It was Margaret’s poem in my inbox that ignited my spark to receive poem today. She nudged me over to Ruth’s lovely page, who is hosting Poetry Friday today and inviting us to give a go at a recipe poem.
Ellen Bass, my poet guide this month, along with Wendell Barry, has been also offering advice this month. The Epistolary Poem, a poem written as a letter, a form has been shaping poems in my notebook this month.
Could I combine the two? The recipe poem and the letter poem?
Perhaps . . .
Thank you to Margaret, Ruth, Ellen, my husband’s adoration of the food I cook for him and, his mother’s love.
If you’d like to read more poems, or add your own, head over to Ruth’s page to read a few more recipe poems. Be sure to fill your cup of coffee first.
Jacqueline Suskin, this morning, teaches us about writing Manifesting Poems. The kind of writing that puts our dreams, wishes and hopes for our lives on paper and lets the universe know so it can begin rearranging our path and give us signs in where to go. She shares a poem of of her own and titles it, What I Want is Family. This felt like an invitation.
So, I wrote my own “What I Want” poem. Taking to my typewriter to see if the keys could help, I got it all down. Afterwards, my laptop went to work, cleaning it up, with a few revisions and edits. It’s still pretty drafty, not very good.
But it feels true.
What I Really Want is Love
I really want just love - all of it.
The deep love one feels for another
you know what I'm talking about -
the kind where that soul being you chose
for your partner and you synchronously
roll over under the covers
and he tucks your blanket in snuggly
behind your back, that spot
you can't reach where cool swaths of air
swirl under bringing the chills.
He protects that.
But, I want more than this,
I want everyone to have that kind of love
from someone.
Maybe if only from a pet -
that will do.
More than even this, I want everyone
to walk around will that kind of love inside them
hearts so wide open
radiating that love
spewing it out
all over the world everywhere they go.
To the trees, the hills, the sky,
the fields, the flowers, the insects even.
And, to other humans
especially those not like them.
That's a special kind of love.
If we all that that kind of love
to fill the world with
we'd know to protect it with all our hearts,
do everything we could to save
its preciousness
for our children, and theirs.
It would be only then, I could leave this earth
knowing I loved enough for that
to happen.
October 2022 draft SD
I’ve been reading and writing from Jacqueline Suskin’s book, A Poem A Day, and finding meaning in the smallest of moments.
She writes:
“Meaning is a choice. . . the trick is to be fully aware of your choices. . . what’s valuable to you isn’t random; it’s a crafted lens that you see through, that you add to and take away from willingly, throughout your lifetime. You can delve into the details surrounding you and measure the might of sacredness in each. . . anything can be holy.”
I love this about poetry. How it heightens your sense of sacred moments and how the practice cultivates an awareness so much so that we “saturate our lives with meaning”.
And, of course, since Jacqueline uses a vintage typewriter to type her poems, I was inspired to do the same. Mine has a few hiccups that emphasize even more imperfections of my poems.
Oh, Dear Squirrel,
racing along the twisting branches
high among the tallest of oaks,
leaping from tree to tree
across the air without hesitation
Are you not afraid
of missing a steady branch
your estimations a wee bit off?
or worse. . .
the branch not able to sustain you at all?
and breaking - prompting a long, treacherous fall?
Has this happened to you, Dear Squirrel?
If so -
How do you manage?
to continue climbing back up
on the highest of trees
and repeating the feat?
I mean it must seem like the ground
is light years away from your place so high in the sky,
Do you look down?
or keep your eyes on the road
intent on your destination?
Please tell me dear squirrel,
how do you do it?
What's your fear busting secret?
For I desire to fly like you
across the sky
from tree to tree
with the bravery of a squirrel.
draft 2022 Shari Daniels
Writing and sharing a poem a day ~
"The writing is inhaling and the sharing is exhaling.
They don't have to be good, they just have to be true."
~Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
An early commute of 37 miles to teach writers
Ada's The Slow Down poem a balm
for my languishing soul
The Lightkeeper, she reads
with a voice of sweet honey
The air thick with fog this warm autumn morn
Stay awake, the poem's words speak loud
a friend, pulling me by the hand,
so I might see this for once in my life.
the light in search of the lost.
Visions of my own lightkeeper friend
swirl between the poem's words and Ada's voice
I feel her hand as I stepped inside of this poem,
lost in my fog, seeking a lighthouse.
Shari, she whispers, the world needs your voice.
I need your voice. Give us your gift. I'll be waiting.
She is in the front row, her cheers are the loudest
Genuine, real, and true, with each word
tossed out for eyes other than mine.
To my lightkeeper friend I say,
You taught me to live like this.
Writing and sharing a poem a day ~
"The writing is inhaling and the sharing is exhaling.
They don't have to be good, they just have to be true."
~Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
We arrived at the cabin on the peninsula at Lake of the woods the water level had dropped 3 feet since last time
The dock had to be lowered pulled out to reach the boats the duck boats hauled closer to the edge of shore
It’s an Eco challenge every time I come up here Steve said, breathing heavy
A mystery eco-challenge, I added because you never know what the challenge will be
I looked over the bay at the glistening shimmer of the sun on the slowly rolling waves of clear and healing water breathed in the solitude and untethered the fraying rope tied to the rest of the world
I can see you, you know
Your big SUV pressed
against the bumper
of my petite Malibu
the rage on your face
perched up high behind
that steering wheel
the size of a hula hoop
I may have taken
that round about
at the pace
of a sloth on a late Friday afternoon
But you see ~
I was taking a sip of
my hot cup of coffee
in my heavy new mug
I was admiring
from my mother for my birthday
and being struck by the dawn
peeking just over the horizon
at precisely the same time
and the sky was
a piercing blue
while Padraig O Tuama
read me a poem on
my podcast with
the Irish in his voice. . .
and the speed
was not on my mind.
So forgive me.
But, I'll tell ya
If you do it again
I'll step on my brakes
in hopes you can see.
Writing a poem a day - they don't have to be good, they just have to be true.
~Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
Islands of My Soul 