love the idea of Millie taking note of my changes...thanks for planting that seed...I can imagine her noticing my subtle (and not so subtle) mood shifts and whether she sees a spring in my step or not, etc. This feels immensely comforting ; )
There is so much to love here -- the idea of having a relationship with a river that goes two ways: she ponders you, she listens, she hushes! So magical. And once you get past the honeymoon phase, you rock into all the seasons of a real grown-up relationship, including periods of meanness and spurning, but are both sticking it out and have come full circle. This will make me look at my local river with new eyes. I might even make eyes at it -- ha! -- but I will have to come up with a good nickname first. Thank you for sharing!
It has really felt like a pretty reciprocal relationship (on my end of it, at least)! I find myself thinking about Millie even when not "with" her...especially when there is a real weather shift. We got a foot of snow yesterday, and now are due for torrential rain on Wednesday, and I find myself intermittently fretting about her. Please do tell when you land on a nickname for the Twisp (will you take Lisa's Schitty suggestion?).
These are wonderful Keith. Ah, I love rivers, and I truly love so many things about these two love poems! Your splendid rhyming cadence is terrific, and is both poem and song. As I read the first poem, I felt like I was reading a love story between two people, then came back to the poem itself and knew that it was something even better, a love connection in all of its complexity, between human and earth, in this case a river. I smile and feel hopeful at your connection to this river, and the way you sll will come toiknow each other through the years. Thank you for sharing these two gems!
Thank you, Larry. Although I think I entered my relationship with Millie on a bit of a rebound (I moved to this apartment after having lived with my partner for 5 years), I feel hopeful, too. We've now made it through the ups and downs of three full seasons together and have a good start on winter.
Moving through the transition and loss of a relationship is challenging in the best of circumstances. I wish you well as continue to journey through. Rivers can be such healing forces, in their beauty, their power, their calmness, variability and even their vulnerability. Your poem embodies this very nicely. Blessings to you.
I love the way your changing relationship shows in these poems. I just finished reading "How to Do Nothing" by Jenny Odell, and she writes about the importance of relationship to place - this feels like a beautiful example of that.
This one came through completely by surprise, not anywhere near what had been in my mind as I sat down to write. The beauty and power of your poems today, Lisa, Rebekah and A., inspires me and helps me draw from a place I am usually not able to find. Thank you.
Home
“Dad, I want to come home.
College is not for me.”
Noah spoke into the phone
his truth at that moment.
As did I.
“Give it a semester; the
transition can be tough.”
Later that year, he spoke of a class,
focused on the sense and value of place.
He noted, “I think it is hard to be comfortable here.
I miss home. I miss coming out of the woods
after a long hike, and seeing our house, our home.”
Our oldest child, seeing the fine lines between the edges,
The comfort of roots and land, people and place,
that truly know you.
In the years to follow
he wandered the world teaching, guiding and leading,
his sense of place formed even in the places he was passing through.
His loving heart shaped in homes far from here.
As the snow falls tonight, wintry blanket, post card scene,
I am grateful for this home, this place.
And I ponder all those who have been displaced over the centuries,
driven from homes and lands their ancestors had known
for thousands of years.
Empire, war, power, conquest, oppression and occupation,
the devastating inflation of perverse destiny,
from a toxic spirit that is anything but divine.
Communities ripped apart
by those unable or unwilling to honor or understand
a sense of place.
I wonder how many will be forced from their homes this night,
Violently torn from their homelands
by these viscous dancers of death.
Closer to home,
kindred beings gather by a local church,
makeshift tent city their only shelter,
forcing us to face the painful reality of displacement
I don’t think the words “displace” or “displacement” had ever fully landed in my soul until just now, reading your poem, Larry. To be wrenched from place . . . torn from the place that’s defined you and determined the direction you lean in your reaching for light . . . yanked up by the stem with your roots left behind you in the ground and then expected to somehow survive in this world. Thank you for your moving poem and the reflectiveness it’s inspiring in me!
Poetry like this reminds me of the famous Audre Lorde quote about poetry not being a luxury. You've shown how righteous anger can be beautiful, Larry. And also how to pan in and out from the personal to the universal. I was just reading a story on the NPR web site yesterday that was a collection of photos taken by various photographers living inside the massive refugee camp in Bangladesh that began in 2017 when the Bohingya people were driven out of Myanmar for religious reasons. I couldn't stop thinking about it, as they have been forgotten - or never even known of - by so much of the world, especially with all the other displacements that have happened since.
Thank you for your kind and generous comments, Keith. And for sharing about the piece on NPR. We barely hear about Myanmar and the displacement of the Bohingya people, and the other oppressive measures used there by the Government. Systematic displacement is a terrible weapon and strategy of war and conguest, and it continues to this very day. The love, feeling and sacred nature of the relationship of displaced people to their homelands, even as they make new homes, is humbling and has taught me so much.
Yes, the NPR story really gave me pause, because I know there are likely scores of similar situations that I have no awareness of. It's humbling to sit in my privilege and read such stories from the comfort of my heated, dry apartment. I was also struck by how some of the photos conveyed such a strong sense of community among the refugees as they managed to play and find enjoyment in the midst of unspeakable deprivation and desolation. I contrasted that in my mind with the fact that I've never even met most of my neighbors in the area where I live. So many resources but human connection and emotional intimacy are in short supply.
This is such a thoughtful, layered poem, Larry. Those last few lines, especially, are so beautiful and heartbreaking. The love and care you have for everyone is always so apparent in your words, but I was struck by the way your love and care for Noah helped send him into the world prepared to extend that to others. I have so much grief over the parents and children who won't get the chance to experience a connection like yours and the ripple effect it can have on the world because of the displacement you've noted here and for many other reasons, but knowing there are people like you gives me hope.
Thank you A. Being a parent is truly one of the greatest blessings of this life. Our two sons are good people, have two wonderful partners, and we have two beaming grandchildren and two bouding grandogs. It is a delicate balance holding the pain and suffering and the way too many children are treated across the planet with the blessing of love flowing abundantly in my own. Being grateful helps, and conscious of how provelege and status contribute so clearly to the blessings that are in my life.
Thank you for this, Larry! I’ve been having a lot of thoughts like these recently -- feeling so grateful for four walls and warmth and a feeling of home as my ultimate haven, but uncomfortable on some deeper level because why is this randomly what I get, given what seems to be happening everywhere else in the world? I love how your poem weaves together themes both personal and global -- Noah’s homesickness and eventual building of an inner home even while far from where he was raised, so many others driven out and wandering not by choice, and what it is that makes us displace each other. It’s sad and raw and your love and care for your fellow humans is also so clear here. I appreciated getting to read this this morning. ❤️
Thank you Rebekah, for such a kind, insightful and perceptive comment. The two thought streams collided in the poem, and though it felt a bit uncomfortable, I decided to do what I could to blend them and let it go. I also understand the discomfort, and I grapple with that as well. One thing I believe is that you, and people like you, are adding more positive action and energy to the global balance of justice and equity. When we make it to that place of true beloved community for all, it will be because people like you have done what you could. Thank you!
Lisa, this is a beautiful poem that has also brought me to tears. What wonderful stories you thread together here. You seem to play the role of observer and participant so seamlessly and skillfully create a poem that reaches deep into the soul. This is a poem of magnificent quality, depth and poignancy, and reading helps me feel and face my own losses and grief. Thank you.
This is such a beautiful poem, A! You did exactly the same thing you credit me with doing - capturing the unexpected significance of such an ordinary moment (and a moment, i might add, that we all tend to dread and hope to avoid but that can be filled with so much tenderness). I could feel myself right there in the living room with a little one asleep in my arms.
Hi, A! This poem has been kicking around in my brain - so much so that it inspired a poem of my own. For an upcoming prompt (maybe tomorrow’s?), I’d love to suggest that people write a poem in response to it inspired by another poem that they’ve read (either here on 100 Poems or elsewhere). Would it be okay with you if I share your poem in my post alongside my own?
A. What a wonderful poem. You make the hard reality of sick kids seem tolerable as you describe the amazing care, warmth and compassion and love you have for your little ones. I really love the way you can take the most small and ordinary events and bring them to life for readers like me. Thank you for sharing your wonderful gift!
I feel so much love and acceptance in the scene you paint with this poem. Tenderness and surrender and relief, and how beautiful it is when parents show up to the messy vulnerability of the job.
I was admittedly already a bit raw after reading Lisa's poem, but yours made me cry too, A! This is such a homey and love-filled scene, puke and snoring and all. Speedy recovery to all of you and enjoy the snow. :)
Bekah, I love this so much! The first stanza is gold . . . “Disordered floating alphabet soup of just one letter!” And I love the idea of sweet little Bun Bun soaring through the clouds, answering your messages on the radio. Love love love!
This is fantastic, Rebekah. Being entirely ignorant of aviation myself, I would never have known you were not an aviator - you handled the imagery so deftly. I think I love this line best: "It's anyone's guess what I said though I like to think it made it into your blackbox". Something about the idea that every living creature has a black box that survives with its soul (maybe the blackbox is the soul?) really landed on my runway (har). It strikes me as a beautiful portrait of grief being guided by forces unseen.
Thank you so much, Keith! So funny about the blackbox, since posting my poem I've been playing around with removing that bit because I was worried the aviation metaphors were starting to feel tired -- but I will totally keep it in there now because of what you said. You gave it extra meaning with idea of blackbox as soul!
Rebekah, this is a remarkable poem! The aviation metaphors and references work, and you weave them in quite well. There is a stream of consciousness quality to your poem, which contrasts wonderfully well with the piercing insights and surprising connections you make with life. You have a knack for exploring new avenues and areas and seeming like you have known about the subject for years.
This is such a beautiful braid of metaphor and complexity - regret and bypass and the difficulty of fully inhabiting our emotions in real time. I'm once again struck by the way in which poetry can be such a beautiful way for us to make sense of our complicated experiences. Thanks so much for sharing this, LIsa...and for the prompt. I'm going to share two poems about the Mill River, aka "Millie," who I have come to have my own complicated relationship with after moving to an apartment near her banks last spring. The first poem is one that I just wrote. The second is one I wrote last spring, when Millie and I were in our honeymoon period. Thanks for reading:
You captivated me
under spell of
spring’s blush,
my own pulse leaping
at your swell and rush.
A refugee of love lost,
I was newly settled
on the landscape you rendered
with aqueous brush.
My senses, dulled by a winter
relentless with rupture and grief
too sharp
too coarse
too bittersweet
too pungent
too loud
surrendered, defenseless.
You sparkled with sunlight,
clear and pure.
Bubbled with grace,
simple and sure.
Willingly doubled as muse and
safe space.
Then July drew nigh,
thick, grey and ruddied
Wringing wrath from sky.
And you,
you turned mean and muddied.
Cruelly churning,
callously spurning
with nothing between.
So, I turned from you,
loath to come near,
flooded with fear and
heavy with silt,
the flotsam of loss
strewn across our shores,
yours and mine.
Now winter has returned, and
you rush swift and clean, and
I sense you longing to be seen.
Again.
Crystalline, pristine,
you call and pull and
I am stirred, willingly enchanted.
Again.
Poem #2:
Chant for Millie (the Mill River)
The river she wanders
the river she ponders
she ponders me
as she wanders
The river she glistens
the river she listens
she listens to me
as she glistens
The river she flows
the river she knows
she knows me
as she flows
The river she travels
the river she unravels
she unravels me
as she travels
The river she rushes
the river she hushes
she hushes me
as she rushes
I need her this river
I need her to deliver
I need her to deliver me this river
I love her this river
this modest midwife I love her
deliverance from the vagaries of life
I want this second poem to be a song! It has such musicality to it. And I love the cycling through different stages of your relationship with Millie in the first poem. The initial rush of infatuation, then the storm of reality, and the coming back to see her beauty in a new way and with new eyes. I like the thought that maybe Millie is tracking your changes, too. "Keith has a new hat today!"
I love the idea of Millie taking note of my changes...thanks for planting that seed...I can imagine her noticing my subtle (and not so subtle) mood shifts and whether she sees a spring in my step or not, etc. This feels immensely comforting ; )
There is so much to love here -- the idea of having a relationship with a river that goes two ways: she ponders you, she listens, she hushes! So magical. And once you get past the honeymoon phase, you rock into all the seasons of a real grown-up relationship, including periods of meanness and spurning, but are both sticking it out and have come full circle. This will make me look at my local river with new eyes. I might even make eyes at it -- ha! -- but I will have to come up with a good nickname first. Thank you for sharing!
Ooooh name her Twi (short for Twisp, of course) but pronounced like Twaila from Shitt's Creek!
It has really felt like a pretty reciprocal relationship (on my end of it, at least)! I find myself thinking about Millie even when not "with" her...especially when there is a real weather shift. We got a foot of snow yesterday, and now are due for torrential rain on Wednesday, and I find myself intermittently fretting about her. Please do tell when you land on a nickname for the Twisp (will you take Lisa's Schitty suggestion?).
These are wonderful Keith. Ah, I love rivers, and I truly love so many things about these two love poems! Your splendid rhyming cadence is terrific, and is both poem and song. As I read the first poem, I felt like I was reading a love story between two people, then came back to the poem itself and knew that it was something even better, a love connection in all of its complexity, between human and earth, in this case a river. I smile and feel hopeful at your connection to this river, and the way you sll will come toiknow each other through the years. Thank you for sharing these two gems!
Thank you, Larry. Although I think I entered my relationship with Millie on a bit of a rebound (I moved to this apartment after having lived with my partner for 5 years), I feel hopeful, too. We've now made it through the ups and downs of three full seasons together and have a good start on winter.
Moving through the transition and loss of a relationship is challenging in the best of circumstances. I wish you well as continue to journey through. Rivers can be such healing forces, in their beauty, their power, their calmness, variability and even their vulnerability. Your poem embodies this very nicely. Blessings to you.
I love the way your changing relationship shows in these poems. I just finished reading "How to Do Nothing" by Jenny Odell, and she writes about the importance of relationship to place - this feels like a beautiful example of that.
This one came through completely by surprise, not anywhere near what had been in my mind as I sat down to write. The beauty and power of your poems today, Lisa, Rebekah and A., inspires me and helps me draw from a place I am usually not able to find. Thank you.
Home
“Dad, I want to come home.
College is not for me.”
Noah spoke into the phone
his truth at that moment.
As did I.
“Give it a semester; the
transition can be tough.”
Later that year, he spoke of a class,
focused on the sense and value of place.
He noted, “I think it is hard to be comfortable here.
I miss home. I miss coming out of the woods
after a long hike, and seeing our house, our home.”
Our oldest child, seeing the fine lines between the edges,
The comfort of roots and land, people and place,
that truly know you.
In the years to follow
he wandered the world teaching, guiding and leading,
his sense of place formed even in the places he was passing through.
His loving heart shaped in homes far from here.
As the snow falls tonight, wintry blanket, post card scene,
I am grateful for this home, this place.
And I ponder all those who have been displaced over the centuries,
driven from homes and lands their ancestors had known
for thousands of years.
Empire, war, power, conquest, oppression and occupation,
the devastating inflation of perverse destiny,
from a toxic spirit that is anything but divine.
Communities ripped apart
by those unable or unwilling to honor or understand
a sense of place.
I wonder how many will be forced from their homes this night,
Violently torn from their homelands
by these viscous dancers of death.
Closer to home,
kindred beings gather by a local church,
makeshift tent city their only shelter,
forcing us to face the painful reality of displacement
on the steps where all should be welcome.
Outside the warmth of these walls,
millions of tears collect in a well of grief,
searching for the path that may lead them home.
I don’t think the words “displace” or “displacement” had ever fully landed in my soul until just now, reading your poem, Larry. To be wrenched from place . . . torn from the place that’s defined you and determined the direction you lean in your reaching for light . . . yanked up by the stem with your roots left behind you in the ground and then expected to somehow survive in this world. Thank you for your moving poem and the reflectiveness it’s inspiring in me!
Thank you for this powerful comment, Lisa. Your words and description give more life to what I was trying to say. Thank you for reading and hearing.
Poetry like this reminds me of the famous Audre Lorde quote about poetry not being a luxury. You've shown how righteous anger can be beautiful, Larry. And also how to pan in and out from the personal to the universal. I was just reading a story on the NPR web site yesterday that was a collection of photos taken by various photographers living inside the massive refugee camp in Bangladesh that began in 2017 when the Bohingya people were driven out of Myanmar for religious reasons. I couldn't stop thinking about it, as they have been forgotten - or never even known of - by so much of the world, especially with all the other displacements that have happened since.
Thank you for your kind and generous comments, Keith. And for sharing about the piece on NPR. We barely hear about Myanmar and the displacement of the Bohingya people, and the other oppressive measures used there by the Government. Systematic displacement is a terrible weapon and strategy of war and conguest, and it continues to this very day. The love, feeling and sacred nature of the relationship of displaced people to their homelands, even as they make new homes, is humbling and has taught me so much.
Yes, the NPR story really gave me pause, because I know there are likely scores of similar situations that I have no awareness of. It's humbling to sit in my privilege and read such stories from the comfort of my heated, dry apartment. I was also struck by how some of the photos conveyed such a strong sense of community among the refugees as they managed to play and find enjoyment in the midst of unspeakable deprivation and desolation. I contrasted that in my mind with the fact that I've never even met most of my neighbors in the area where I live. So many resources but human connection and emotional intimacy are in short supply.
I hear you in these comments, Keith.
This is such a thoughtful, layered poem, Larry. Those last few lines, especially, are so beautiful and heartbreaking. The love and care you have for everyone is always so apparent in your words, but I was struck by the way your love and care for Noah helped send him into the world prepared to extend that to others. I have so much grief over the parents and children who won't get the chance to experience a connection like yours and the ripple effect it can have on the world because of the displacement you've noted here and for many other reasons, but knowing there are people like you gives me hope.
Thank you A. Being a parent is truly one of the greatest blessings of this life. Our two sons are good people, have two wonderful partners, and we have two beaming grandchildren and two bouding grandogs. It is a delicate balance holding the pain and suffering and the way too many children are treated across the planet with the blessing of love flowing abundantly in my own. Being grateful helps, and conscious of how provelege and status contribute so clearly to the blessings that are in my life.
Thank you for this, Larry! I’ve been having a lot of thoughts like these recently -- feeling so grateful for four walls and warmth and a feeling of home as my ultimate haven, but uncomfortable on some deeper level because why is this randomly what I get, given what seems to be happening everywhere else in the world? I love how your poem weaves together themes both personal and global -- Noah’s homesickness and eventual building of an inner home even while far from where he was raised, so many others driven out and wandering not by choice, and what it is that makes us displace each other. It’s sad and raw and your love and care for your fellow humans is also so clear here. I appreciated getting to read this this morning. ❤️
Thank you Rebekah, for such a kind, insightful and perceptive comment. The two thought streams collided in the poem, and though it felt a bit uncomfortable, I decided to do what I could to blend them and let it go. I also understand the discomfort, and I grapple with that as well. One thing I believe is that you, and people like you, are adding more positive action and energy to the global balance of justice and equity. When we make it to that place of true beloved community for all, it will be because people like you have done what you could. Thank you!
Lisa, this is a beautiful poem that has also brought me to tears. What wonderful stories you thread together here. You seem to play the role of observer and participant so seamlessly and skillfully create a poem that reaches deep into the soul. This is a poem of magnificent quality, depth and poignancy, and reading helps me feel and face my own losses and grief. Thank you.
Thank you so much, Larry! That means so much to me. ❤️
Lisa, your poem had me in tears. You have such an incredible way of capturing unexpectedly significant moments in your poetry.
Our sick bed is not a bed.
Bowls and blankets litter
the cushions of the couch
between us while two little
bodies sleep soundly, curled up
in our two bigger sets of arms.
The lingering smell of puke,
the snores of my spouse,
and the steady breathing
of my son surround me as
I gaze out the window at
the snow we've been awaiting.
The worst is over now.
This is such a beautiful poem, A! You did exactly the same thing you credit me with doing - capturing the unexpected significance of such an ordinary moment (and a moment, i might add, that we all tend to dread and hope to avoid but that can be filled with so much tenderness). I could feel myself right there in the living room with a little one asleep in my arms.
Thank you, Lisa! I have sometimes wondered if moments like these are worth writing about and sharing, but I worry much less about that now.
I am glad you and others do write about them!
Hi, A! This poem has been kicking around in my brain - so much so that it inspired a poem of my own. For an upcoming prompt (maybe tomorrow’s?), I’d love to suggest that people write a poem in response to it inspired by another poem that they’ve read (either here on 100 Poems or elsewhere). Would it be okay with you if I share your poem in my post alongside my own?
Of course! I'd be honoured!
A. What a wonderful poem. You make the hard reality of sick kids seem tolerable as you describe the amazing care, warmth and compassion and love you have for your little ones. I really love the way you can take the most small and ordinary events and bring them to life for readers like me. Thank you for sharing your wonderful gift!
Thank you for seeing me so kindly as always, Larry.
I feel so much love and acceptance in the scene you paint with this poem. Tenderness and surrender and relief, and how beautiful it is when parents show up to the messy vulnerability of the job.
Thank you, Keith! I'm really grateful to have been able to show up this way.
I was admittedly already a bit raw after reading Lisa's poem, but yours made me cry too, A! This is such a homey and love-filled scene, puke and snoring and all. Speedy recovery to all of you and enjoy the snow. :)
Thank you! So far it seems like it was just the kids this time, and they were feeling well enough to play in the snow this afternoon. ❤️
Bekah, I love this so much! The first stanza is gold . . . “Disordered floating alphabet soup of just one letter!” And I love the idea of sweet little Bun Bun soaring through the clouds, answering your messages on the radio. Love love love!
This is fantastic, Rebekah. Being entirely ignorant of aviation myself, I would never have known you were not an aviator - you handled the imagery so deftly. I think I love this line best: "It's anyone's guess what I said though I like to think it made it into your blackbox". Something about the idea that every living creature has a black box that survives with its soul (maybe the blackbox is the soul?) really landed on my runway (har). It strikes me as a beautiful portrait of grief being guided by forces unseen.
Thank you so much, Keith! So funny about the blackbox, since posting my poem I've been playing around with removing that bit because I was worried the aviation metaphors were starting to feel tired -- but I will totally keep it in there now because of what you said. You gave it extra meaning with idea of blackbox as soul!
Yay! I'm so glad the blackbox will live on, immortal!
Admittedly I also am not very familiar with aviation metaphors, but I love the flow and feeling in this poem. Thank you for sharing.
Rebekah, this is a remarkable poem! The aviation metaphors and references work, and you weave them in quite well. There is a stream of consciousness quality to your poem, which contrasts wonderfully well with the piercing insights and surprising connections you make with life. You have a knack for exploring new avenues and areas and seeming like you have known about the subject for years.