Poetry Prompt Journey: For Hoping for
Loving the full spectrum of emotions and letting them feed your poetry
Greetings Poets and Creators of All Kinds,
As we step out into the next chapter of life, whatever that might hold for you, I want to leave you with something that will hopefully sustain you, nourish you, and allow you to see how you might nourish yourself. To affirm for you how much you have within you. How resourced you truly are.
These poems are such treasures, poetry is a gift that these stellar poets give us, and gifting poetry is a gift. Support your favorite poets in the ways that you are able. Leave a good review online, check out a book from the library, purchase a poetry collection when you must buy a loved one a birthday gift. Follow a favorite poet on your favorite socials, if that’s your thing. These are just some of the ways you might make offerings of gratitude that truly support a poet. And of course, support the musicians as well! In the ways that you are able.
With such thanks to the poets who will fill our cup to overflowing:
Naomi Shihab Nye
Galway Kinnell
Mary Oliver
And to the music makers who will bring the sweetening:
Beautiful Chorus with Gentle Awakening
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The Art of Disappearing
By Naomi Shihab Nye
When they say Don't I know you? say no. When they invite you to the party remember what parties are like before answering. Someone telling you in a loud voice they once wrote a poem. Greasy sausages on a paper plate. Then reply. If they say We should get together say Why? It's not that you don't love them anymore. You're trying to remember something too important to forget. Trees. The monastery bell at twilight. Tell them you have a new project. It will never be finished. When someone recognizes you in a grocery store nod briefly and become a cabbage. When someone you haven't seen in ten years appears at the door, don't start singing him all your new songs. You will never catch up. Walk around feeling like a leaf. Know you could tumble any second. Then decide what to do with your time.
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Wait
By Galway Kinnell
Wait, for now. Distrust everything if you have to. But trust the hours. Haven't they carried you everywhere, up to now? Personal events will become interesting again. Hair will become interesting. Pain will become interesting. Buds that open out of season will become interesting. Second-hand gloves will become lovely again; their memories are what give them the need for other hands. And the desolation of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness carved out of such tiny beings as we are asks to be filled; the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old. Wait. Don't go too early. You're tired. But everyone's tired. But no one is tired enough. Only wait a little and listen: music of hair, music of pain, music of looms weaving all our loves again. Be there to hear it, it will be the only time, most of all to hear the flute of your whole existence, rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.
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Love Sorrow
By Mary Oliver
Love sorrow. She is yours now, and you must take care of what has been given. Brush her hair, help her into her little coat, hold her hand, especially when crossing a street. For, think, what if you should lose her? Then you would be sorrow yourself; her drawn face, her sleeplessness would be yours. Take care, touch her forehead that she feel herself not so utterly alone. And smile, that she does not altogether forget the world before the lesson. Have patience in abundance. And do not ever lie or ever leave her even for a moment by herself, which is to say, possibly, again, abandoned. She is strange, mute, difficult, sometimes unmanageable but, remember, she is a child. And amazing things can happen. And you may see, as the two of you go walking together in the morning light, how little by little she relaxes; she looks about her; she begins to grow.
***
And now, with the hope we all hope for hopefully growing, allow it to blossom into your own unique expression, by coming along for the Prompt Journey via the video below…
Rachel, all your selections were incredibly touching for this (bittersweetly last) Maker Monday. Nye's and Kinnell's both sound like they're speaking directly to me at this point in my life, as I explore this newly unlocked artistic side of myself that I wouldn't have found without you. Thank you.
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I say "thank you" "a lot, but I mean it, earnestly, yearningly."
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Oliver's poem definitely helped coax out what's below, which is incredibly sad and happy at the same time. I shared it with some cousins (I don't have any siblings) that I shared this grandfather with, and they both said it brought him back more vividly in their memories than otherwise. For me, writing it down makes it less sad and more happy, like it's a small flame of his immortality. Thank you for helping me, and all the rest of the amazing Maker Monday participants, summon the words.
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A Profound Kindness
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La culcare, my Romanian grandfather would
say, to bed, in a tone between speaking and
singing, each vowel a hair longer than the last.
I'd feel his words, pulling me away from the
TV screen like a gentle, stern, permeable net.
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In moments of particular difficulty, when I
feel like a slab of meat, pulled in impossibly
many directions, I remember his challenged,
resolved sigh. A quarter of me was this bold
and this loving; I know I can be the same.
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If I could see him one more time, I'm not sure
what I would say or do, what I could say or do.
I could embrace him, and hear his loving and
excited inhalation, an inverse sigh, once more.
I am relieved its sound persists in my memory.
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Even his accent depicted a man of profound
kindness, courage, and attention to detail.
Should I be so fortunate as to witness the
glory of grandchildren of my own, I imagine my
smile like his, warm and expressed with whole body.
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I carry him with me, in memory, in genes, in
love. As the decades rush past, I understand
more of his sterner attributes and why they
are necessary and compassionate. This is a
certainty I am unlikely to part with.
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I continue to imagine his eyes, learned and
reassuring, held securely beneath coarse
cliffs of salt and pepper eyebrows. Those
eyes saw me, and I continue to save a portion
of my experience for them, though they are no longer wet.