This month, I have selected two poems on the theme of memory. Remember that the poets still own copyright on their poems, so these works of art cannot be used without permission of the writers. The September challenge will be posted on September 1.
Wilda
Mother in May
Amid forests of prescriptions she rests,
past knowing the purpose of any,
propped up by bed crank and pillows, and
wrapped in linens of estranged belonging.
On a rolling table a pitcher waits
water for thirst, and musak T.V.
Pink roses crowd her life’s haul of vases
with the bounty of her third daughter’s yard.
Awash in flotsam of photographs,
she sees faces and scenes lost to time.
All talking’s too late to reclaim “the boy,”
her ministering son, or to moor her.
At youth’s bloom she was Queen of the May
in an old crown-the-virgin church rite.
Dare we pray? Dear Mother of Mercy, recall
her the visions and sounds of that day.
-- Jean Waggoner c. 8/2/2009
Jean Waggoner speaks in the voice of a son or daughter (or perhaps, daughter-in-law) whose mother is aged, fragile physically, and “beyond knowing.” This mother, who was once the Queen of May, is again surrounded by flowers. Is it “too late” to reclaim “the boy,” because mentally she has gone backward in time, already passing through the years when she was a young mother and her son was a child? If so, maybe it isn’t yet too late to pray for her to have the pleasure of once again seeing herself as Queen of the May. This is a poignant end-of-life poem.
Perhaps You Forgot
When I was alone and the days were endless,
perhaps you forgot
the feverish, sleepless nights I held you close.
When you said you were coming that day but didn’t,
perhaps you forgot
how you scanned the bleachers ‘til you saw me always there.
When I needed a familiar voice and you screened calls,
perhaps you forgot
that I always answered and gave what I could.
When the day comes that I have forgotten everything,
perhaps you’ll help me remember.
--Judith Tullis
In this piece by Judith Tullis, the narrator speaks as parent (probably the mother) to her adult child who has grown distant. In this poem, it is the son or daughter who has forgotten – forgotten what the mother did for him or her over the years: cuddling on sleepless nights during childhood; showing up to cheer at her child's games; and always doing what she could to meet his or her needs. This mother, who is feeling neglected, wonders if, when her memory is gone, her child will finally remember all this. The conclusion to this poem is a bit of a surprise, however. She doesn't say, when I'm gone, you'll remember and be sorry you didn't take better care of me in my old age. Rather, she says, when I have forgotten, perhaps you will help me remember.
Tullis has made excellent use of repetition in this poem. Addressing the grown child as "you," instead of using a less personal format, gives this poem emotional punch.
(c) 2009 Wilda W. Morris
Friday, August 21, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
August Challenge
Memory loss is not a new subject for poetry. Emily Dickinson (1830–1886) wrote that “You cannot make remembrance grow / when it has lost its root.” She went on to indicate that when you don’t want to remember something it keeps popping up in your mind. You can read her poem at www.americanpoems.com/poets/emilydickinson/11460.
Katie Kingston deals with memory loss in a unique way in the first stanza of her poem, “When I Clap.”
When I Clap (Excerpt)
My right hand reaches for the feather of memory
that fell from my mother’s hat as she bent to get out
of the car, down-tugged away on wind, not unlike
the pigeon, roosting now above the church door, satisfied
with alcove. Everything I touch is the texture of oven bread,
round like my mother’s voice as I teach her conversation again.
The scent of empaňadas lingers in the blue opal earthstone
of her earring when she leans to say Goodnight, God bless,
until morning, but now, I say the words first because she
has forgotten even the sound fire trucks make outside our window.
What’s that? she asks, her palms pressed to her ears.
-- Katie Kingston
From In My Dreams Neruda (Main Street Rag’s Editor’s Choice Chapbook Series; Charlotte NC: Main Street Rag Publishing Company, 2005), p. 12. © 2005 Katie Kingston. Used with permission of the author.
Katie Kingston uses interesting details and metaphors to turn the mother’s memory loss into poetry. There is special—and unexpected---poignancy, when the narrator says her mother “leans to say Good Night, God bless,” and only afterwards tells us that she (the narrator) had to say it first, so her mother could repeat it. Her mother is like a child, having to be taught again and again. Like the pigeon, the mother has to be satisfied with little. There are hints her mother once liked to cook and bake bread, and perhaps that she was an elegant woman (note that blue opal earring).
The late Judith Strasser also had a unique take on forgetfulness.
Memory Lapse
For an older friend
I am prepared, when you don’t show up. For three days
and three nights, I have been watching
the War in the Gulf. I baked a cake while we bombed
Baghdad. I set the table; they shelled Tel Aviv.
You are like one of the casualties. All fall,
during the build-up, panic rattled the telephone lines.
You boiled pots dry, missed appointments, lost
your wallet, your checkbook, your keys. You made
company meals for guests you did not invite.
We worried the facts to shreds: drug interactions,
Jack Daniel’s blackouts, Alzheimer’s disease.
The commercials come back. I run to the kitchen
to turn off the coffee pot. The calendar on the wall
targets your visit in red: 1:00 P.M. Saturday, next week.
I see the error is mine. I didn’t expect the shock
of war. I didn’t think of battle fatigue.
I never considered grief.
-- Judith Strasser
From A Chorus for Peace: A Global Anthology of Poetry by Women
ed. by Marilyn Arnold, Bonnie Ballif-Spanvill and Kristen Tracy (Iowa City IA: University of Iowa Press, 2002), p. 39.
© 2009 by The Estate of Judith Strasser. Limited Warranty mss. will be posted at http://www.judithstrasser.com/.
Judith Strasser relates incidents at the start of the first Gulf War. The narrator’s life goes on more or less as usual, except that she is constantly watching the war on television. It is obvious that the news of the war interests her, but we can almost believe she is unmoved by it. She bakes a cake during the bombing of Baghdad, sets the table while Tel Aviv is shelled. Meanwhile, her older friend, who exhibits the ravages of memory loss, is like a war casualty. She misses appointments, loses things, forgets to invite the guests for whom she cooks---her life has become chaotic. The narrator and her friend have worried over possible reasons for her memory loss, all plausible. We are no more surprised than the narrator that this older friend has not come as scheduled. But wait---the narrator suddenly sees the calendar, and it tells her something unexpected. Their appointment wasn’t this week, but next. She has been so upset and grief-stricken over the start of the war, that she got confused. Now we don’t know for sure if the panic on the telephone lines had more to do with lost property and pots burned dry or bombing. Looking back, we see that Strasser says “we bombed Baghdad,” which suggests that, as a citizen of the U.S., she has to take some responsibility for what the government does; likely is one source of “battle fatigue” and grief for her.
August Challenge
The August Challenge is to write a poem concerning memory loss (or take a clue from the end of Emily Dickinson’s poem and write about unsuccessfully trying to forget something). Submit your poem by clicking on “comment” (below this posting). Only poems sent in that way by August 15, 2009, will be considered. At least one poem will be chosen for posting on this blog. Posting on a Website or blog constitutes publication.
Keep writing,
Wilda Morris
(c) 2009 Wilda W. Morris
Katie Kingston deals with memory loss in a unique way in the first stanza of her poem, “When I Clap.”
When I Clap (Excerpt)
My right hand reaches for the feather of memory
that fell from my mother’s hat as she bent to get out
of the car, down-tugged away on wind, not unlike
the pigeon, roosting now above the church door, satisfied
with alcove. Everything I touch is the texture of oven bread,
round like my mother’s voice as I teach her conversation again.
The scent of empaňadas lingers in the blue opal earthstone
of her earring when she leans to say Goodnight, God bless,
until morning, but now, I say the words first because she
has forgotten even the sound fire trucks make outside our window.
What’s that? she asks, her palms pressed to her ears.
-- Katie Kingston
From In My Dreams Neruda (Main Street Rag’s Editor’s Choice Chapbook Series; Charlotte NC: Main Street Rag Publishing Company, 2005), p. 12. © 2005 Katie Kingston. Used with permission of the author.
Katie Kingston uses interesting details and metaphors to turn the mother’s memory loss into poetry. There is special—and unexpected---poignancy, when the narrator says her mother “leans to say Good Night, God bless,” and only afterwards tells us that she (the narrator) had to say it first, so her mother could repeat it. Her mother is like a child, having to be taught again and again. Like the pigeon, the mother has to be satisfied with little. There are hints her mother once liked to cook and bake bread, and perhaps that she was an elegant woman (note that blue opal earring).
The late Judith Strasser also had a unique take on forgetfulness.
Memory Lapse
For an older friend
I am prepared, when you don’t show up. For three days
and three nights, I have been watching
the War in the Gulf. I baked a cake while we bombed
Baghdad. I set the table; they shelled Tel Aviv.
You are like one of the casualties. All fall,
during the build-up, panic rattled the telephone lines.
You boiled pots dry, missed appointments, lost
your wallet, your checkbook, your keys. You made
company meals for guests you did not invite.
We worried the facts to shreds: drug interactions,
Jack Daniel’s blackouts, Alzheimer’s disease.
The commercials come back. I run to the kitchen
to turn off the coffee pot. The calendar on the wall
targets your visit in red: 1:00 P.M. Saturday, next week.
I see the error is mine. I didn’t expect the shock
of war. I didn’t think of battle fatigue.
I never considered grief.
-- Judith Strasser
From A Chorus for Peace: A Global Anthology of Poetry by Women
ed. by Marilyn Arnold, Bonnie Ballif-Spanvill and Kristen Tracy (Iowa City IA: University of Iowa Press, 2002), p. 39.
© 2009 by The Estate of Judith Strasser. Limited Warranty mss. will be posted at http://www.judithstrasser.com/.
Judith Strasser relates incidents at the start of the first Gulf War. The narrator’s life goes on more or less as usual, except that she is constantly watching the war on television. It is obvious that the news of the war interests her, but we can almost believe she is unmoved by it. She bakes a cake during the bombing of Baghdad, sets the table while Tel Aviv is shelled. Meanwhile, her older friend, who exhibits the ravages of memory loss, is like a war casualty. She misses appointments, loses things, forgets to invite the guests for whom she cooks---her life has become chaotic. The narrator and her friend have worried over possible reasons for her memory loss, all plausible. We are no more surprised than the narrator that this older friend has not come as scheduled. But wait---the narrator suddenly sees the calendar, and it tells her something unexpected. Their appointment wasn’t this week, but next. She has been so upset and grief-stricken over the start of the war, that she got confused. Now we don’t know for sure if the panic on the telephone lines had more to do with lost property and pots burned dry or bombing. Looking back, we see that Strasser says “we bombed Baghdad,” which suggests that, as a citizen of the U.S., she has to take some responsibility for what the government does; likely is one source of “battle fatigue” and grief for her.
August Challenge
The August Challenge is to write a poem concerning memory loss (or take a clue from the end of Emily Dickinson’s poem and write about unsuccessfully trying to forget something). Submit your poem by clicking on “comment” (below this posting). Only poems sent in that way by August 15, 2009, will be considered. At least one poem will be chosen for posting on this blog. Posting on a Website or blog constitutes publication.
Keep writing,
Wilda Morris
(c) 2009 Wilda W. Morris
Friday, July 24, 2009
Winners of the July Poetry Challenge
Thank you to all who entered the July Poetry Challenge. There are two winners this month - one is free verse; the other is a rhymed poem. In each case, the form of the poem matches the content well. There were other poems which came close, so if you didn't win this time, try again another month.
Copyright remains with the poets who submitted the poems.
Avoid-dance
I awoke feeling it
would be a writing day
but couldn’t get down the hall
I finished a book I was reading
played on the computer
phone called and fiddled around
ignored the siren of the page
the lure of my desk in its
quiet corner
I went to the grocery
came home to make chicken soup
cranked the stereo
to drown the muse
instead she danced
while I chopped and stirred
measured and mixed
she waltzed me through the soup
and Billy Collins
pushed me into a
lemon pie
at midnight I made
Strawberry Jell-O with pears
to try to shut
them up
but they woke me
in the dawn
to pin my day
to the page
--bam
I like the clever title of this poem, which uses dance as a metaphor. The layout is appropriate for the way the day went - one thing after another. Short lines fit the "hyper" avoid-dance. The poet included interesting details and used alliteration sparingly, but effectively. I can certainly identify with the experience described in this poem, and I'm sure that is true for other writers also.
Ballroom Dancing
I showed up looking sharp and clean,
Arriving for my date.
I had prepared with ample time,
So not to show up late.
All decked out in my rented suit,
Her flowers in my hand,
I had a regal evening set,
Each detail mapped and planned.
There, proud I stood, top hat and tails,
A trussed up teenaged clown,
And gazed in awe at how she looked,
In her new ballroom gown.
I held her door, she climbed inside,
We started on our way,
And headed for the concert floor
To hear the big band play.
But this would be a different date,
For more than happenstance,
Tonight we’d spread our wings and fly,
Tonight we’d ballroom dance!
We’d taken classes, practiced hard,
Gone over every step,
The time had come to take the floor,
And validate our prep.
Tango, Foxtrot, Waltz and Swing,
Spin and turn and dip,
Round and round the floor we'd glide,
At a frantic clip.
Minutes turned to passing hours,
Moments quickly spent,
Every pattern crisply cut,
Joyful and content.
When at last the night gave way,
And the band went home,
We stood on the polished floor,
Beneath a golden dome.
Here we danced the night away,
And we made our fate,
In a spinning ballroom dancing way,
On this special date.
By David Roth
© 14th January, 2005
This poem is more rhythmic, like dance. Here again we see some interesting details, including the fact that his suit is rented. Many people will be able to identify with the experience of having taken dancing lessons and finally having an opportunity to try out those steps in a ballroom - with a special date.
Congratulations to bam and to David Roth.
Check the blog again on August 1 to find out what the next poetry challenge will be.
Keep writing!
Wilda
(c) 2009 Wilda W. Morris
Copyright remains with the poets who submitted the poems.
Avoid-dance
I awoke feeling it
would be a writing day
but couldn’t get down the hall
I finished a book I was reading
played on the computer
phone called and fiddled around
ignored the siren of the page
the lure of my desk in its
quiet corner
I went to the grocery
came home to make chicken soup
cranked the stereo
to drown the muse
instead she danced
while I chopped and stirred
measured and mixed
she waltzed me through the soup
and Billy Collins
pushed me into a
lemon pie
at midnight I made
Strawberry Jell-O with pears
to try to shut
them up
but they woke me
in the dawn
to pin my day
to the page
--bam
I like the clever title of this poem, which uses dance as a metaphor. The layout is appropriate for the way the day went - one thing after another. Short lines fit the "hyper" avoid-dance. The poet included interesting details and used alliteration sparingly, but effectively. I can certainly identify with the experience described in this poem, and I'm sure that is true for other writers also.
Ballroom Dancing
I showed up looking sharp and clean,
Arriving for my date.
I had prepared with ample time,
So not to show up late.
All decked out in my rented suit,
Her flowers in my hand,
I had a regal evening set,
Each detail mapped and planned.
There, proud I stood, top hat and tails,
A trussed up teenaged clown,
And gazed in awe at how she looked,
In her new ballroom gown.
I held her door, she climbed inside,
We started on our way,
And headed for the concert floor
To hear the big band play.
But this would be a different date,
For more than happenstance,
Tonight we’d spread our wings and fly,
Tonight we’d ballroom dance!
We’d taken classes, practiced hard,
Gone over every step,
The time had come to take the floor,
And validate our prep.
Tango, Foxtrot, Waltz and Swing,
Spin and turn and dip,
Round and round the floor we'd glide,
At a frantic clip.
Minutes turned to passing hours,
Moments quickly spent,
Every pattern crisply cut,
Joyful and content.
When at last the night gave way,
And the band went home,
We stood on the polished floor,
Beneath a golden dome.
Here we danced the night away,
And we made our fate,
In a spinning ballroom dancing way,
On this special date.
By David Roth
© 14th January, 2005
This poem is more rhythmic, like dance. Here again we see some interesting details, including the fact that his suit is rented. Many people will be able to identify with the experience of having taken dancing lessons and finally having an opportunity to try out those steps in a ballroom - with a special date.
Congratulations to bam and to David Roth.
Check the blog again on August 1 to find out what the next poetry challenge will be.
Keep writing!
Wilda
(c) 2009 Wilda W. Morris
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Let's Dance - The July Challenge
Dancing in the Dark
Tonight the band blares, “Celebration!”
then stops, and plays
a set of Golden Oldies.
All the aging couples rise
as one, drawn to the Maestro’s baton
like children, to the Piper’s tune.
He stands aside, a shadowy Timekeeper,
putting us through our paces,
“Ah-1, Ah-2, Ah-1-2-3-4!”
When we were young, we danced everywhere –
weddings, ballrooms, the Chez Paree.
Or we danced at home, while
Kate Smith sang, “Shine On, Harvest Moon!”
her voice amplifying the radio,
God and America. Later, exhausted,
we fell asleep on Kate’s bosom,
full-fleshed as the moon.
In World War II you danced
in a Texas bar if your boot-camp
was lucky and got a weekend pass.
At Normandy, you danced ashore,
dodging artillery. Back home,
I went solo to the local USO.
But tonight, we dance together.
And though your expression is remote
as the Man in the Moon’s, there’s
electricity in your arms. I dangle,
like Gepetto’s Pinocchio, obeying
every dip, every curve of your body.
For this strange blue dress I am wearing
has a wicked flounce that unlocks
my resistance. Yes tonight, we hear
strains of Sammy Kaye, Kay Kyser,
Count Basie and the Duke. Tonight,
we will show our children, our
moon-begotten children, our rhythm
& blues, rock & roll children –
(“Ah-1, Ah-2, Ah-1-2-3-4!”)
how we danced.
-- Gertrude Rubin
From A Beating of Wings
(Deerfield, IL: Lake Shore Publishing, 1991), pp. 62-63. Used with permission of the author.
Dancing in the Dark: I recommend reading this poem several times, before reading my commentary on it. It has several layers. There are undoubtedly more subtleties than I discovered!
Dance is a popular theme among poets. Sometimes the poet uses the term metaphorically, as for instance, when waves or leaves dance. In other poems, what we find is a fairly straight-forward description of a dance, or a narrative of a specific experience of dancing.
In “Dancing in the Dark,” Gertrude Rubin’s narrator addresses her life partner, cataloguing times when “we” danced, usually together, but during World War II, apart. The poem seems at first glance to be a straight-forward record of a relationship told through literal dance. But there are other things going on, too. The line, "At Normandy, you danced ashore/dodging artillery" is metaphoric and hints that there were other metaphoric dances in their lives, other dangers to be dodged. One has to wonder, for instance, why the man, who is much older now, dances with an expression “remote as the man in the moon.” Is dementia now the enemy shooting bullets they try to dodge? This is one possible reading.
In the last stanza, the narrator says that tonight they will show their children how they danced. Not only is “how we danced” on a line alone; it constitutes the entire stanza, which gives it special strength in the poem. Here again there are levels of meaning. The couple literally shows their children how they danced, but they also model a life style in which they “danced” through difficulties and now they keep dancing, despite their age. Here is a subtle way of saying that they have maintained—and still maintain—their joy, intimacy, and love through all the seasons of life.
A well-written title can add power to a poem. Ellen Kort, who was the first poet laureate of Wisconsin, has said that often when a person finishes reading a poem, he or she may go back and reread the title. That is what I did with this poem. The title, “Dancing in the Dark,” furthers my sense that the poem is a metaphor for how this couple live their life together. There is no mention of “the dark” in the poem itself. Darkness is only hinted at in the mention of Normandy and the fact that the man’s facial expression is remote as they dance. The title, however, suggests that they did not know where the dance of life would take them or what steps they would need to learn, something which is true for all of us.
With that in mind, the Maestro takes on new meaning. The literal Maestro who directs the dancers and counts time (“Ah-1, Ah-2, Ah-1-2-3-4!”) may also stand for God or a “higher power” who is also a “shadowy Timekeeper.” In my reading of the poem, it suggests that the dancers live their lives with a theological and/or ethical compass, and accept the fact that the end of their earthly life together is approaching.
In regards to the artistry of the poem, it is interesting to see the repetition of the moon throughout the poem. Note also the spare use of adjectives, which gives more strength to the few which are used. I’m still pondering the “strange blue dress” and the “wicked flounce.”
My Papa’s Waltz—Another Dance Poem: One of the most famous poems on a dance theme is “My Papa’s Waltz,” by Theodore Roethke (gawow.com/roethke/poems/43.html). Some interpreters give this waltz a positive meaning; others see it negatively. Is this a happy memory of a boy having fun with his father? Or an uncomfortable dance into which the boy is forced by his drunken father? You be the judge!
The Challenge: The challenge for July is to write a poem somehow related to the theme of dancing. Your poem may use the concept of dance literally or figuratively. It’s up to you. To enter the challenge, use the “comment” feature below. The deadline is July 15.
(c) 2009 Wilda W. Morris
Tonight the band blares, “Celebration!”
then stops, and plays
a set of Golden Oldies.
All the aging couples rise
as one, drawn to the Maestro’s baton
like children, to the Piper’s tune.
He stands aside, a shadowy Timekeeper,
putting us through our paces,
“Ah-1, Ah-2, Ah-1-2-3-4!”
When we were young, we danced everywhere –
weddings, ballrooms, the Chez Paree.
Or we danced at home, while
Kate Smith sang, “Shine On, Harvest Moon!”
her voice amplifying the radio,
God and America. Later, exhausted,
we fell asleep on Kate’s bosom,
full-fleshed as the moon.
In World War II you danced
in a Texas bar if your boot-camp
was lucky and got a weekend pass.
At Normandy, you danced ashore,
dodging artillery. Back home,
I went solo to the local USO.
But tonight, we dance together.
And though your expression is remote
as the Man in the Moon’s, there’s
electricity in your arms. I dangle,
like Gepetto’s Pinocchio, obeying
every dip, every curve of your body.
For this strange blue dress I am wearing
has a wicked flounce that unlocks
my resistance. Yes tonight, we hear
strains of Sammy Kaye, Kay Kyser,
Count Basie and the Duke. Tonight,
we will show our children, our
moon-begotten children, our rhythm
& blues, rock & roll children –
(“Ah-1, Ah-2, Ah-1-2-3-4!”)
how we danced.
-- Gertrude Rubin
From A Beating of Wings
(Deerfield, IL: Lake Shore Publishing, 1991), pp. 62-63. Used with permission of the author.
Dancing in the Dark: I recommend reading this poem several times, before reading my commentary on it. It has several layers. There are undoubtedly more subtleties than I discovered!
Dance is a popular theme among poets. Sometimes the poet uses the term metaphorically, as for instance, when waves or leaves dance. In other poems, what we find is a fairly straight-forward description of a dance, or a narrative of a specific experience of dancing.
In “Dancing in the Dark,” Gertrude Rubin’s narrator addresses her life partner, cataloguing times when “we” danced, usually together, but during World War II, apart. The poem seems at first glance to be a straight-forward record of a relationship told through literal dance. But there are other things going on, too. The line, "At Normandy, you danced ashore/dodging artillery" is metaphoric and hints that there were other metaphoric dances in their lives, other dangers to be dodged. One has to wonder, for instance, why the man, who is much older now, dances with an expression “remote as the man in the moon.” Is dementia now the enemy shooting bullets they try to dodge? This is one possible reading.
In the last stanza, the narrator says that tonight they will show their children how they danced. Not only is “how we danced” on a line alone; it constitutes the entire stanza, which gives it special strength in the poem. Here again there are levels of meaning. The couple literally shows their children how they danced, but they also model a life style in which they “danced” through difficulties and now they keep dancing, despite their age. Here is a subtle way of saying that they have maintained—and still maintain—their joy, intimacy, and love through all the seasons of life.
A well-written title can add power to a poem. Ellen Kort, who was the first poet laureate of Wisconsin, has said that often when a person finishes reading a poem, he or she may go back and reread the title. That is what I did with this poem. The title, “Dancing in the Dark,” furthers my sense that the poem is a metaphor for how this couple live their life together. There is no mention of “the dark” in the poem itself. Darkness is only hinted at in the mention of Normandy and the fact that the man’s facial expression is remote as they dance. The title, however, suggests that they did not know where the dance of life would take them or what steps they would need to learn, something which is true for all of us.
With that in mind, the Maestro takes on new meaning. The literal Maestro who directs the dancers and counts time (“Ah-1, Ah-2, Ah-1-2-3-4!”) may also stand for God or a “higher power” who is also a “shadowy Timekeeper.” In my reading of the poem, it suggests that the dancers live their lives with a theological and/or ethical compass, and accept the fact that the end of their earthly life together is approaching.
In regards to the artistry of the poem, it is interesting to see the repetition of the moon throughout the poem. Note also the spare use of adjectives, which gives more strength to the few which are used. I’m still pondering the “strange blue dress” and the “wicked flounce.”
My Papa’s Waltz—Another Dance Poem: One of the most famous poems on a dance theme is “My Papa’s Waltz,” by Theodore Roethke (gawow.com/roethke/poems/43.html). Some interpreters give this waltz a positive meaning; others see it negatively. Is this a happy memory of a boy having fun with his father? Or an uncomfortable dance into which the boy is forced by his drunken father? You be the judge!
The Challenge: The challenge for July is to write a poem somehow related to the theme of dancing. Your poem may use the concept of dance literally or figuratively. It’s up to you. To enter the challenge, use the “comment” feature below. The deadline is July 15.
(c) 2009 Wilda W. Morris
Monday, June 15, 2009
Restaurant Poem
Over Appleby’s Salads
--June 13, 2009
Brown eyes look into blue eyes
familiar from forty years ago,
she and I shiver through
an unofficial reunion supper
on the night of the official one.
The blast of the a/c
makes us both wish
we had a sweater.
God help us,
we’ve turned into
our mothers.
--Barbara Malcolm
(c) Barbara Malcolm
--June 13, 2009
Brown eyes look into blue eyes
familiar from forty years ago,
she and I shiver through
an unofficial reunion supper
on the night of the official one.
The blast of the a/c
makes us both wish
we had a sweater.
God help us,
we’ve turned into
our mothers.
--Barbara Malcolm
(c) Barbara Malcolm
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Update on June Challenge
I'm new to blogging and was out of town when I started the blog. As a result, I did not read carefully the e-mail I received from Google, and did not click where I should have clicked to activate the account. If you submitted a poem on or before June 15, I did not receive it. Please resend it by clicking on "comment."
Thanks!
Wilda
Thanks!
Wilda
Monday, June 1, 2009
Wilda Morris's June Poetry Challenge
The June poetry challenge is to write a restaurant poem. It could be about the menu, the food, the décor, the people with whom you are eating (or imagine you are eating), the cooks or waitstaff, or others being served.
Here are two examples from my book, Szechwan Shrimp and Fortune Cookies: Poems from a Chinese Restaurant.
Send your submission as a comment by June 15. I will select one or two poems to post on the blog.
Good eating – and good writing!
Wilda
egg roll
vegetables
and meat
wrapped
in the cozy embrace
of a pastry blanket
a lesson for us
on a cold night
Wilda Morris
Office Lunch for Five
Four men eat, listen and laugh
as she complains about her husband.
He fussed that I didn’t do laundry
last night and he has a million shirts.
Anyway, he’s a guy—no one cares
what he wears. I work full-time too
but he does nothing around the house
except sometimes sweep a little.
It’s easier just to do things myself—
anything he does, he does badly.
The men laugh again. It’s working
for him, isn’t it?
Wilda Morris
(c) 2009 Wilda W. Morris
Here are two examples from my book, Szechwan Shrimp and Fortune Cookies: Poems from a Chinese Restaurant.
Send your submission as a comment by June 15. I will select one or two poems to post on the blog.
Good eating – and good writing!
Wilda
egg roll
vegetables
and meat
wrapped
in the cozy embrace
of a pastry blanket
a lesson for us
on a cold night
Wilda Morris
Office Lunch for Five
Four men eat, listen and laugh
as she complains about her husband.
He fussed that I didn’t do laundry
last night and he has a million shirts.
Anyway, he’s a guy—no one cares
what he wears. I work full-time too
but he does nothing around the house
except sometimes sweep a little.
It’s easier just to do things myself—
anything he does, he does badly.
The men laugh again. It’s working
for him, isn’t it?
Wilda Morris
(c) 2009 Wilda W. Morris
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