Sleeper Stories – Page 3 – Tanita S. Davis

{come for the poetry friday roundup! stay for the peeps wrestling the raccontino!}

June 26, 2025

1:00 pm

19 Comments on {come for the poetry friday roundup! stay for the peeps wrestling the raccontino!}

Musings on Extemporanea, On Writing, Part and Poetry, Poetry Friday, Seven Sisters, Sleeper Stories, What We Do, Who We Are

Welcome to Poetry Friday!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of July! Here’s the scoop: We’ll going to write brief poems called Sedokas. A Sedoka is an unrhymed poem made up of two three-line katauta with a 5/7/7, 5/7/7 syllable count. Since a Sedoka has only six lines, you can totally do this! Of course, we’re continuing our theme of being ‘in conversation,’ next month as well (and since Mary Lee has invited us to join her at A(nother) Year of Reading for protest Poetry on Independence Day next Friday, this might be a great short form to use for that!). Are you in? You’ll have a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on July 25th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope all of you will join the fun!

Whew – just like that, summer has come in, and wow is it trying to redefine the definition of “heat” in much of the United States. To those of you prostrated before your AC and fans, we see you. Normally it’s California sweltering with no mercy, but so far this year we’ve had a really slow beginning to the more vicious heat – which leads us to believe we’ll be in steaming puddles by August, but let’s kick that can of sweat down the road, shall we?

Can I take a moment to revisit my Poetry Peeps invitation for last month and snicker? I wrote, “We’ll going to write a couple of couplets and make a Raccontino. Never heard of the form? No worries. If you can count to two, you can play with this delightful form.” Can anyone tell I’d forgotten that I’d struggled with writing a Raccontino before? The Poetry Sisters did, in fact, attempt them before. In 2015 I bleated, “This raccontino stuff is BLOODY DIFFICULT.” …Heh. So much for the ‘delightful form,’ huh? And yet: while it’s definitely complicated, this time around, it hasn’t been that bad.

From Process…

In Italian, a raccontino is a narrator or storyteller, so it stands to reason that the Raccontino form tells a story. From the title, which some poets compose as part of or an entire sentence, to the couplets, to the end words of the odd-numbered lines, each element tells a small story that braids together into a whole. I came back to this frequently.

When we gathered for our drafting session, the Poetry Sisters recalled our previous processes. Last time I tried this, I tried writing the odd-numbered end line phrase first, the even-line rhyme scheme second, and the title/rest of the poem after that. That worked for most people, except I could only think of long quotes/sentences for my end-line story, so ended up with ten thousand couplets. (I started over a lot, and whined a lot more.) We got a giggle remembering how last time Sara jiggered the end lines only after writing the poem – yet somehow made that chaos work into a beautiful, heartfelt piece. Those who can throw down with chaos do, I guess!?

…to Poetry

This time around, I started with a handful of end-line quotations to use, but some of them were a little too close to the bone, and I abandoned the very first poem I wrote mid-word. What is it about poetry that sometimes leads it to be …well, too true? Anyway, I turned to my back-up phrases and hoped they were a bit more generic. The title of the first one I got through was based on something my little sister said, and the rest is realism based on a comment about ability/mobility and arthritis from another poet in our circle. I liked how they came together.

Because a Raccontino calls for only one rhyming application, as I wrote that second poem, I found myself struggling with the meter. I could write a …decent enough collection of words within the boundaries of the rules, but I spent a lot of time cherry-picking and fussing, trying to find a flow. I gave it up as “good enough” when somehow, a third poem just… suggested itself. I came up with it because I went back to reread my 2015 post and words in conversation with the concept of “it’s a jungle out there,” arrived from the title of my first poem. (And, hand to God, as my friend L says, I didn’t even realize that the first part of the end-line words, “Undeclared, this war rages on, grab hands, stay close” were written in reference to the 2015 undeclared war against ISIS in Iran and Syria until I was writing this right now. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, non? God save us from ourselves.) Because it’s a jungle out there, we need to live with honest hearts and true, and keep each other close… still holding hands before we jump, which I unthinkingly reechoed from the past. Just for fun, I’ll share both finished poems, but the last is definitely today’s winner for me.

I’m Not Lazy, I’m In Power Saving Mode

We ran full-tilt, but now we take it SLOW –
(Our changing bodies outside our control.)

We hustled once, but forced, we’re slowing DOWN,
Extending Pain-Free days is now the goal.

It’s galling when the doctor croons, “Hey, YOU,”
And lays out reasons, with her words cajoles,

Assigning PT. We relearn to MOVE:
(Make no mistake, pain’s jail without parole.)

Our choices going… gone – Have yours gone TOO?
Does freewill feel like what your body stole?

We whine, but truth to tell, life changes FAST
Who knows – someday we might again feel whole.

♦

This chronic pain crap may leave you downcast.
But keep the faith: Life’s mysteries are vast.

You’ll notice I’ve included a little envoi as if this were a sonnet. I don’t know – somehow today it felt like envoi were necessary? Additionally, the image is of the Bay Bridge in SF – not the well-known and fancily painted Golden Gate, but the plain old Bay Bridge which carries much of the common daily commuter traffic – not the 59th Street Bridge, but probably as pedestrian for people just getting to work or cycling across one bit of water to get somewhere else. Maybe the drivers are not yet feeling groovy, but having the potential for it…I like that link to joy in the ordinary.

Other Raccontino wrestlers are perhaps feeling pretty groovy or reveling in the ordinary as they share their forays into this form. I got a tiny preview Sunday and know that Tricia’s efficiently composed poem is here. Sara probably chose more chaos here, Mary Lee – always prepared – is here. Laura’s short and to the point is here, and we can’t wait to see what Liz has done. Karen rose to the challenge and wrestled her Raccontino here. Michelle K’s poem has punch, and we have a newcomer – let’s welcome Diane and her Raccontino to the Peep Squad. Margaret’s poem is here, and Carol V’s lovely poetry-filled post is here. More Poetry Peeps might swing by with their Raccontinos (Raccontini?) and I’ll round ’em up here by the end of the weekend.

Life, Improvised

So, how does it start? You, what, simply hold
Your heart on your sleeve and hang it out there
To sweat in the spotlight – your fate in its hands?
Sounds awful! Exposed! Most people’s nightmare.
A big life says, “Yes.” Acceptance adds, “And?”
An honest life asks that you lay yourself bare.
Why skulk in the shadows when courage cries, Jump!’
Living your truth means that you build wings midair.

Freefall has its benefits — and by and by
You’ll forget about falling. You’ll have learned to fly.

My nephew graduated from high school nine days ago, and turned eighteen seven days ago, so the imagery of jumping into life – nervous, but holding hands – improvising, and learning to fly is definitely on my mind. The younger set remind us we all need a little help to get aloft – our neighbors, our chosen family and friends, and the community we need to keep close, now more than ever as the clouds close in. Elf’s fledgling flight might be a ragged one, with a bit of frantic flapping and barely missing crashing into windows at first, but if he falls, I’m counting on the rest of us to raise him up and run until he finds the wind again – into whatever extraordinary life is allotted to him. Whatever your age, may your circle do the same for you. May we never discount the power of community.

Look for the interconnected stories you’re telling, or have been told, and see where your narrative intersects. Remember that Yes. and And? are invitations to acceptance and connection. Know how well you are loved – and may it fuel you to love in return.

Happy weekend. Be well and do good.

{npm♦4/24}

by Tanita S. Davis

April 24, 2025

4:16 pm

songs & philosophies

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?” – lyrics recorded by Robert Burns.

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” – George Santayana

“I wish I were in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten.” – Daniel Decatur Emmett

As a fifth grader carefully shaping cursive letters for our daily penmanship exercise, I was often struck by the quotations we were copying. Like so many 80’s men, my fifth grade teacher was an eager early adopter to the computer, and had us doing simple coding the last period of the day, but first period was for penmanship and famous quotations – things he insisted would benefit us greatly in the digital age. We coped quotations from Rudyard Kipling, Robert Service, Ellen G. White, and Winston Churchhill. “Remember where you came from so you appreciate where you’re going,” he was fond of saying. The words ran over us like water, wearing grooves into our brains. Remember. Remember. Remember.

Only now as the American past faces deletions and revisions through the intense ethnocentrism of our current administration do I realize where the Santayana quote fails. Too many of us remember the past – but not everyone agrees on how far ‘past’ it should be.

rising behind you
softness from red soil, sunward
pasts wrenched from sharp bolls

{npm kidlit progressive poem}

by Tanita S. Davis

April 21, 2025

9:42 am

3 Comments on {npm kidlit progressive poem}

General Coolness, NPM, Part and Poetry, Seven Sisters, Sleeper Stories, Small Fictions

It’s time! The lovely progressive poem has “progressed” for twenty days, and now it’s my turn! Here’s the panoply of poets playing this year:

April 1 Linda Mitchell at A Word Edgewise
April 2 Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect
April 3 Robyn at Life on the Deckle Edge
April 4 Donna Smith at Mainely Write
April 5 Denise at https://mrsdkrebs.edublogs.org/
April 6 Buffy at http://www.buffysilverman.com/blog
April 7 Jone at https://www.jonerushmacculloch.com/
April 8 Janice Scully at Salt City Verse
April 9 Tabatha at https://tabathayeatts.blogspot.com/
April 10 Marcie at Marcie Flinchum Atkins
April 11 Rose at Imagine the Possibilities | Rose’s Blog
April 12 Fran Haley at Lit Bits and Pieces
April 13 Cathy Stenquist
April 14 Janet Fagel at Mainly Write
April 15 Carol Varsalona at Beyond LiteracyLink
April 16 Amy Ludwig VanDerwater at The Poem Farm
April 17 Kim Johnson at Common Threads
April 18 Margaret at Reflections on the Teche
April 19 Ramona at Pleasures from the Page
April 20 Mary Lee at A(nother) Year of Reading
April 21 Tanita at {fiction instead of lies}
April 22 *Patricia Franz
April 23 *Ruth at There’s No Such Thing as a Godforsaken Town
April 24 Linda Kulp Trout at http://lindakulptrout.blogspot.com
April 25 Heidi Mordhorst at My Juicy Little Universe
April 26 Michelle Kogan at: https://moreart4all.wordpress.com/
April 27 Linda Baie at Teacher Dance
April 28 Pamela Ross at Words in Flight
April 29 Diane Davis at Starting Again in Poetry
April 30 April Halprin Wayland at Teaching Authors

(EDITED TO ADD – tomorrow’s line will be found at Rose’s blog, and the poem will go forward from there. Please skip Patricia for now. Thank you!)

For those of you new to the process: this NPM children’s poetry celebration was originally begun by Irene Latham, and the mantle taken up by Margaret Simon, who wrangled this year’s distracted poets into a cohesive whole. Linda M. started us off with a gloriously open April window…

From Process…to Poetry (Line)

April thus far has been a particularly scattered month for me, but reading poetry has been particularly grounding, especially seeing this poem grow in creation. In this April garden, nothing yet has come to grief. It is full of the actions of joy. As I breathed the “gift of the lilacs,” and imagined myself painting and breathing and dabbling and gamboling, I thought about what we verb-y activities we haven’t yet done in this poem – eaten, spoken, shouted, screamed/squealed, or slept (we’re playing in this garden alone, which is its own kind of delightful). I also meditated on the scents on my back porch just now of an evening – orange blossoms from my dwarf citrus tree. It almost feels like we opened that April window into a glorious morning, and now… taking my cue from the thanks at the “day’s end,” and “long-ago springs,” as well as Cousin Mary Lee’s flowering shrubs, I decided to forget about eating (I couldn’t figure out how to fit it in 😂) and drink in a sense of peace and rest. That’s what this April garden has given to me this month. Since we’ve stayed in four lines per stanza, I’ll add an ellipse and begin a new one…and then it’s over to you, ~~Patricia~~ Rose!

Open an April window
let sunlight paint the air
stippling every dogwood
dappling daffodils with flair

Race to the garden
where woodpeckers drum
as hummingbirds thrum
in the blossoming Sweetgum

Sing as you set up the easels
dabble in the paints
echo the colors of lilac and phlox
commune without constraints

Breathe deeply the gifts of lilacs
rejoice in earth’s sweet offerings
feel renewed-give thanks at day’s end
remember long-ago springs

Bask in a royal spring meadow
romp like a golden-doodle pup!
startle the sleeping grasshoppers
delight in each flowering shrub…

Drinking in orange-blossom twilight

{npm♦4/21}

by Tanita S. Davis

April 21, 2025

9:40 am

nota bene

Grifter,
Like calls to like:
As magnets call iron
Like waste attracts flies, fools gather
To you.

{pf: poetry peeps pass notes to superman}

by Tanita S. Davis

March 27, 2025

11:30 pm

9 Comments on {pf: poetry peeps pass notes to superman}

Part and Poetry, Poetry Friday, Seven Sisters, Sleeper Stories, What We Do, Who We Are

Welcome to Poetry Friday!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of April! Here’s the scoop: We’ll be in conversation with a vintage, antique, or just plain old photograph. Of course, your photograph needn’t be from either of these archival photography sites, but take a poke around, and see what you find. Your poem should be based on an image which is at least, say, forty years old, or at least something you consider “old.” Once you’ve got your image nailed down, you’ve got a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on April 25th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll join the fun!

When we chose these poems to be in conversation with, I was excited – because the poems were offbeat and a bit amusing, and I thought this would be easy.

Literally EVERY TIME I THINK THAT I should snap my wrist with a rubber band or something. Writing poetry is never a slam dunk when I think it’s going to be. Never. Ever. Why do I keep deluding myself this way???

From Process…

Clifton’s “four notes to Clark Kent” addresses the idea of a rescuer through varying personal lenses. Though she is still writing to him, Lucille Clifton seems to have misgivings about the dude who can leap tall buildings in a single bound… I mean, what good is that, her first poem seems to ask, when she’s dealing with more immediate issues between the four walls of her home? Who can save her from all of the broken dreams and emotional paucity that waits there, him? No – she doesn’t think so. She names him “tourist;” reminding the reader that he’s not from Metropolis – he’s a stranger, a literal alien. While she’s hanging by her fingernails from the edge of a ledge, waiting for rescue, he’s just visiting, isn’t he? Maybe he’s not really there to save her after all. While in her third poem, she appears to forgive him – and forgive herself – for just human and other. The idea of the Superman mythos has inflated him past life-sized and she graciously allows him to shrink. By her fourth poem, she openly decides he’s pretty hot, but I still don’t get the idea that the poet feels he’s all that super – just cute. She calls him by his Clark Kent moniker, referencing his other persona solely as an adjective rather than a name, which I found interesting.

I shared some of Clifton’s misgivings about Mr. “faster than a speeding bullet.” I didn’t grow up on Superman comic books, and the blandly handsome, lantern-jawed superhero in the movies didn’t particularly …convince me, as a kid. As a fellow four-eyes, I was completely OVER the trope of “dreamboat without his glasses,” and thought Clark and Superman looked exactly alike – because they WERE, of course.🙄 Further, his mild-mannered, awkward persona grated on my nerves (I somehow missed the point that he was acting so people wouldn’t equate him with his outgoing alter ego). He was noble to the point of ridiculousness, and I didn’t resonate with him as an American icon. Like Smokey the Bear, he somehow seemed to be just another childhood talking head in cartoon form who told you how to behave. He never seemed particularly heroic to me, so I realized that Clifton’s doubting had infected me, too. Who was this guy who was supposed to save us? And who were we, just …sitting there, waiting to be saved?

…to Poem

When we got together for our Sunday poetry chat, Cousin Mary Lee said she couldn’t find a lighthearted bone in her body and didn’t feel like she could speak to the poem. At which point I thought, “Oh, humor was an option!?” I didn’t have any lighthearted thoughts on Superman either. In my initial draft I had taken a deep dive into the idea of saviors, the idea of Americans exceptionalism, of Americans striding in to play savior – after like as not having started the conflict. I wrote about the learned helplessness of people who have lived with privilege for so long that they don’t ever think anything can happen to them, and about the non-SUPER-ness of people who stop voting and such. *cough* The poem was taking me somewhere I didn’t want to go, so I thought I’d sit down and try being funny – just – out of nowhere. I wanted to write about the really cheesy 80’s Superman movies I didn’t watch until decades later (they DID NOT age well). I wanted to write about Spanx underpants over spandex leggings and capes (“No capes!” screams Edna Mode in my brain) and battling wedgies while leaping over tall buildings in a single bound. I did NOT, however – I restrained myself! Sara probably did too. Tricia definitely wrote something classier, as did Laura. Mary Lee’s poem is here, and here’s Liz’s poem, Michelle K’s poem is here. More Peeps may be checking in throughout the day, so don’t miss the whole Clark Kent roundup. And for more poetry that fortunately doesn’t have anything to do with spandex and capes, visit the Poetry Friday round-up Marcie Flinchum Atkins’ blog. Thanks for hosting today, Marci.

While I didn’t write about wedgies, I did try to write amusingly, so… I thought about Lois Lane, who tried so hard to be cool about Superman, but… she just was not.

Notes Passed To Lois Lane (Probably by her editor, Perry White)

A bird, a plane – wait, what?
This SUPERficial scrawl
Is not your best reporting, Lo,
This needs an overhaul.

He’s SUPERMAN, he…does!
From dawn ’til dusk he slays
the dangers to Metropolis
that threaten disarray –

We stan a Man of Steel
God knows I respect hustle…
Just… write less on forehead curls
And shoulders bunched with muscle…

Okay, okay, I know and YOU know that Lois Lane Would Never, she was a thorough-going professional. But it still made me smile.

I’ll be honest – I couldn’t salvage this other poem. The ‘serious’ one was plunging down a lot of rabbit holes I don’t have the energy to follow, so I sort of tried to pull back on some of the over-emoting, and left it where it lay. Reminding myself that this poem is in conversation with the others is what helped me stay more on track — and while this doesn’t yet say what I need it to, it’s a start. If nothing else, I do believe that if we don’t hang together, we’re all going to hang separately, and despite my little red hats, I mean that across aisles and political divides. This is bigger than the red v. blue v. green color war, I’m afraid.

Notes In The Margin of The Daily Republic

Not any man would do, we’ll want SUPERman:
SUPERlative – from cape to brawny chest.
Spotlighting our best selves, and our SUPER land,
Our destiny to be forever blessed.
Granite jaw and steady stare – he’s sensational.
SUPERbly snaring manhood in his trap
With orphan-makes-good tropes. He’s educational
He models how to rise on our bootstraps…
…
Why an alien would show up when we’re losing,
To fight the thugs Metropolis can’t stop
No one ever seems to ask. It IS confusing
…The comics show folks screaming “Help!” nonstop,
And the victims standing, looking ’round for saviors,
Wringing hands instead of maybe calling cops…?

In MY book I’ve inserted on page borders,
Small hands cupped ’round a tiny screaming face
Which shouts, “People! Don’t just stand and wait for orders!”
In YOUR Daily Republic – your birthplace!
For future’s sake, speak up – protect what matters
Resist and rail against the treasonous.
One rock is small – a rock slide buildings shatter…
Join hands. We’ll be the ones to rescue us.

I’ll be ready Poetry Friday notes from a short beach glass hunting sabbatical, but I’ll definitely get around to answering any messages. I hope you take – and are taking – some time away to get outside and witness this slow turning of the seasons, as the earth wakes and stretches toward the possibility enshrined in Spring. Turn off the noise for a while, and just be – and then breathe. I plan to not just touch grass but touch rocks, possibly newts and beetles. (Anything squishier may require gloves.) While it’s true that no one is coming to save us, with any luck, and a bit of cooperation, there’s still enough to save of ourselves. Happy Weekend.

{#winterlight}

by Tanita S. Davis

December 2, 2024

11:37 am

community in darkness

after a false dawn
we are awake, and waiting,
breaths the only life.

{pf: the poetry peeps look seven different ways at…}

by Tanita S. Davis

September 27, 2024

4:42 am

21 Comments on {pf: the poetry peeps look seven different ways at…}

Cybils News, Mi Familia Loca, Musings on Extemporanea, Part and Poetry, Poetry Friday, Seven Sisters, Sleeper Stories

Welcome to another Poetry Friday Poetry Peeps Adventure!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of October! Here’s the scoop: We’re building! Our prompt comes from p. 139 of The Practice of Poetry: Writing Exercises from Poets Who Teach, edited by Robin Behn and Chase Twichell, and we’re writing a poem in which we literally build and/or take apart something – large or small. Our focus will be on constructing or deconstructing, taking into account technical terms, instructions, and perhaps even material sources. A great mentor poem would be something like this, or this. Are you in? Good! You have a month to craft your creation and share it on October 25th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals.

It’s literally the eleventh hour as I’m posting this poem, and I’m laughing at myself, because somehow, as sometimes happens, at the last minute, I so disliked what I’d already written and prepared that I had to start over – at about an hour before dinner and two hours before rehearsal tonight. Tomorrow I’ll be glad I did this, though – tomorrow is my husband’s birthday, and I came up with this poem because I was thinking of him.

From Process…

Originally this Wallace Stevens poetry prompt was meant to be all seven of the Seven Sisters poetry crew getting together to choose ONE object that we looked at seven different ways, but that quickly became a non-starter, as with the onset of the school year, many of us have ramped up school visits, teaching duties, and other stuff. We’ve been having trouble being all in the same place at the same time, so we never did choose one object – but we decided to at least choose something symbolic. We don’t want to choose something meaningless,” A Person said at one point, “like a t-shirt, or a sock.” We then immediately did a 180 on that and discussed how nothing is meaningless in the hands of a good poet (“A sock is a pocket for your toes!” A sock, friends, is never meaningless). Well, that must have percolated in my brain for the following week, because even though I chose “Seven Ways of Looking at a Republic” and later tried to say Something Meaningful about democracy, baseball, voting… and then, eggs, vaccination, and sleep, what finally stuck? “Seven Ways of Looking at an Old Shoe.”

…To Poetry

…and, just to get it out of my system, I’m going to go ahead and BLAME SARA for this, because she’s the one who said something about socks, and obviously, what goes with socks? Shoes. Actually, it’s not really on Sara. I read the idiom about something being as “comfortable as an old shoe” somewhere this week and it stuck, oddly. This simile was once put “as easy as an old shoe,” and was first recorded in J. T. Brockett’s North Country Glossary (1825), so it’s stuck around for a while in the English language. So, it can’t be meaningless if it’s old, right? And, because lately I still find myself astounded that Himself and I have been married since we were twenty and twenty-one (THIRTY YEARS), the idea of being as “comfortable as an old shoe” also resonates – still kind of weird, but whatever, here we are.

Seven Ways of Looking at An Old Shoe.

I.
easy like thirty years of
Sunday strolls, this old shoe.

II.
is it
always congenial?
lost under
beds, wedged
into closets.
we trip
on the laces.
not always
a comfort:
an old shoe
will rub a
blister: but
a stubbed toe
hurts much less
with one.

III.
What is this title, ‘old?’
How can you be so cold
As to christen classic chic
With that label dull, and meek?
“Vintage,” “timeless,” “tried-and-true”
ALL sound better than “old shoe.”

IV.
From Monday two-step
to Friday buff-and-polish
love that old soft shoe

V.
if the old shoe fits
wear it

VI
a curving structure
bones, ligaments, and tendons
archly supported:
all that is needful, designed.
mama doesn’t want new shoes

VII
there was an old woman who loved her old shoe
it fit her wide foot in the toe box, too.
As perfect when worn out to paint the town red,
As it was worn staying in with a book instead.

Proving, once again, that a poem can be ABOUT ANYTHING. Stay tuned – I’m sure I’ll come up with something on socks next. ☺

Thank-you to Ms. Irene for rounding us up today. She’s also sharing about The Mistakes That Make Us, so do be sure to pop over there for more poetry magic. Meanwhile, more non-shoe ways of looking can be found with more poetry peeps. Liz’s poem is here. Sara’s poem is here. Tricia’s poem is here. Laura’s poem is here. Kelly’s poem is here. Michelle K’s poem and show news is here, Denise K’s precious poem celebrating Phoebe is here. Karen E’s looking at interruptions – welcome Karen!!! Buffy Silverman’s poem is here – welcome to the party, Buffy! And welcome to first-timer Tracy Kiff-Judson, whose poem is here. Linda M. is looking hilariously at middle age, and Linda B’s poem is here. Carol has chosen six ways to look at autumn, and Margaret is looking ten ways at a grandchild. THANK YOU, SO MUCH everyone for playing, and for Linda B. for inviting others. More poets = more fun. More ways of looking may be peered at throughout the day, and I’ll post the poems as I find them – stay tuned for the roundup!

I hope you take a look at your world this weekend and find the myriad tiny ways that – even in the midst of stress and strife – there is still growth, there is still life, there is still beauty, and peace. Hold tight to what is good. Happy Friday.

{pf: p7 elevate the ekphrastic}

by Tanita S. Davis

August 30, 2024

6:18 am

21 Comments on {pf: p7 elevate the ekphrastic}

Musings on Extemporanea, Part and Poetry, Poetry Friday, Seven Sisters, Sleeper Stories

Welcome to another Poetry Friday Poetry Peeps Adventure!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of September! Here’s the scoop: We’re wandering through Wallace Stevens’ “13 Different Ways of Looking…” at something. Maybe it’s not 13 ways – maybe it’s only seven. Maybe it’s not a blackbird or anything alive, but something inanimate. Whatever happens, your way of looking will be different than mine, and I’m here for it. Are you in? Good! You have a month to craft your creation and share it on September 27th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals.

My mother texted me the other morning, “Are you feeling Fall-ish?” It’s hard to miss the change this year. The “certain slant of light” seems to be more sharply tip-tilted. The cool of the morning is actually legitimately chilly – though it won’t last, of course. September traditionally burnishes the Western States sun-bronzed with a last heavy blast before the “mellow mists and fruitfulness” settles in by mid-October. Maybe because it’s supposed to be a La Niña year, the dry cold already feels closer. I’m certainly noticing my yard overrun with lesser goldfinches, eating every seed and berry that isn’t being stolen by the squirrels. Soon the weavers will be sheeting the trees with ginormous webs, scarfing down every last bite before it’s time for ballooning away the babies.

I used three snaps for my ekphrastic this month, as both Liz and I captured spider’s webs, which made me think of E.B. White, CHARLOTTE’S WEB, and the time of year of endings (Remember Robert Peck’s A Day No Pigs Would Die? Even there the slaughter is scheduled for autumn/early winter). I’ve been thinking about mythology and the Weavers who, in Greek and Roman myth, wove a person’s fate. From the Encyclopedia Britannica:

The poet Hesiod (8th century bc) personified them as three very old women who spun the threads of human destiny. Their names were Clotho (Spinner), Lachesis (Allotter), and Atropos (Inflexible). Clotho spun the “thread” of human fate, Lachesis dispensed it, and Atropos cut the thread (thus determining the individual’s moment of death). The Romans identified the Parcae, originally personifications of childbirth, with the three Greek Fates. The Roman goddesses were named Nona, Decuma, and Morta.

In this slightly reflective, melancholic frame of mind, my poem spun itself out of spider webs, touching point to point across a path, anchored invisibly to catch the ephemera of memory.

Of course, not every ekphrastic this month dealt with intangibles. Liz’s poem is here. Tricia’s poem is here. Cousin Mary Lee’s poem is here. Michelle K’s poem is here. Though she may not have realized that she was joining our challenge, Rose has two blue chairs, and the Rain City Librarian had her class do ekphrastic haiku this week! Cool! Denise’s poignant meditation is here. Linda B’s seasonal moment is here. Carol used a watercolor for her ekphrastic imagery. You might give Susan @ Chicken Spaghetti a cookie, since today she is rounding us up with a wealth of poetry. Thanks, Susan! Yet more Poetry Peeps may drift in from their own particular webs, so be sure and pop back for the full roundup later this weekend.

I also found a delightful poem about walking through a spiderweb that you may enjoy. (It’s definitely more enjoyable to read about this than to actually… do it…)

And perhaps Nikita Gill should have the last word today – a last brief reminder of the ephemeral nature of spider’s webs, seasons, and moods, in all the best ways:

Happy last gasp of August.

{pf: poetry peeps sound an ode to ourselves}

by Tanita S. Davis

May 31, 2024

5:04 am

10 Comments on {pf: poetry peeps sound an ode to ourselves}

On Writing, Part and Poetry, Poetry Friday, Seven Sisters, Sleeper Stories, What We Do, Who We Are

Welcome to another Poetry Friday Poetry Peeps Adventure!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of June! Here’s the scoop: We’re writing a poem with the title ‘Wabi-Sabi.’ Aaaand, that’s… the scoop. That’s it. A little unsure of the concept and philosophy? In his book Wabi-Sabi Simple, Richard Powell described wabi-sabi as a philosophy that acknowledges a lifestyle that appreciates and accepts three simple truths: “Nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect.” We’ve left ourselves room this month to meditate on all sorts of things, including, but not limited to, ellipses, pauses, and periods to acknowledge endings. Are you game? Good! Whichever way wabi-sabi wafts you, you have a month to craft your creation and share it on June 28th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals.

Friends, this month was a doozy.

Periodically in our poetic perambulations, we wander into a quagmire and find ourselves just… stopped. Stuck.

This time, it was because we were writing in the spirit of Lucille Clifton’s “homage to my hips,” and uncovered a lot of body image issues in ourselves. Here’s this lovely poet, praising the promising swing and sway of her bountiful hips, and we… recoiled from a paean of praise to our own bodies, because… eew. There was imperfection. There was wistfulness. There was frustration. There was a lot to dig through to get unstuck.

Soooo, we had to do a little therapy. As one does. Results? Liz’s poem is here. Mary Lee’s affirmation is here. Tricia’s poem is here, and Laura’s is here. Michelle’s poem is here, and Linda B.’s poem is here. More peeps with poetic panegyric might sally forth to give thanks for their thighs – as I discover their poems, I’ll post them, so do check back for the roundup.

From Process…

I was so, so grateful that I’d found the Bill Moyers’ recording of Lucille Clifton reading her own poem aloud. She made people laugh. She made people worry. She laughed at herself, and, gently, at their worry. She claimed she had “thrilling” body parts. In performance she was a live wire, and her joy in herself – in opposition to the societal norms which bid her condemn rather than celebrate the swish of her hips – is infectious. We all listened, and we none of us could resist that joy. So, step one, if you’re ever stuck writing something kind about yourself – listen to Ms. Lucille.

I listened for the “presence” word as I reread the poem. Ms. Lucille’s hips are big, they take up space, they don’t fit just anywhere; those hips are free and have never been enslaved. They were mighty and magical, and then she offered us proof of this. When the poem is stepped through instead of skimmed, it is easier to see where her hips sort of “break through” the confinements and actions of other people’s calmer, tamer hips. With that in mind, I turned to my own poem.

…to Poem

Of course, that meant trying to find a body part that I could deal with. Oh, sure, I could have echoed the mentor poem, but Ms. Lucille had capital ‘h’ Hips. I have… a hinge that does the job, but without much ‘verve and swerve,’ as it were. I do have shoulders that hit all of the presence words – big, take up space, don’t fit… but five lines into trying to write about them, I became entangled in the metaphorical uses of shoulders – people use them to cry on, they have to bear the weight of the world’s problems. I have shoulders like a linebacker (with only minimal exaggeration) but I don’t always want to be leading the defense and protecting the quarterback. That’s… less about the shoulder and more about what a shoulder’s expected to do. Nope. Wrong direction.

I sighed and considered. Belly buttons – what can one say about an ‘innie’ in a squishy belly? – necks – boring, really, – fingers – um, right now the joints are a bit too inflamed to be giving me praiseworthy vibes – feet, hips, spine, same issue. This is the problem with a flawed body, friends. A lot of my systems started to fail in my late twenties, and I’ve had somewhat of an adversarial relationship with my body since then. It’s too easy to find fault with it. Too easy to look at the scars of deficiencies and disorders and the associated insufficiencies and think there’s no room for homage, only abhorrence. And that’s …not good. Understandable, but not sustainable. I have to LIVE here, after all – we need a working relationship, and at minimum, respect and care and appreciation. So. Back to the drawing board yet again.

I considered body parts which I actively dislike, but couldn’t summon the energy to fight myself for them. I wondered aloud if hair was a body part – I mean, technically that could count? – and then I saw a picture of a stairwell in a museum which I love, and remember walking down those stairs MANY years ago in three-inch heels (for an event) and thought, “I loved those shoes, they made my calves look…” Oh. OH!

Suddenly, I was unstuck.

Acclaiming My Calves

These calves are strong calves,
bulging muscles Foundational
to my under
standing. Like cocoa-butter silk,
when I’m bothered to shave
them, these calves – not milk-fed (yet
Outstanding in their field) –
they don’t fit into
ordinary settings
or stovepipe boots.
Solid maple, this Mare’s
shanks. These calves,
they like a lug sole
a long stride, and a
short skirt ‘cause these calves,
they gotta Breathe.
Legs louche or Ladylike, these calves,
they lay it out, straight,
no chaser, though I have known them
To stop on a dime and Flex,
To strengthen the stretch
of my strut.
draft ©2024 by tanita s. davis

That was just the warm-up! There’s more poetry this Friday, hosted by Janice at Salt City Verse, exploring a great new poetry anthology, so check that out and the community’s poetry as well. Thanks much for hosting, Janice!

Meanwhile, here are the calves in question: you’re WELCOME.

Don’t forget what Ms. Lucille said. You have thrilling body parts. You are, both body and soul, breathtakingly made. Celebrate the wonderfulness that is you.

{pf: poetry peeps answer the unanswerable}

by Tanita S. Davis

April 26, 2024

5:50 am

13 Comments on {pf: poetry peeps answer the unanswerable}

Musings on Extemporanea, NPM, Part and Poetry, Poetry Friday, Sleeper Stories

Welcome to another Poetry Friday Poetry Peeps Adventure!

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of May! Here’s the scoop: We’re writing in the style of Lucille Clifton’s homage to my hips, and choosing our own body parts to pay homage to. Are you a fan of your neck? Have you always wanted to write a sonnet to the bumps on your tongue? You can read a few body part poems to get your motor running (or, listen to Miss Lucille read! You’ll get goosebumps). Are you game? Good! Whatever song of yourself that you sing, you have a month to craft your creation and share it on May 31st in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals.

Welcome to the wondering, as we sit in this space of unanswerable questions. This month’s challenge might have been a bit more complex to me if I hadn’t already been in a sort of… unfettered frame of mind. One thing that committing to writing a poem a day for NPM does for me is break me out of “regular” lines of thought, and make me fall swiftly into a state where I can dive deeper into words. A whole month of thinking sideways made unanswerable questions a little more accessible, a little more instinctual to me.

There are others who grapple with the unanswerable this month. Sara’s poem is here. Tricia’s is here. Here’s Laura’s poem, and Liz’s poem is here, and Mary Lee’s poem is here. Michelle K’s poem is here. Other Poetry Peeps may be checking in throughout the weekend with their poems, so don’t forget to stop by for the roundup. In the meantime, Poetry Friday is hosted today by Ruth, @There Is No Such Thing As A Godforsaken Town. Thanks, Ruth!

From Process…

Our process was less straightforward this time, and more… gauzy. To begin, the Poetry Sisters got together and made lists of unanswerable questions – or what they felt were fairly esoteric questions in the moment. The list was long, but they were a delight to read through. How many rings in a doorbell? Where does an echo go? What is the best time to lose? How do you know when you’re grown? Who loves you best? What color is a mirror? How much change is enough? Why now? What does the oak know?

Last month, Padraig Ó Tuama’s prompts for the pantoum really resonated with me. We were instructed to write a line about something that’s become ordinary for us, or to write a line showing us an object that’s associated with this ordinariness. In answering the prompt, I wrote about dirt, about dust and birds, fence posts, and the horizon through the window. What else, I wondered, could I expand on in a way that embraced the ordinary? People are cottage-core fixated on the After of the Before & After phases, when things are pretty, when the flowers are blooming and the honeysuckle is curling ’round the door. Cottagecore doesn’t seem to encompass sweating and tripping over dirt clods.

The question that appealed most to me was a variation on the last… What does the oak know…about me? A few years ago, I wrote a mask poem about a plum tree which narrated its concerns (or lack of them), about the phoebe which lived in its branches, its human, and the world around it. I think of this poem as in conversation with that one.

…To Poem

What does the garden remember of us? The weeding, turning, digging, and planting? The watering, sweating, grunting, squealing (in joy or dismay when spiders or crane fly larvae make themselves known)? The sighing, early morning stumbling, surly muttering or full-voice singing over the noise of the tiller? What do any of us know of this season, in comparison to what it knows about us?

A Garden Remembers

The bite of a hoe, bright, invasive fang,
The dull grind of knees against soil,
Back-and-forth boots, combative, they bang
The grunts born of splinters, sweat, toil.

The fork and the tines, the lift and the turn
(The YEEEUCH! as fly grubs are flung far)
The scent of the balm smoothed on for windburn,
The brown of earth easing our scars.

A flop, falling flat. CO2 cloud exhale,
A silence of survey benign.
A humming that swells into chorus full scale,
A hymn for the living enshrines.

Padraig’s last questions in the prompt list are, “What is a single feeling you have about this ordinary thing? What do you most wish to say about this ordinary thing?” To which I can only answer – it is, and I am, and together, we are – a living thing. May you raise your own hymn to the living this weekend, revel in your ordinary extraordinariness.