Karen Edmisten's Blog

There are so many crisp, perfect, and wistful poems about November. It’s hard to choose just one, isn’t it? But here’s a short one I return to every year. (And it’s in the public domain, yay!) 

November Night
by Adelaide Crapsey

Listen …
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
And fall.
~~~~~~~~~~
The ever-lovely Janice Scully is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up this week at Salt City Verse.


Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Susan, at Chicken Spaghetti, invited us to join her in a meme poem, ala Donika Kelly. Kelly’s inspiration was a meme from 2017, so I went back to see what else made the rounds that year. Remember this grand entrance? As Professor Robert Kelly conducted an interview with the BBC, his daughter marched into the room, her baby brother rollered in behind her, and then his wife rocketed in to retrieve the uninvited interview guests. 

Here’s the video that went viral: 

And here’s my poem: 

Life Interrupted 
Oh, sweetheart, March! Burst on the scene, exultant. Jubilant. Lead the parade. Insert yourself. Settle in, take up space. Suck the marrow of life. Act like you own it, baby.  Because you do. 
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Carol at The Apples in My Orchard has the Poetry Friday round-up this week. 

Wow, this was a challenge. 
The Poetry Peeps are tackling burning haibuns, which I’ve never attempted. Tanita Davis explains: 

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of October! Here’s the scoop: As invited by Poetry Magazine, we’re composing burning haibun. Not regular old haibun, folks. These highlight the internal landscape of memory, and within them, something somewhere must BURN. Perhaps it’s your candle at both ends. The stub of wax in your jack-o-lantern. Perhaps it’s just your heartburn, or your indignation. We cannot wait to find out. As always, these poems will continue our theme of writing in conversation. Are you still in? You’ll have a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on OCTOBER 31st in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. THIS is gonna be LIT (see what I did there?), so we hope you’ll join the fun!

The process is further explained/illustrated at this link, from Torrin A. Greathouse. 
My subject matter is on the darker side (I'm sorry, Tanita, mine is not fun!) But I couldn’t stop thinking about it: I’m focused here on the lives that were burned down by Covid. Specifically, in this poem, my parents’ lives. Two people who were mentally sharp and doing as well as folks in their late eighties can do — until Covid hit them. New and horrible health problems, dementia. Steady, heartbreaking declines. Yes, living as long as they did is still considered “a good, long life,” as they say, but the last few years of their lives became hell for them in ways they’d never experienced and couldn’t have anticipated before the pandemic, a wildfire that is still smoldering. 
Here's my attempt at a burning haibun: 

Fragments 
My father, this proud man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, painstakingly readying himself for the continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, unless everything else has burned. 

This man, no longer at the top of the mountain, readying himself for the continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. Still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Everything else has burned. 

This man at the endof life. A fragment. Ashes. Everything has burned. 
~ Karen Edmisten 
~~~~~

Here's what my process looked like: 

My father, this proud man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, slowly, painstakingly readying himself for his continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, everything else has burned. 

~~~~~

My father, this man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, slowly, painstakingly readying himself for his continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, everything else has burned. 

~~~~~

My father This man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, slowly, painstakingly readying himself for his continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning coronavirus (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, everything else has burned. 

~~~~~

This man, at the end

of life. A fragment. Ashes. 

Everything has burned. 

 

I worked my way backward, from thoughts for the haiku to building, in reverse, the first paragraph (although the haiku ended up changing.) I don't know that I hit the marks for a burning haibun. The second paragraph doesn't offer enough in the way of reorientation. (In further drafts of this, that's what I'll aim for.) And I'm not sure this hits the "Conversation" theme either, but this is what came out over the course of a couple of sessions. It was, at least, a challenging and cathartic bit of writing. 

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Jone Rush MacCulloch has the Poetry Friday round-up this week. 

This poem has layers. I'm curious about what reactions it inspires in you — thoughts? I have so many! Let's chat. 

Servants
by Faith Shearin

In college I read about Virginia Woolf and Edith Wharton
and I thought of their great minds and their long dresses
and their gilded friendships which involved tea

in the library or on the lawn. I thought of the places
they traveled and the weight of their trunks
and all the ways their marriages did or did not
please them. I thought of the dogs that followed
at their heels and the rooms and gardens they
decorated and the beaches where they

carried umbrellas. But I never once thought of
their servants. I didn’t think of the cook who....(Read the rest here.)
~~~~~~~~~~
The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by the lovely Sarah Grace Tuttle. 

Photo thanks to Pixabay. 

Here's a short, perfect (and perfectly-timed) autumn poem by Wendell Berry. Serendipitous. (Did you know Berry has a new novel out? My copy is winging its way to my house as I type. Thanks, Bookshop.org!) 
October 10by Wendell Berry
Now constantly there is the sound,quieter than rain,of the leaves falling.
Under their loosening brightgold, the sycamore limbs....(read the rest here.) 
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The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by the marvelous Mrs. B. — Linda at TeacherDance. 
(Photo thanks to Pixabay.)

Tanita Davis* shared the latest Poetry Peeps challenge: 

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of September! Here’s the scoop: We’re going to take up the challenge of tritina. Invented by poet Marie Ponsot, this less restrictive younger sibling of the sestina uses three repeated words to end three tercets. The order of word-endings for the tercets are 123, 312, 231, with a final line acting as the envoi, featuring all three words in the 1-2-3 order used in the first stanza. Additionally, we’re continuing with our theme of poetry in conversation, in whatever way that is individually defined. Sound a little tricky? Maybe? Are you still in? 

I'm in! 

I'd never written a tritina, and had no idea what I wanted to focus on. I sat down with my notes (123, 312, 231...) and thought, "But what kind of conversation?" 

An image of a young student and teacher came to mind, so I rolled with the idea of a literal conversation about poetry. Here's the draft I came up with this week: 

Making Room 
“I do not like this stuff — poetry!” said
the boy in the back of the room.
“It’s stupid, so I don’t read it.”

The teacher nodded. “But if you never read it,
how do you… know?” she said. 
Reticence in the room.

Then shifting. Glancing. A crackling room.
“I read a poem once, okay? And I hated it.
But, I could, I guess…try again?” he said.

“I mean, maybe,” he said softly, “there’s room for it.”

I played around with a variety of line-ending words and tinkered for a while with room/nodded/know, but I couldn't stick the landing on that draft. (Why am I using a gymnastics metaphor? I was never even good at somersaults.) I liked where that draft was going, but there's still something too wispy about it. I'll get back to you if I stick the landing on it, or nail the dismount, or figure out where these metaphors are coming from. 
In the meantime, the Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by the marvelous and inspiring Amy Ludwig VanDerwater at The Poem Farm. 

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* Tanita's newest book, Berry Parker Doesn't Catch Crushes, just landed in the world! (And it's sitting on my nightstand, right now, waiting for me to start reading it tonight. Huzzah!) It's the latest in a long line of middle grade and YA goodness from Tanita, and I can't wait to dive in. 

Photo thanks to Pixabay. 

The world is an extraordinary dumpster fire right now and it leaves me longing for something ordinary. Ordinary time, ordinary things, ordinary annoyances, ordinary pleasures. Ordinary, calm, boring, moments. 
Pat Schneider understands. Take an ordinary moment to sink into the dose of sanity she offers. 

The Patience of Ordinary Things
by Pat Schneider

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they're supposed to be.
I've been thinking about the patience....(Read the last few lines here.)   


The round-up this week is being hosted by the ever-wonderful Jama Rattigan at Jama's Alphabet Soup.
Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

I was out of town last week and missed Poetry Friday but I wouldn't dare duck out today — I'm your host!
Last month, the inimitable Tanita Davis shared the August challenge:

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of August! Here’s the scoop: If poetry is a love letter to readers, this month, we’re writing back. Using Nikki Giovanni’s “Talk to Me, Poem, I Think I Got The Blues” as a mentor verse, we’re writing poetry directly in conversation with a poem. Whether you talk back directly to Ms. Giovanni’s work, or choose another poems to pass notes to is up to you, as is length and form. Are you in? You’ll have a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on August 29th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope all of you will join the fun!

I cheated a little and broadened the rubric: I'm in conversation with a poet (and a smattering of her poems) rather than addressing my plea to a single selection. I couldn't wait to talk to Emily Dickinson and ask her to reveal her secrets. Even though I'm nobody, I knew she would indulge me. She hasn't written me back, but I'm a patient correspondent. 

(The lines in italics are either taken directly from Dickinson's poems, or are a rearrangement of her words.) 

Talk to Me, Emily D.  

(with thanks to Nikki Giovanni) 

"In this short life that only lasts an hour

How much—how little—is within our power."

            ~ Emily Dickinson 

I have a few questions, Miss Dickinson. 

(May I call you Emily? I’m nobody, but 

I feel like we’re friends.) 

I have questions, Emily. 

The first is the easiest 

and also impossible. 

How do you do it? 

How much—how little—do you do?

Do you dream a poem? 

Does it waft in, fully formed, 

gorgeous in its shape and complexity? Or, 

does it hover tantalizingly near you, 

a shape-shifting cloud 

informing image and imagination? 

 

Or is it baking that inspires 

the rising of precise words? 

While your hands are kneading, 

is your inscrutable mind churning? 

Cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, cloves—

Is the secret, instead, 

in the scent of gingerbread? 

You dwell in possibility but in 

the impossibility of this world too, 

its planks of reason broken. 

Still. 

Still, you conjure 

that Stop-sensation on my Soul, 

and Thunder in the Room. 

Talk to me, Emily D.

How much—how little— do you do, 

do you know? 

Dazzle me gradually with your truth. 

~ Karen Edmisten 

References: 

"How much—how little—" (from "In this short Life that only lasts an hour," 1292)"I’m Nobody" (from "I'm Nobody! Who are you?" 260) "I dwell in Possibility" (466)"planks of reason broken" (adapted from “I Felt a Funeral in My Brain," 340: "And then a Plank in Reason, broke,")"that Stop-sensation on my soul and thunder in the room" (from ) "Dazzle me, gradually, with your truth" (adapted from “Tell all the truth but tell it slant,” (1263): "The Truth must dazzle gradually/Or every man be blind—")

Mr. Linky awaits your dazzling contributions this week. Thanks for sharing in the conversation. 

Photo courtesy of Pexels. 

Happy Poetry Friday! 
This lovely love poem to poetry and poets sings for itself: 
Tonight I Am In Love
by Dorianne Laux

Tonight, I am in love with poetry,
with the good words that saved me,
with the men and women who
uncapped their pens and laid the ink
on the blank canvas of the page.

I am shameless in my love; their faces
rising on the smoke and dust at the end
of day, their sullen eyes and crusty hearts,
the murky serum now turned to chalk
along the gone cords of their spines.

I’m reciting the first anonymous lines
that broke night’s thin shell: sonne under wode.....(Read the rest here.) 
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The Poetry Friday round-up is hosted this week by Heidi at My Juicy Little Universe. 
Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Reading aloud to my daughters is a part of their childhood that I remember with deep and iridescent affection. And since we homeschooled, we read aloud almost every day, almost every evening, almost all the time. I loved it, they loved it. Certainly, on days when my voice gave out, or I was tired or crabby, it wasn't perfect, but it was always there: part of our rhythm, our breath. Our bookish hearts craved it, and thanks to those days and that practice, we share a galaxy of sparkling memories. 
So, this poem by Kevin Carey not only spoke to me, it jumped up and down, waved its arms, and said, "Listen! Yes! I get it." ❤️

Reading to My Kids
by Kevin Carey

When they were little I read
to them at night until my tongue
got tired. They would poke me
when I started to nod off after twenty pages
of Harry Potter or Lemony Snicket.
I read (to them) to get them to love reading
but I was never sure if it was working
or if it was just what I was supposed to do.
But one day, my daughter (fifteen then)
was finishing Of Mice and Men in the car
on our way to basketball.
She was at the end when I heard her say,
No, in a familiar frightened voice
and I knew right away where she was.....
(Read the rest of this short jewel here, at The Writer's Almanac.) 
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Head to Molly Hogan's place, Nix the Comfort Zone, for this week's poetry round-up. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.