Emily Dickinson – Dare to Care

Poetry Friday – Swaps and Sealey

24/Aug/202324/Aug/2023 Denise Krebs16 Comments

Today is Poetry Friday. Thanks to Linda Baie at TeacherDance for hosting us today. She writes about school starting and a playful poem called “Resistance” about resisting growing up. Sweet.

First up, The Poetry Marathon is coming. 24 poems in 24 hours! Want to try? Learn more about it here and apply by August 28. (Don’t let that word “apply” worry you; if you apply, you will be signed up.)

Next, recently I received two wonderful poetry swap packages in the mail that I wanted to share with you (and with the poets’ permission).

First, Sarah Grace Tuttle and I swapped poetry. These sweet gifts came in the mail.

This beautiful bookmark I’ve used every day since it arrived.

These are all cards made from photos Sarah has taken on her world travels of what she calls “Unexpected Art” — The shoe display is one of my favorites.

This poem made me stop and appreciate the flowers–in real life or as painted on murals. It is a lovely reminder to s l o w d o w n.

A Nestling for Sarah

Red Blooms on Breeze
Smell the Slow Down

More on Nestling found poems: This Poem is a Nest by Irene Latham / Learn more about nestlings on Irene’s handout.)

Next, I swapped poems with Linda Mitchell; she sent this beautiful handcrafted junk journal.

I received this precious junk journal from Linda.

What is a junk journal, you might ask? She explains in her poem:

Some of the ephemera she included:

Another sweet poem about what a prompt can be:

Thanks to the prompts at the Open Write at Ethical ELA this week, there are five more of my poems that wouldn’t have otherwise been birthed. In the process of writing and research, I learned about myself, my style, Emily Dickinson, nineteenth century history, and Renoir’s “Luncheon of the Boating Party.” All thanks to prompts that educators shared on the site. Thank you, Linda, for this poem that reminds us of the power of prompts.

Linda told me to use it and “don’t be precious with it.” So, I’m going to do just that and think of her when I hold its sweetness and add my own touches to her artwork.

A Nestling for Linda after “…Junk Journal”
find fun
pages into pages
you make new treasures

Finally, here are Sealey Challenge books I read this week, along with a found nestling poem from each of my favorite passages.

August 18 – They Call Me Güero, A Border Kid’s Poems by David Bowles

My nestling from a portion of “Ms. Wong & the Rabbit” in They Call Me Güero

Language has night birds
viewing world poetry
floating in the sky

August 19 – I’m the Big One Now! Poems about Growing Up by Marilyn Singer

My Big One Now! Nestling

big-sprays castle
doesn’t show how far
you imagine
that wide world

August 20 – It’s Not Magic Poems by Jon Sands (Selected and Foreword by Richard Blanco)

My nestling (based on words found in all five stanzas of “Decoded” by Jon Sands)

August 21 – Underneath My Bed List Poems by Brian P. Cleary

My Nestling of Hopes after Brian P. Cleary

Box electric
X-ray-sized breath
Fluorescent cheese that does world peace

August 22 – The World Began with Yes Poems by Erica Jong

My Nestling after “From the Danish Poet” by Erica Jong
Fascinating
still writing
Poet herself
still love
not death-breath
for-edge see clearly
undo-doom
walk
exuberant
question
fill-you
with desire

August 23 – Nervous System Poems by Rosalie Moffett

This was a difficult (and touching) read. Rosalie Moffett’s mother was a scientist and fell at the beach while studying snails. She had a traumatic brain injury, and Moffett’s relationship with her sick mother is the backdrop of this book of poems. One quote on page 42 shows the complicated nature of their connection after her accident: “The mother I know is the mother who hit her head or who suffers from something that’ll come for me.” The following is a passage from one of my favorite pages:

My Nestling from two stanzas on page 51

Home
beauty enormous
make a difference
ones I love

August 24 – The Undefeated by Kwame Alexander

Nestling of the Undefeated MLK, Jr.

Unlimited dreamer-doers

who show majestic

promised land

August 2023 Open Write

20/Aug/202325/Aug/2023 Denise Krebs

August 19, 2023
Hands with Denise Krebs

Pre- and Post-Retirement Hands

Yesterday’s hands
Shuffle 53 papers (3 haven’t turned theirs in yet)
Pour cold cereal for dinner again
Pump air as they move rapidly to my next class
Take notes in meetings (sometimes one after another)
Key boatloads of emails (while poetry sinks before starting)
Grade and record assignments (regardless of what I really believe about grading)
Strive to stay human to nurture connections with my students
Yesterday’s hands sacrifice in the name of indispensability
They always keep moving, spinning plates that threaten to drop
Yesterday’s hands produce, juggle, contribute, spill, repeat…
repeat…

Today’s hands,
Today’s hands
Hold a cup of tea, patiently
pausing as I watch the leaves steep.
Steeping is a slow word
and today’s hands take time.
Today’s hands pause the book and wait
while that idea steeps deep inside.
Today’s hands crochet a baby’s toy,
turn to the next page in their daily poetry book,
and make seedy peanut butter sandwiches for the birds.
Today’s hands hold, thrive, create, make, wonder.

August 20, 2023
Nestlings: Hidden Poems with Gayle Sands

A found poem from “Decoded” by Jon Sands: $Decoded White Fear You \ silence: take \ lose your \ the emptiness \ moon. & danger– \ Blood undress \ white your \ reached skin \ for the reality. \ gun. repeat \ Black lawlessness \ reality. Nestling poem after “Decoded” by Jon Sands$

August 21, 2023
Ode to a Poet with Wendy Everard

Oh, Emily Elizabeth — Quiet and Elusive
Did you want her to burn everything?
The 1,800 – Poems – we now enjoy?
Hills, Sundowns, and Carlo made you Sing

As — Nervous Prostration — kept you Home
to Bake and Garden and tend the ill.
When your mother finally joined the Dyings
“Home is so far from Home” you distilled

your raw emotions. What would you think
About this Home today? Would you be upset
To see Thousands of volumes opining on you
Or your Wikipedia page on the Internet

Goodbye! Dear Somebody!
They’ve advertised, you know.
But under the field of buttercups
You can keep your sweet repose

August 22, 2023
Embodying Art with Scott McCloskey

Ellen

In 1881, a lot happened—like,
Tunisia became our French protectorate.
And the Statue of Liberty got its first rivet.
And Hubertine Auclert started La Citoyenne because, yes,
of course, women are French citizens,
and we should have the vote.

And we posed for Pierre-Auguste outside of Paris.
In the U.S. in 1881, the President was shot and later died.
Barnum and Bailey joined forces, and
Booker T. started Tuskegee Institute.

And we sat at the Maison Fournaise Restaurant
holding still, pretending to party.
Do you see our smiles and the
eyes we’re making at those men?
It’s all staged.
In my line of sight I had to watch Aline eyeing that little pup.
She never tired of kissing him right on the nose.
And he may have licked her too.
That boor, Charles, thought he was all that.
I was sitting behind him,
but I could hear every word of his pompous talk.
I couldn’t get my wine glass full often enough.
I had to hold it up for hours, it seemed.
At least the wine was real.
And we never even went out on the boat.
And don’t get me started on the fact that
a “luncheon” should have more to it
than grapes and wine.

The next year Pierre sold our painting,
without so much as asking our permission.
Years later he married dog breath Aline.

And now we’re all helter-skelter,
spending most every one of our hours
in a triangular box in the game cupboard.
How absurd.

*Luncheon of the Boating Party by Renoir*

August 23, 2023
Self-Perception: Concrete Poetry with Ashlyn O’Rourke

Waiting

13/Dec/202013/Dec/2020 Denise Krebs

Waiting

Are you ready for Karak tea?
My husband’s gift to pour–
Friday mornings, quietly free
This chai, my drink du jour

On this Advent winter Morning
Emmanuel–God with us
Gift of Ransom from our mourning
Rescued from pain and pus

Rejoice, rejoice–God with us, here
In this place, in becoming–
Sipping sweet, spicy, milky Tea
Pause and smile. He’s coming.

The Isolation Journals with Suleika Jaouad Prompt #120 by Cat Miles.

Write about a beloved drink—about how you make it, a memory associated with it, or the way it connects you to others or yourself.

I combined this with another prompt about using Emily Dickinson’s techniques. I attempted #1, writing about a mundane subject with a bigger idea, and #2, using common meter and rhyme. It was also easy to throw in techniques #3, capitalized nouns, and #4, use of dashes. I think I’ll keep practicing! Especially on #2.

December Ethical ELA Open Write

13/Dec/202016/Apr/2021 Denise Krebs

Saturday, 12 December
A Gift with Jennifer Guyor-Jowett
This found poem is a collection of first lines by Emily Dickinson.

So much of Heaven has gone from earth
Faith is the Pierless Bridge
When I count the seeds
I had no time to Hate

You taught me waiting with myself
The way Hope builds his House
By such and such an offering
We pray–to Heaven

I see thee clearer for the Grave
The feet of people walking home
Trudging to Eden–looking backward
Heaven–is what I cannot reach!

There is a Word
As subtle as tomorrow–
Oh, what a grace is this–
That Love is all there is

Who has not found the Heaven below
I shall keep singing

Sunday, 13 December
Find Your Compass with Jennifer Guyor-Jowett

Political Journey

Spirit of ’76 Grad and first time voter–
With a month to spare, I was
Eligible to vote in my first presidential election
I registered as an independent

Jimmy Carter earned my vote
That was an easy choice even for
a teen who cared more about getting a date with
Rick than about politics
But I did notice Watergate and a pardon,
Gerald Ford didn’t stand a chance, I thought

I continued through the years as an independent–
always looking at the two candidates
voting at times for Republicans,
other times for Democrats

When Obama was running in 2008, though–
Yes, we can! Hope! I was enthralled.
I went out and changed my 30-year independent
status to Democrat, so I could caucus for
Obama in Iowa.

After the caucus, I went straight back
to being Independent.
I always thought there was strength in
independence,
I was proud to be discerning, diplomatic Denise
I saw both sides. I was a good listener
and autonomous thinker.
Presidential elections are personal,
aren’t they? I didn’t want the party to decide.
I wanted to decide for myself.

When trump came down the garish escalator
in 2015 and spoke of Mexicans the way he did,
I couldn’t believe he didn’t get ostracized and
chased away from the process.
Republicans ate it up
and he ate up their souls
Somewhere during that primary season,
I became a
Democrat for good.

Monday
Found in Translation by Glenda Funk

Translating the Bible

The Holy Bible,
MAGA Version, 2020,
Adulterated–
A Bible chock-full of capsized values for:

The power-hungry court packers
Those in fear of losing white power
Those who have ‘Merica confused with the Kingdom of God
Those whose guns are heavier than their God
Those who demand religious exemptions for loving and serving others

Despite that word adulterated–this version
has nothing to do with adults
but is babyish and petty at best
At its worst it exists to
usurp divine authority in order to
promote white supremacy

The MAGA version follows
in a long line of
bastardized translations–

Slavery version, 1850
Anti-science version, 1925
Jim Crow version, 1950
Moral Majority version, 1979 (Actually a de facto fight for the Revised Jim Crow version, but conveniently touted as anti-abortion in order to protect themselves from impropriety)
Tea Party version, 2010

My own personalized
contaminated translation
often needs to be
plucked out as well
Purged and replaced with
The real Word of God
Breath of Heaven
Word made flesh
Lived among us
Killed by false translations of his day
Died to love us
Love

Tuesday
Mapping Our Voices by Glenda Funk

Mapping Her Goodbyes

Her first move, she was just over one year old. She had no idea on that drive from Iowa to Michigan that her dad had added an extra three-hours to the all-night journey when he followed the road signs to Council Bluffs instead of Dubuque after dinner in Des Moines. She slept peacefully through it all in the car seat. When she woke up, the box of tissue entertained her throughout the early morning traffic in Chicago. She tossed each Kleenex whimsically throughout the backseat for an early snowfall while Dad took his turn sleeping on the camping mattress in the back of the pickup.

Four years later we did it again. Busy selling our winter gear at the thousand-dollar yard sale, we prepared to leave Michigan for Phoenix. She looked up and saw her big yellow school bus neglectfully leaving her behind. Marcus later told her he was afraid she was sick. “Mom, there goes the bus!” We raced into the house and got ready, driving to afternoon kindergarten. I stood outside Mrs. Bigler’s classroom and cried like a baby as I explained why we were late. This experienced kindergarten teacher tried to cheer the young mother, “Don’t worry. It’s only October. She will forget about us and just have memories of her new class.” What? That offered no comfort.

A few days later, she and I were sitting in the bathroom. She sobbing and me trying to find a quiet place to console her where we wouldn’t wake the household of new friends who were accommodating us until our house was ready. At home, on this Saturday morning, the sun was shining and the pancakes would have been on the griddle, but in this new time zone, it was an unearthly hour for crying. She wrote me a note with a blue crayon, “Keep Marcus.” I joined her in sobbing.

And then we moved again. This time after she finished her freshman year in high school of all indefensible decisions. My husband tells people she never forgave us for that move. But she did, at least outwardly, formally. We took her from Arizona back to Iowa, the town of her birth. The girl, who later became her best high school friend, at one time was a baby she had seen-not-seen at the doctor’s office when both of their mom’s held each other’s hands as they waited their turn to have their two-month-olds inoculated. Fifteen years after the shots, she did fine in her new high school. She joined cross country, drama, speech, quiz bowl, debate. She took AP classes and had some great experiences. At least I try to convince myself she did.

Before too long it was time for college. She packed her bags and hardly looked back. Sailing club on Lake Michigan, knitting club, including late night practice sessions and chats in dorm rooms with new lifelong friends, service and volunteer work, excellent success in classes. I asked her that Christmas, “How are you doing it? You are rocking your first year of college!” My firstborn’s answer stung but didn’t surprise. “I left home three years ago.”

Wednesday
Before Picture with Chris Baron

Before the Fireworks

No social distance to my lament
Seemed like a superspreader event

“There’s no COVID!” we labored to feign
Red and white! We celebrate Bahrain!

Flags, hats, sparkles for National Day
Couldn’t get out of everyone’s way

Then the show began, grateful we gazed
We left our fears–fleetingly unfazed

October Open Write with Ethical ELA

17/Oct/202021/Aug/2023 Denise Krebs

Ways of Looking with Susan Ahlbrand

Seven Ways of Looking at Time

I
When it began
My childhood prayer
growing up in a
“Thief in the Night” church:
Jesus, please don’t return
until I grow up and
get to have my own family.

II
When it’s focused
Softball practice in the park,
softball games every Saturday
and one evening a week,
playing catch in the street until even
the streetlights didn’t make it
safe enough to continue.
Ironing, (yes ironing!) my
Bobby Sox Softball uniform,
getting it ready for tomorrow.
Begging someone to play catch again.

III
When it’s squandered
We never found the time
to sit together regularly and
talk about faith and life
and the Bible
like we always planned to.
What happened?
Now those high school years are gone.

IV
When it’s lingering
That falling asleep time being held in your arms
after we make love is the best sleep of all.

V
When it’s not enough
Saying goodbye to my Mom in 2010,
a brother in 2012, a sister
and sister-in-law in 2018. No
more “see you laters.”

VI
When it’s unsettled
Covid-19 in 2020, 2021? 2022?
What does the future hold?

VII
When it ends
Will I be ready?

Tritina with Susan Ahlbrand

Reading

Do I choose or am I chosen by reading?
Sometimes I am lifted out of myself, with a stab
To my heart. Unexpected riches that grieve.

Riches that turn into empathy as I grieve
The axe for the frozen sea within is my reading
As Kafka wisely said books are to stab

Not to make me happy, but to stab.
Books to affect me, allow me to deeply grieve
It is not for the faint of heart, this reading.

Quick pain of the stab and subsequent grief comes from reading.

Take a Word for a Walk with Anna J. Small Roseboro

Hope
Is Hope a winged bird perched
Or flying? Hope who owns nothing–
Makes room for joy, love, grace–
She’s able to soar, Hope filling
the heavens. God, please more Hope

Allusion with Anna J. Small Roseboro

Rights attacked
Racists backed

Covid fear
What a year

Vote them out
Make it a rout

Good Jesus
He sees us

Swamped boats fill
“Peace, be still”

Calms the storm
Hearts transform

True Jesus
He frees us…

“Don’t fear the deep
I’m not asleep”

Bodies in Motion with Sarah Donovan

Each of us scrambles to borrow a bicycle. Not that many years
Ago I would hop on my own bike and pedal to the start
Of the Go Pink ride. I am in a new time and place, though, so I
Borrow one.
Sorry, there’s only one gear that works, my friend tells me.
We ram the old broken thing in my van and drive it
Home.
It needs a new seat, says my husband. Ride it down
The street to the shop on the corner, and we’ll see if he has one. He
Walks along, I ride. The crank arm breaks
On the two-block ride.
Two, three or three-and-a-half for the saddle;
Five for the gear shifters, ten for the crank, five for the
Derailleur. Why not take
A new one? Only 45 BD, the shop keeper says.
OK, says my husband.
This one is foldable, good for the car, the little man says, as we
Wheel it out of the shop. Back home,
We put it in our car. I set my alarm for
4:00 a.m. The alarm goes off, I stumble and
Pull on my pink tee-shirt backwards, extra wide shoes to
Alleviate pain from Morton’s neuroma, eat a banana and drive
To the Cycling Bees shop. Bahrain
is flat, the trip is ten
Kilometers, the seat is wide and cushy, my borrowed helmet is too big. I
manage to finish, in all my out-of-shape glory, at the end of the pack.
Thoughts of coronavirus
Haunt me as we talk, sometimes too close–them without
Masks. This is the first bicycle ride of my
Sixties. I remember rides in my
Twenties a bit differently. I devour
Huge plates of pasta at the campsite in Half Moon Bay,
Gorge on ice cream in Monterey—so much more gratifying
to fuel up on a bicycle than in a
Fossil-fueled vehicle. We pedal up
Hills, race down, and try to avoid semis through Big Sur,
80 to 100 miles a day. We do it all
Again the next day.