poetry

While we have been sheltering-in-place, my days have been filled with lots of baking, a crazy amount of Zoom calls, and lots of trying new things! One of my favorite quarantine activities has been writing poetry. Some dear friends had the wonderful idea to start a poetry club, and it has been such a joy to study and write poetry together! We have been examining a poem each week and then writing our own inspired by it. While writing the poems has been an exciting challenge for me, my favorite part has been sharing and discussing our poetry together because I love how unique each of our perspectives and voices are! I’ve included them below.

Week 2:
Inspired by Mark Jarman’s Descriptions of Heaven and Hell.

The wave breaks

And I'm carried into it.
This is hell, I know,
Yet my father laughs,
Chest-deep, proving I'm wrong.
We're safely rooted,
Rocked on his toes.

Nothing irked him more
Than asking, "What is there
Beyond death?"
His theory once was
That love greets you,
And the loveless
Don't know what to say. 

Description of a Power Outage
MeiMei

Blocks upon blocks of unlit homes 
stand together, silent and black,
while the owners of these continue
their nightly routine.

The houses look empty but everyone is home.
There is nowhere to be but home.

Occasionally, a candle floats 
through a window 
or the bright white light
of a phone flashlight 
illuminates a face.

Like the houses, we stand together in our solitude,
wishing for a time when our homes
are once again filled with people and light.

Fireflies
Suzanne

The smallest dots of light
defy gravity, then succumb to it,
fading oh so briefly and
leaving behind the black of evening,
which is as silent as fear.

It’s like looking through a pinhole
camera, but while moving, and
seeing sense and senselessness meld—
Or is it magic, or divinity?

It’s heaven. If only heaven could fall
from the sky and make those who hunger
feel full and those who ache sing
again. But this 

This has already been done.
Jesus, manna, is everything.

Description of A Storm
Carolyn

The wind pounds
And the walls ache and tremble.
There is danger, I know,
Yet my children sleep.
We do not seek shelter,
But crawl deeper under the covers,
Seeking to root in place.

Resignation or surrender?
Walking outside into sunlight
At the end of a long night,
It is difficult to distinguish.
My theory is
That either is enough.

Despair
Judy

A sea of people
I enter in,
this is loneliness, I know.

I hear my name,
a knowing face beckons me.
I belong.

It’s probably just me.
I’m the only one.
Am I?

Week 1:
Inspired by Wilfred Owen’s Six o’clock in Princes Street.

In twos and threes, they have not far to roam,
Crowds that thread eastward, gay of eyes;
Those seek no further than their quiet home,
Wives, walking westward, slow and wise.

Neither should I go fooling over clouds,
Following gleams unsafe, untrue,
And tiring after beauty through star-crowds,
Dared I go side by side with you;

Or be you in the gutter where you stand,
Pale rain-flawed phantom of the place,
With news of all the nations in your hand,
And all their sorrows in your face.

Six o’clock on MOPAC
MeiMei

Once packed with cars, the lonely freeway stands
Its shiny metal friends long gone
With news of all the nations in their hands
Their need to come or go withdrawn

Still, some go to make or spend a dollar
Heroes return from saving lives
Doctors, lawyers, grocery shoppers
At sixty miles an hour they fly

With news of all the nations in our hands
We venture out so cautiously
But just as social distancing commands
Six feet apart means virus free 

Six o’clock in Campo de’ Fiori
Suzanne

In December, when vendors sold scarves and risotto in equal measure
and waiters beckoned tourists in bits of English, urging them
to come and sit for a drink in Piazza Navona, the warm light of evening illumined Christmas wreaths sold at market and stately red cyclamen. 

We were mere travelers, not knowing permanence or how to sift through
the maze of others, wandering joyfully, but sometimes wind-blown;
but, oh, how I wanted to know those others and be the ones who greet each other 
with a happy kiss and live among ruins, seeking no further than their quiet home.

That was then. 

Now, there are no vendors setting up their stalls in morning and
tourists do not stream 
in and out of the Pantheon like water flowing down the Tiber, across Ponte Sisto,
across Ponte Testaccio, and the seven hills are barren, giving solitude to spring.

How quiet it is when the world stops, after news of all the nations can’t be spared, 
and instead of hurry and bustle, there is only solemnity.

Six o’clock in Crossland
Carolyn

Before—
They labored hungrily,
yearning mouths open wide,
leisure waiting in the corner.

Now—
They are hemmed in.
constrained to quiet, still rooms,
In twos and threes, they have not far to roam.

Neither have I the anticipated hours,
And my thoughts skitter through loss.

While bodies press against grief,
Provision rests in our hands.

 We have not far to roam.

Six o’clock on Bowman Ave
Judy

Tuesday morning traffic jam
Cars parked.

Families together. Big and small prams.
Dogs. So many dogs.
Space. At least 6 feet in breadth.

Masked people
But smiling eyes
A wave. A muffled hello.