Found Poem, Literally

Over my extended holiday break I cleaned out my office to help reorganize it in a way that would support both my professional work and my creative life. It can be a bit difficult to try for both of these past times, but nonetheless, it was essential for my productivity and creative peace.

One of the first things I had to do was to go through all of the books and journals in the credenza. I have gradually been adopting the philosophy that I don’t need to hold onto books forever, even if they are good ones. Coincidentally,  recent purge afforded me the opportunity to donate several bundles of books to an indy bookstore owner on Fort Myers Beach trying to rebuild her business after Hurricane Ian. Letting go of journals is a bit different. They have personal thoughts, memories, and creative musings. But I uncovered several that were not completely used and others that I spent some time reading through and felt ok to say goodbye. Those got tossed.

I wasn’t quite ready to let go of some of my past journals. I kept more than I tossed. But here’s where the story gets good. One of the journals I found and definitely decided to hold on to for the time being is a journal I filled almost completely during a women’s writing retreat. 

Back in 2015, I organized a weekend of writing and socializing with members of my writing group and other people we knew in writing companionship. It was an attempt to recapture some of the magic we knew and loved from the NWP summer institute and local writing groups and events we loved so much. It was a small group, less than what I had originally hoped for and most people that heart did not stay the whole weekend, which was unfortunate. But lots of fun was had and lots of writing happened. I was a great experience.

Folded in half between two pages, was this envelop with hurried writing down the front and back. I think I recognized it as my friend Helen’s handwriting, but I’m not certain. I read through the envelop comments as best I could, and I suspect it was a capturing of “golden lines” or just ideas she, or we, wanted to hold on to from the event. 

In the photo you can see the envelop. Below you will find a found poem I wrote after reading all of the writing on it. Understand it will be difficult to cite these lines with the exception of a couple of quotes with authors in the notes. I can’t remember who said what or where each of these lines and comments came from. I'm not even sure it was mine to hold onto, especially since I know I didn't write any of it. But it was a lovely way to remember this event that just came up in my memories over this weekend. I miss these communal writing events. They were always good for inspiration and relaxation.

Writing Together

a found poem by ljkemp

My job is to be true to myself as a writer, 

not to the expectations of others.

Just begin- worry about consequences later,

the imagination needs time to browse around

to find my fascination.

The soul can speak to true longing.

Go rewrite the world.

Two Poems and a Poem: Ritual One, Day 28

 Two Poems

“What I Know of Country” by Richard Blanco 

“My First Derby Party” by Barbara Kingsolver 

A Poem

Home

by ljkemp

The sun shines bright, I squint at the sky

and consider how far I’ve run

There was a time when anywhere was

better than here. Here was home, 

where nothing happened, nothing except 

the dissolution of family

An empty kitchen with a microwave,

an empty yard with uncut grass

an empty dining room with empty chairs

Even the memories ran off for awhile

they too, needed time to heal

until it was safe to return 

alongside the comfort of new ones

I wondered if that feeling would ever come,

tried to stay away, but home was home.

Italicized lines: 

The opening line is from the Kingsolver poem, the last phrase is from Blanco’s poem.

Two Poems and a Poem: Ritual one, day 27

 Two Poems:

America the Beautiful Again by Richard Blanco

By the Roots by Barbara Kingsolver

A Poem:

Florida Schoolday

by ljkemp

“Be nice to the trees and the plants”

We walked across campus to lunch

everyday a journey from the two-story

add-on at the back  of the perimeter 

A school, at once a relic of the 1950’s,

Florida open-air campus

and a sign of modern, more sinister times

a two story, easier to secure building.

We walked. They dragged their hands

along the sides of the buildings the way

children do. And into the bushes, yanking

leaves, pieces of leaves from the plants

tearing out the hair of the world.

“How would you feel if everyone who

passed by you pulled on your hair?

Be nice to the trees and the plants.”

We are lucky. A few minutes of open air

a time to visit the blue skies, the chirping birds

and the plant life.

Look up, listen. Take a deep breath in.

We are lucky to be alive, to be here in 

Florida during winter.

Every explanation of praise I belted out

until my throat hurt.

Aren’t we lucky?

Italicized words: First italicized line is from the Kingsolver poem, the second is from the Blanco poem.

Two Poems and a Poem: Ritual One, Day 26

 Two Poems:

"My Mother's Last Forty Minutes" by Barbara Kingsolver

"Remembering Boston Strong" by Richard Blanco

Today's poem was written in a form I think I made up a few years ago. I've never seen it anywhere before which is why I think it's my own creation. However, I am uncertain and admit it may be out there somewhere. If it is, I do not claim credit. Anyway, the form is this: Take a line from a piece of poetry or prose, or a song or a favorite quote. Then use each word in order to start a line in your poem. In this particular case, it was not my intention to capture the essence of the original poem or interpret its meaning. I simple chose a line as inspiration to create something completely new. I did not know where I was going with my poem until I was well into writing it.

The line is from Kingsolver's "My Mother's Last Forty Minutes":

May I say that life is filled with instructions we just don't believe we are ever going to need?

A Poem:

Derailed

by ljkemp

May, an in between time. Spring is no longer cool and breezy in the morning and the same again at dusk, but the oppressive heat has not yet arrived.

I miss my classroom days, when this time of year meant a break was near. A time of quiet and rest.

Say what you will about summers off and days that end early.

That those who can't do, teach. You, those who buy into this stupid old trope still, even now.

Life has thrown us on one hell of a ride since last spring, and though the train seems to be slowing,

Is it going to halt abruptly throwing us from the tracks or will it pull into the station smoothly 

Filled with passengers who exchange handshakes, phone numbers and text messages,  even hugs. Glances of kindness and respect

With a new understanding. We are all on the same team. That teaching comes with knowledge and training, but it does not come with 

Instructions. Not for this. Not for how to get a derailed train back on the tracks.

We know how to respond with intervention and differentiation for individual needs,

Just don't expect us to have all the answers to everything all the time.

Don't expect us to create miracles and explain anomalies, and have immediate answers to never-seen-before problems.

Believe us when we tell you it is not as easy as you think.

We will teach them math and reading, science, and history, but not at the expense of their well-being or of our own. Maybe at the expense of our own.

Are you going to concede yet? Admit the school is the heart of the community, not just a place for chalkboards and globes and desks and textbooks.  

Ever really been inside a classroom since you graduated (or didn't)?  If the teachers give up, if you push them all out, you are

Going to need more than just knowledge and rhetoric. You have a lot to learn about what our children need to learn.

To contribute to the world and to humanity, our children need  to learn empathy and compassion and love. For the train to stay on the tracks, we

Need. We need more love.

Two Poems and a Poem: Ritual One, Day 25

 Two Poems:

“Seventeen Funerals” by Richard Blanco 

“Thank You Note for a Quilt” by Barbara Kingsolver 

A Poem:

Not Today

by ljkemp

My selected poem today are about death, one in

tragedy, the other in the passing from one generation

to the next. But today I do not want to. I do not 

want to sit in the sadness of death, to wallow in

writing of time and people of places gone by. My 

eyes blooming open with the light of one more

morning, I want to fall in love with the time on my

hands. Today I want to live.

The sentence in italics is a combined sentence; clause before the comma from Blanco, and the clause after the comma from Kingsolver.

Two Poems and a Poem: Ritual One, Day 23

 Two Poems

“Between (Another Door)” by Richard Blanco 

“Long Division” by Barbara Kingsolver 

A Poem

Alone

by ljkemp

She lay there, her body lifeless

her heart warm and aglow, still.

He felt it, aching like his

but it was still alive,

for now.

He stood back on the other side

of glass, covered in cloth

and latex and the heaviness

of people dying.

His eyes the only way to send messages

please just breathe, 

please don’t leave me.

20 feet away

30 feet away

6 feet multiplied by something,

by eternity. Loving the only way he could love

disinfected, sanitized, distanced

longing to kiss her forehead

touch her cheek, hold her hand,

whisper the words I love you to her ear.

Here, not possible. 

According to the rules you stand alone

and watch her slip away.

Italicized lines: First italicized line is from the Blanco poem, and the second is from the Kingsolver poem.

Two Poems and a Poem: Ritual One, Day 22

 Two Poems

“The Visitation” by Barbara Kingsolver

“Until We Could” by Richard Blanco 

A Poem:

No Words

by ljkemp

Word are not his tools

they are mine.

He speaks with his hands

a gesture, soft and intimate

or quiet and withheld.

He speaks with his eyes

a playful wink, a soulful stare

or a look away.

Our years have taught me

reserve, quiet. Sometimes 

no words say one word 

satisfaction 

frustration

peace

ecstasy

Love

Our eyes become voices

speaking without speaking. 

Italics: Opening line is from the Kingsolver poem; last line is from the Blanco poem.