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wherever you are is somewhere sour or sweet/
a lemon heaven full of juice to squeeze
reflections on writing and reading poetry in and out of the classroom
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Number of Readers that added this blog to their MyJacketFlap: 8
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 12/16/2016
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Time this morning only to wish everyone a bright Solstice--which I described to 2nd graders as the winter holiday we can ALL acknowledge: light the dark, green the grey, warm the frigid world! (The northern hemisphere, anyway.)
This week's microprocessing...
12.16
on the 14th, seared,
I lay down rows of cookies
iced with salty stains
Newtown Anniversary
12.15
strange light spreads
in my dark December room--
oh! it's the fat friendly moon
12.14
welcome all
the world is spicy
brown and sweet
12.13
a player, ready
palms and feathers greased
exxonus rex
Rex Tillerson 12.12
who needs intelligence?
you get this, Mike--
I'm busy trying on suits
The President's Daily Brief 12.11
note to self:
hurrying towards everything
I hurt someone
Today the round-up is with my pal Tabatha at
The Opposite of Indifference. A visit to her blog is always intriguing, always uplifting (slothlove!), always healing.
My effort to respond creatively to the news of the world continues; you can read about how Mary Lee started it all here. You're invited to scroll down to the previous week's minimalist commentaries --and of course, you're invited to join in. It wasn't clear to me at first, but the tiny discipline of having to craft a response rather than just banging the steering wheel and yelling has been empowering.
And from yesterday:
12.8
gold star winks out
leaving a long bright trail
greatness in orbit
Joining in this project are all the brave women below; I hope they will pardon me when, during the week, all I can manage is to Like their Tweeted haiku. It's good to work alongside you all!
Mary Lee Hahn at Poetrepository
Margaret Simon at Reflections on the Teche
Linda Mitchell at A Word Edgewise
Buffy Silverman at Buffy's Blog
Jone Rush MacCulloch at DeoWriter
Diane Mayr, posted on Thursdays at Random Noodling
Julie Johnson at Raising Readers and Writers
Catherine Flynn at Reading to the Core
Carol Varsalona at Beyond LiteracyLink
Carol Wilcox at Carol's Corner
Our hostess with the postest is Jone at Check It Out. She reminds us that haiku fits nicely on a postcard. And now, in other news...
I was delighted to join
Jacqueline Jules,
Marty Rhodes Figley and
Laura Murray on Dec. 1st for a holiday book launch at One More Page in Arlington, VA (what a delightful place). Here we are, festive and fierce with a bunch of fun books for holiday giving and receiving. Each book you see earns its place on the bookshelf, but if I may reveal all my biases:
every home with children needs a copy of One Minute till Bedtime!
12.7
a fine kettle of
hawks we have here,
rising on hot air
hawksand also
generals and majors
drone on with military decision
just following orders, sir
Here's my inspiration, deceptively upbeat, by the ever-clever XTC. The song remains a stroke of genius, although the video is goofy--can you spot a really famous British entrepreneur?
*************************************************************
12.6
looks like pizza, smells
like pizza--but let's shoot it
just to be safe
Comet Ping-Pong I have a ton to say about this one, primarily that in order to effectively distinguish fact from fake it helps have to have an excellent grip on metaphor.
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 12/5/2016
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12.5
sing on
little bird of Aleppo
fly safe
Bana al-Abed
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 12/4/2016
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12.4
loud and solid
an army of rock stands, chants,
sends the snake around
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 12/3/2016
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12.3
so dam busy in
December--maybe this
will save me some tooth
"Beaver Wreaks Havoc in Maryland Dollar Store"
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 12/2/2016
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Mary Lee said: "My creative spirit, who has been sitting out on the porch with her head between her knees for the last couple of weeks, looked up and nodded.
Yes, that seems right, she said.
A response to the news of the day, shared in the concise metaphorical form of the haiku."Thus daily #haikuforhealing in December was born.
My creative spirit exclaimed, "Dang
, that sounds like a good idea! News, concise, metaphor, daily. You can do this!" And also: "Isn't Mary Lee wise, brave, and organized?"
So here we go, with no promises that I can manage every day.
*****************************************
12.1
fire, flood, tornadono one says"punishment from God"
12.2
skies clear: no dove.
on the ground jackass
brays at mad dog
12.2 bonus haiku!
stone soup simmersvillagers add their vegetablesto deep Friday potAnd here are last week's warm-ups, featured on
Today's Little Ditty by Michelle:
11.28
not by hiding
from the world but by living
widely in it
11.27
refuge & solace:
today I don't turn on
the news
11.26
gathering light
around the long table
let's take this outside
To help celebrate the release of this beautiful book, contributor Jackie Hoskings has organized a blog tour! Please join the poets as we share a one-minute poem that didn't quite make it into the book. Dig Me
I open
at the end of your stick--
little dent in the dirt
I open
wider, deeper, darker—
a hole that might
shout out
the round echoes
of a grand canyon
or whisper
the small secrets of
the soil
©Heidi Mordhorst
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 11/25/2016
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Being a "general optimist," my reactions to the current state of the world lean resolutely towards whatever there is to appreciate, whatever there is to celebrate, whatever is good. In that spirit, today I offer some grateful words I sang to my children at bedtime, composed as a more-than-Christian variation on a hymn tune my mother sang to me. They're intended to be both soothing and, the next morning, rousing.
There is so much to be thankful for, so many blessings to fight for.
Hymn at Bedtime
All praise to thee, bright world, this night
For all the wonders of the light.
Keep me, oh, keep me till sunrise
Beneath thy deep and endless skies.
Thanks for the trees and for the birds;
Thanks for the silence and the words;
Thanks for the blue and for the green;
Thanks for the places I have been.
Thanks for the water and the wind;
Thanks for the drum and violin;
Thanks for the honey on my bread;
Thanks for this place to lay my head.
And when tomorrow comes the day
I’ll wake and shake the dark away,
Greeting each creature of the earth
With gifts of warmth and strength and mirth.
(c) Heidi Mordhorst 2001 The Thanksgiving round-up is with Carol at
Carol's Corner. I'm thankful for all of you who make this community for all of us.
I'm coming to you from balmy Atlanta this week, where Mary Lee Hahn and I will be presenting later today a session called "Risking Writing," along with Dr. Shanetia Clark of Salisbury University and author Patricia Hruby Powell. At the heart of this session is the writing of a poem brainstormed by Shanetia, drafted by Mary Lee, and revised by me. Patricia will supply inspirational commentary. Do check back in to see what we came up with!
For now, here's our presentation in a nutshell:
The round-up today is with Brenda at
Friendly Fairy Tales. It's not much of a risk just joining in our friendly Fridays, but letting the poetry take you--that's riskier.
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 11/11/2016
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Last Friday I wrote with joy to the world about a November volcano exploding a lava of leaves. This Friday (not because Hillary lost, but because ignorant, selfish, and hateful won), that November lava has been scorched raw and is now chilling into the hard obsidian of resolve.
That's how I feel on the inside. My poem for that goes like this:
I pledge allegiance
to liberty and justice for all.
Looking at me, you wouldn't notice any hard shiny edges. On the outside I look the same as I always have: an ordinary, middle-aged woman white woman. You'd see me get in my late-model Mazda and know that I'm privileged to drive my own car, with enough time and money to decorate it with pink and green flower decals. Even my bumper stickers aren't so remarkable: two public school logos and a "Wag More, Bark Less" magnet (You might assume that means I love my dogs instead of owning cats.)
You wouldn't know that when I first left my husband and moved to London in 1991, I thought I'd cut my hair short, stop wearing teacher skirts and go butch to suit my new lesbian lifestyle. After a lifetime of privilege I felt so safe, even as I altered my whole identity, that it never occurred to me that I might endanger myself with a style makeover.
As it happened, I was still mostly myself when I arrived in London. I couldn't ever commit to the butch look, and eventually understood that I wasn't even a "real" lesbian--instead I'm a real bisexual who had found the love of her life in a woman. So that ordinary, middle-aged white woman getting into her suburban Mazda is, invisibly to most, a bisexual woman in a same-sex marriage with two children conceived through artificial insemination.
Unless I open my mouth, I'm pretty safe in this "new" America where my fellow citizens, emboldened by an ignorant, selfish and hateful winner. I'm not black, I'm not brown, I don't have an accent, I don't wear a hijab, I don't stand out.
So I'm opening my mouth. Not in protest because my right to marriage is now endangered, although it is, and not because my worth as human will be questioned, because it will, and not because my children's security might be compromised, because it will be. I'm opening my mouth because it's not fair that I get to be invisibly safe as I go about my business, while whole populations of Americans are waking up each day worried, because of how they look and who they are, about what lies ahead on their morning commute, their day at work or in school, in the next weeks or months or year.
I'm unsure if this is any help. I'm even a little unsure of my motivations here. I just feel like I don't want to be hiding right now, that--KABOOM--this country is not what I hoped, believed, and committed to on the day after the election in 2008. I feel like I've been relaxing in safety for 8 years, here in suburban liberal Maryland with my white skin and my flowered Mazda, and that I have to get out of the car and walk now with some folks who are strangers to me.
And I don't have a poem for that yet.
The round-up is with
Jama today. Safety in numbers there, and maybe in baked goods.
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 11/4/2016
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| "November Volcano" illustrated by Christoph Niemann, 2016 |
Fall is late this year in the mid-Atlantic--and in the last weeks we've had two days in the high 70's and two above 80*! It's been hard to settle into the season, but fortunately Halloween was chilly--and yet not as leafy-scuffly-rustly as it usually is. Our leaves fall late compared to New England--not until the end of October--and this year it's only in the last couple of days that color change has really been noticeable.
But when it starts, it's thrilling! A good gust and the trees seem to be spouting hot lava, red and glowing yellow. And that's even before they're raked into a mountain and exploded by a daring leap into its crater! A poetic mom and her 7-year-old son might just have to write about it...and that's how the wee poem in
One Minute till Bedtime came to be.
One of my favorite things about this gorgeous book (see my earlier rhapsodizing
here) is that in most cases each poem, even the briefest, has been given its own page and often its own illustration. The generous amount of white space acts as a two-dimensional pedestal, elevating each poem to its highest effect, like a gem on velvet under glass. And yet the "glass" is penetrable--small hands can reach right into each illustration to grab the energy. Don't you want to jump in there too?!
Thanks once again to Kenn Nesbitt, Christoph Niemann, and to every one of the other poets whose work graces this book--and special kudos to Phil Caminiti, Nicole Brown and David Caplan, the designers and art director listed in the front matter. The difference a great book designer can make--especially in children's books--is beyond quantification.
Laura has the round-up today at
Writing the World for Kids--go jump in, throw leaves, explode!
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 10/28/2016
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book review,
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anthologies,
mothers,
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Kenn Nesbitt,
my own work,
One Minute till Bedtime,
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This is the hour of
Kenn Nesbitt! Our former Children's Poet Laureate has worked for more than two years with over 130 poets to produce one of the loveliest anthologies of poetry I've ever held in my hands. (As a contributor, I have already had this pleasure though the book release is not until November 1.) I think one of the big appeals of
One Minute Till Bedtime is that it feels distinctly old-fashioned.
The heft of the book, the feel of the dust jacket and the paper inside (smooth but not slick) contribute to this initial sensation. The hand-chalked title and cover illustration glow forth from a deep purple background.
Christoph Niemann's robust drawings build the feeling--they appear simple and straightforward but they carry (like good
writing for children) layers of imagination and emotion. And the poems inside, not all of which are sleepy or soft by any means, are
cozy nonetheless--they speak to the experiences that children have at home, in their early close relationships with people, objects and the creatures of the natural world. There's no flash, no high-tech, no gloss--just outstanding design and sensitive curation.
In a time of--would you agree with me?--global unrest, when anyone who is paying attention to the Big Picture must carry a sense of unease, this book is somehow comforting and reassuring. It confirms that the fundamental, ritual experience of going to bed with a story, poem or song shared in the voice of a beloved caregiver is alive and well.
So it's fitting that when Kenn was invited to an
interview over at Michelle Heidenrich Barnes's blog, he offered this challenge:
Write a poem for your mother. Write it for your mother and give it to her. It can be any kind of poem you like, as long as it’s especially for her. In my opinion, a poem is the best gift you can ever give someone. It doesn’t cost you anything but a little thought and time, and yet it will be treasured forever.
And fittingly enough, I have just such a gift poem in my archives! I posted it to the Ditty of the Month Club Padlet and now I share it with you here--a poem about precisely that experience I described above, of being rhymed and rhythmed, thrilled and calmed each morning, noon and night by the voice of my mother, Lila (nee Zingerline) Mordhorst.
A History of Your Voice
Mothers’ Day 2011
this little piggy stayed home
for so long we were
together all the time
together all alone
together all among
open the doors and see all the people
four gray geese in a flock
for so long you listened to every word I
began to say
forgot to say
dared to say
wire briar limber lock
we parted disintegrated
re membered recombined
apple seed and apple thorn
for so long now we are
winding threads
dropping threads
picking up threads
sit and sing by a spring
there were two old Indians crossing the Mississippi
ripping a seam here and there
putting right sides together
stitching further rivers
would you like to hear the rest?
© Heidi Mordhorst
The round-up for this Poetry Friday is with Linda at
TeacherDance. May you hear today in your travels the voice of someone who spoke to you with love at bedtime--and may we seek that for every child.
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 10/21/2016
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Last year at NCTE, the author-illustrator Jon Klassen spoke about a certain scene in a certain book which thrillingly broke open a memory pod in my brain. It was the moment in "The Wish Sack," the third story of Benjamin Elkin's 1958 masterpiece
The Big Jump, in which Ben (a young hero of approximately medieval times) finds that he has wished himself right onto the bed of the sleeping bad King in his black palace!
Oh, how I loved this book! I searched for a copy of this out-of-print book and ordered it, and after reliving many deep experiences of learning (about reading and about how the world works) from it, I put it in my class library. And then a few weeks ago I put it in the Book Box of my student Natan.
On Tuesday Natan was among the first to do Book Sharing at our class meeting time, and so we conferred about a good choice. To my great satisfaction, he chose
The Big Jump, but not the copy from the classroom library--he loved it so much he had found and bought and brought his own! He chose to read aloud precisely the same passage from "The Wish Sack" that Jon Klassen had mentioned in his speech, and others in the class who have read
The Big Jump jumped in to say how easy to read and how exciting this book is.
But that wasn't all. On Tuesday night Natan made another big jump. He arrived at school with a homemade stapled book that also included 3 stories--about Pokemon training. His sense of humor and wide vocabulary made each little story very effective, and of course I acknowledged that. So (with writing time in school currently filled with a research project about nutrition), Natan went home and added a proper cover, a "tabel of contants" and three more stories! On Wednesday morning he tried to GIVE this book to me, so I taught him about dedications and he kept the book, now dedicated to me.
The next big jump came that very day during our discussion of choosing books responsibly and wisely. I departed a bit from
The Big Orange Splot, which turns out to be the perfect book for learning the I PICK model for independent reading, and I extended the concept to self-selected writing projects. I read Natan's Pokemon book to the class as an example--and during the discussion Natan let us know that the idea to make a book with more than one story had come from his repeated readings of
The Big Jump.
Suddenly--right on time, really--in one of those
aha! waves that happen in classrooms, the Diamond Miners realized that what you read is connected to what you write, and (with Ms. Mordhorst's help) that what you write is probably the most important work you do in school. The houses of
The Big Orange Splot are the metaphor and, as Mr. Plumbean says, "My house is me and I am it. My house is where I like to be and it looks like all my dreams."
And they're off, to make books that look like all their dreams! That very day there was a flurry of independent paper folding and stacking and stapling and writing and drawing when center work was completed, and next week I can start replacing some of my Word Work Centers with Self-Selected Writing, so that effectively every child enjoys two writing sessions every day--one structured, coached Teacher-Selected Writing time and one independent, autonomous choice writing time. And then I will have to establish more sharing opportunities! (And then I will have to get to work on my own Big Jump book with Benjamin Elkin as my mentor.)
I really love Big Jumps. : ) And here's an unexpected bonus video!
The round-up today is with Tricia--I think!--at
The Miss Rumphius Effect. Jump on over for some big reading!
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 10/14/2016
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| C&T Custom Lures on ETSY |
Yes, I have been blogging here for eight whole years! My first post featured a poem I'd heard on the Writer's Almanac which I could post just as easily today, but for a historical marker, go to
one of my first long posts, written in English and in French (such as my French was, after spending 2007-2008 in Paris) about the day after the 2008 election and my feelings about seeing Barack Obama become President.
Very shortly after that I mused on "
the beauty of the blog," even though at that point I don't believe
ANYONE was reading it. Perhaps that's why posting was a little haphazard until my momentous entry into this Poetry Friday community (momentous for me, not necessarily for the PF community!)
That came in March of 2009, which is another anniversary I look forward to celebrating.
For now, though, this:
Keeping It Together
All threads and trains,
No rules, restraints,
No due dates, deadlines, demands.
I get to choose. It's in my hands:
Voice, vocabulary, venom or valentine--
Each and every muse is mine.
Reaching in deep or out wide, me to you,
Sampling the past or hewing the new,
A record here is made,
Revels, relations, revelations live here
Year after year after year.
draft (c) HM 2016
**********************************
Today's round-up is with Irene and her scarecrow show (how wonderful!) at
Live Your Poem. Wishing you, her and her scarecrow the same satisfaction that I can't help but feel at sticking with this for eight years!
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 10/7/2016
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foreign bodies
black and white against the
rubber-crumbling field of turf,
daughters meet the fight--
they gallop, leap and turn,
twinkle, clump and spread again,
amoeba-like around a white and black
nucleus of ball
black and white, brown and pink
against the empty, clanging bleachers--
chill October night--
we gather, stand and clap,
shiver, stretch and cheer again,
eggbox lights under a white on black
slice of moon
singular smell here, green and dying
singular sound here, still and shouting
and all that speedenergysweatspirit
like black and white
like day and night
a foreign cult to me
draft (c) HM 2016
It's our last season of varsity girls' soccer. I put on a good show (and I am truly amazed, truly supportive), but the whole enterprise remains fundamentally baffling to the inner me.
Enter the fray of Poetry Friday over at
Violet Nesdoly's blog today--always a reason to cheer on Friday, and this week it's for Poetry Camp!
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 9/23/2016
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14th Birthday, Present
While you are sleeping
I find your sister's old phone--
the smart one--
and make the call.
Your dumb, old phone,
with its cracked screen--
"not your fault"--
lies in the hall,
full of stupid photos
and foolish texts sent--
against the rules.
You never call.
I add another line and
increase the data plan--
that's my secret--
pay for it all.
I activate your new phone
congratulate myself--
birthday gift achieved--
and test a call.
There you are, goofing on last
year's voice message--"Like,
totally, like ciao!"
You sound small,
smart enough for a phone
but little, like a kid--
high, chirpy voice--
not cracked, not tall.
draft (c) HM 2016
****************************
Fourteen is different nowadays, huh? I spent hours and hours on the kitchen wall phone with the long spiralled cord, sitting in the privatest place it could reach at the top of the back stairs, practicing my
double entendre with a boy who was a friend, not a crush--safe space.
My son is moving from the "dumb" phone to the smart phone because he needs to start practicing how to use it wisely, but we have our qualms--unfairly, because we didn't have the same ones with his sister. This rightly makes him indignant (but they have different strengths and weaknesses and are susceptible to different, shall I say, "cultural" dangers.) However, he's getting his sooner than she got hers.
Hope it doesn't grow him up any faster than he's already going.
The Poetry Friday roundup today is with Catherine at
Reading to the Core. Call in for plenty of poetry conversations!
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 9/16/2016
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Strange how you can realize after the fact that something was missing, without realizing it at the time...last year in Second Grade, much was overheard, but not much of it made me laugh. This year will be different, let me tell you!
"Overheard in Second Grade" (OISG) is supposed to be Tuesday feature, but here we are kicking off on a Friday this year. The concept is that I share a quote from a 7-year-old and then use it as a writing prompt, which is how many of my poems come to be anyway. All names are aliases to protect the privacy of my students (and you can forget right now what I said about
all the angels two weeks ago), but the words are as verbatim as I can make them.
So....yesterday I'm doing a reading assessment with my student Latham using a book called "A Huge Mess" (also an alias so that I don't violate any test security regulations geez). I say the required intro--"This book is about a kid called Charlie who has a little trouble taking care of his things," and then I always add (probably in violation of testing protocol),
"Is there anyone like that in your family?"
Latham pins me with his big brown eyes and says,
"Yes, and you probably know who it is, 'cause you're lookin' right at him!"
*******************************************
You Probably Know Who It Is
Is there anyone here who
can never find a pencil?
Yep--you're lookin' right at him...
Is there anyone here who
spills her juice every day?
Uh-huh--you're lookin' right at her...
Are there any kids here who
leave their jackets on the playground?
Oh yeah--you're lookin' right at 'em...
Here we all are
searching, wiping, fetching--
and lookin' right back
at you!
draft (c) Heidi Mordhorst 2016The Poetry Friday Round-Up today is with Michelle at
Today's Little Ditty. Go eavesdrop on all the interesting poetry chat!
See you next week for the return of
OIK Tuesday, now morphed into OISG Tuesday!
...has entered my classroom in the form 16 children who are, in three cases literally, angels. (I have an Angel, an Angela, and an Angelina!) This year, in addition to my old favorite
Roxaboxen, I began the year with the picture book poem
All the World by our friend Liz Garton Scanlon. This poem (even without the Caldecott Honor illustrations by Marla Frazee) touches the sacred for me, and the way I explained it to the shiny new second-graders children sitting on my shaggy spring green carpet is that it gathers up many small, ordinary things to make us feel one big true thing. Here's an excerpt.
All the World | Liz Garton Scanlon
Rock, stone, pebble, sand
Body, shoulder, arm, hand
A moat to dig, a shell to keep
All the world is wide and deep.
Hive, bee, wings, hum
Husk, cob, corn, yum!
Tomato blossom, fruit so red
All the world's a garden bed
Tree, branch, trunk, crown
Climbing up and sitting down
Morning sun becomes noon-blue
All the world is old and new
....
Everything you hear, smell, see
All the world is everything
Hope and peace and love and trust
All the world is all of us
**************************
After I read this, there was this long pause, and then Andy (yes, I have an Andy too), raised his hand to say, "That book almost made me cry." There was reverence in the room.
And that, my friends, is what they are ALL like this year: full of hope and peace and love and trust, open-hearted and ready. It's another miracle.
Just in case someone had thought to set this beauty to music, I searched a little and found my way to this, which plays with the end of the book to fit the music but comes out pretty wonderful.
Thanks to Liz, and thanks to Penny at
A Penny and Her Jots for hosting today, and thanks be to the ebb and flow of the world that every year is different!
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 8/25/2016
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Yes, indeed, friends--my house is open! On Friday at 1:30 pm children and their families will crowd around the lists posted in the foyer of the school to see who has which teacher, and then the new 2nd graders will surge up the stairs to the 2nd floor for the first time to find their new classrooms, and then 16 of them will surge through my door looking for a new home away from home. I hope they find it, and I hope you will find a home away from home here today in the community, in a poem someone has posted. I almost always find something just right!
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 8/19/2016
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that which causes wonder and astonishment, being an extraordinary effect or event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers¡mira!clay shaped and baked into flowerpots
basil, mint, oregano
symmetry of the cat's markings
silent din of dawn
but also
engineering of a glossy magazine
interlock of Lego bricks
and look--
¡mira!closure technologies: button, zipper, snap
scrubbable, self-healing, waterproof skin
kudzu canyons stretching for miles
traffic flowing easily, ever
and what about
babies, born to laugh
ready shower of hot water
¡mira!clean sweetness of Cheerios, blueberries, milk
daily delivery of mail
"all known human and natural powers,"
every one, and
every one a miracle
draft (c) Heidi Mordhorst 2016 *******************************************
Today's Poetry Friday roundup is hosted by Dori at
Dori Reads. Go catch some breathy bubbles of poetry!
There's a gentle battle going on at our house...
I Defend a Habitually Rash Action to My Teenager
Yes, daughter, I let the cat out again.
It’s late summer and the world is
steaming with sunshine,
streaming with cloud and blossom
and voluptuous voles.
He is not wise but filled with the beastly miracle of himself,
filled with the urge to be out,
to make his foolish way.
(You know how he comes back after
two minutes or two days, stands at the threshold,
leans in, steps back, leans in,
then turns and bolts away?)
Yes, daughter, I know there are dangers
out there—sly foxes, cars that run so
silently we don’t hear them coming,
other cats who are not kind.
But I have no right to keep him in, happy
as he is in his carpeted climber, curled
in any of his many cozy corners, thrilled
as he is by his kibble.
He knows his instincts.
Disaster may await. Yes, daughter,
there might be sadness.
I slide the door open, and trust.
©Heidi Mordhorst 2016
I can only imagine what it will be like next year, when daughter is 18...
Our Poetry Friday round-up is with Julieann at
To Read To Write To Be, where her small commitment to GO AHEAD with poetry in the first days of school has inspired me!
 |
| draft (c) Heidi Mordhorst 2016 |
3 is the magic number,
bulging with possibilities.
One thing leads to another
and then another.
Beginning middle end.
3 has eyes to see and ears to hear.
3 purses its lips and
blows a kiss to the future.
Promise of wishes fulfilled.
********************
That's a less-than-one-minute poem that COULD have been (but isn't) in the forthcoming anthology
ONE MINUTE TILL BEDTIME, edited by Children's Poet Laureate Kenn Nesbitt. Instead a different tiny poem by me is included, along with many more "60-second poems to send you off to sleep."
I just love the cover illustration by Christoph Niemann, and I can't wait to see what other poems by our Poetry Friday friends are included. It comes out November 1 from Little Brown, just in time for winter gift-giving!
The Poetry Friday round-up is with Margaret at
Reflections on the Teche.
By: Heidi Mordhorst,
on 7/22/2016
Blog:
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"I want my word to be the thing itself,
created by my soul a second time."
--Juan Ramon Jimenez
"A poem should not mean, but be."
--Archibald MacLeish
This week I presented at the
Millersville University Poetry in the Classroom Institute, directed by Dr. Lesley Colabucci. Along with Jacqueline Jules, Marjorie Maddox, Sylvia Vardell and Janet Wong, I "worked" poetry with a great group of Pennsylvania educators. There was talk of the many ways to read poetry, write poetry, share poetry, collect poetry, teach poetry, learn poetry, and my particular contribution was a look at the nuts & bolts of establishing a workable poetry routine in the classroom. Meanwhile, I created my own writer's retreat here in Lancaster, PA, and excavated a whole crate of writing from as far back as 1992--not notebooks, but drafts of stories and memoir and poems and manuscripts, some with my notes, some with critique group notes--tons of material remembered and yes (I have a really faulty memory), forgotten.
This has given me the impression of eating, sleeping and breathing poetry all week, and yet for me there has hardly been a moment of letting a poem "be the thing itself," of letting it "not mean, but be." These words are the epigraph to a double collection of poems by my youngest cousin Meredith, which I rediscovered in my trove of writing. So to conclude my week, I'm going to let these two poems by Meredith be the thing itself, created a second time out of her college experience of brain cancer and long recovery
from
Roots: Living With(Out) Cancer grass || Meredith Tracy
Part I: Another Voice in the Darkness, 1999 Dad wheels me along
the paved pathways, careful not
to tip me sideways
I remember how the familiar feel of
each individual blade
on my bare feet
stunned me as I stood up
out of my wheelchair.
Taking in the fresh air,
an unexpected treasure--
raspberry bushes:
ruby fruit
that melts on my tongue.
A respite from hospital air,
nutrients/food. A reminder of life.
I am alive.
remember the raspberries|| Meredith Tracy
Part II: Remember the Raspberries, 2009 i need to remember that
unexpected pleasure of
the rubyfruit melting on
my tongue.
that moment when I was
outside, no longer a
patient, but an outsider
seeing the unexpectedness
of life, the surprises that
appear so suddenly, th
pieces of a light-full life
to be lived, even if only
day by day.
i need to forget the
dark half of the room
i shared with a stranger.
the dark half that seems
to follow me, not
letting me go
until i can shed this
darkness and walk out
into the light.
****************************
The roundup today is with Chelanne at
Books4Learning. Let the poems be.
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Happy Solstice to you Heidi! Super duper micro processing there! The 15th is my favorite, oh how I adore that fat friendly moon.
Oh, Heidi, the Newtown haiku paired with gingerbread children is so heartbreaking. What an example of the depths of emotions held by three short lines. It still feels raw.
I like that this might become your December diary, Heidi. And love that "spicy brown and sweet".
"hurrying towards everything/I hurt someone" Thank you for this reminder. I've been holding Irene's advice "to err on the side of love" in my heart, and your words add another layer to their importance. Thank you.
Haste does make for regrets, good reminder. I like those political ones. They gave me a sideways smile. Poetry is power.
I agree with Brenda -- "Poetry is power." It is also companionship. I love writing with you!
Through this daily writing exercise, we see the metaphor and experience the irony of baking gingerbread cookies on the anniversary of Sandy Hook. I am grinning at your fat friendly moon. I just like the way you think.
WOW! These are all perfect, perceptive little nuggets of pure genius, Heidi!
12/14! Yes! There is hope. And cookies.
soften my edges
as snow pillows our landscape
that I may receive
12/16 is my favorite, I think.
Loving the look of the gingerbread children - made me hungry today.
There's something about seeing 12/15, that fat friendly moon, next to 12/16, those salty stains, that touches me very deeply. I can't wait to read more, Heidi!
"The world is spicy brown and sweet" - I can just about taste my mum's gingerbread, what a wonderful image you've created!