persistence

Good heavens, is it my turn again?!

 

Greetings, Poetry Folk. It's the first of the month already and the Inklings are taking on another challenge--mine this time. I wrote: "I'm looking out at my yard, my garden, and no matter what’s happening outside or in, THE PLANTS KEEP GROWING. They rarely give up. There are so many ways in which we’ve all (but especially as women, as educators) had to be persistent, despite our weariness. Write a poem (for kids or adults) about PERSISTENCE.  If you write for kids, maybe try a definito!"

 

 

Then I offered 2 poems that might inspire:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/58454/please-dont 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/58268/jungle-kill

I attempted a definito, yes, but it quickly became overgrown by an adult invasive.

 

Vineyard 

End of June and we who teach so hard 

right up until the frenetic final goodbyes

are weary. 

At home

our eyelids droop  our muscles melt

our cells give in to weakling bacteria

We eat cereal for dinner or maybe

just a glass of rosé out back

And out there

the wild grape

the volunteer tomato

the trumpet vine  oh the trumpet vine

They 

are not weary!

It’s dry for days on end  hot and dry 

and blue so blue  but nevertheless 

their greens  garnished with 

insidious tendrils  delicate fur 

yellow starlets  hollering vermilion hallelujah

They persist persist  stand steadfast.

What are they drinking?

(we’ll have what they’re having)

No, not standing still. They sprawl  they reach  they wrap.

What is nearby to support their creep and climb?

Tomato cage of course, and trampoline net 

innocent bystanding butterfly bush   deer fence

bottle tree  patio chaise pressed to share its longeur 

passenger door handle if we leave the car parked

for long enough--- 

They don't just subsist 

They don’t just persist 

They insist

on thriving 

They resist 

our inexpert ripping  lopping  setting of limits.

They drink from somewhere deep and dirt-pure

They freely twirl their tender fingers 

They freely rest their renegade limbs

They freely lean their stems

on others. 

            draft ©HM 2022

****************

You know what's weary-making?  Doing it alone. You can have grade-level teams and staff meetings all you want, but being in that room by yourself with all those little shoots and sprouts and seedlings springing up and needing sun and soil and water and talking to--that's exhausting, even demoralizing.  I know because for the last 3 years I didn't have to do it alone.  Shout out to Elizabeth Cabrera, my paraeducator.  I miss her!

I think my poem was pretty heavily influenced by the one below, which I heard on my bike on Tuesday, riding to my therapy appointment and catching up with Poetry Unbound.  Here's the episode, and here's the poem.

 **********

My Therapist Wants to Know about My Relationship to Work | by Tiana Clark

I hustle
upstream.
I grasp.
I grind.
I control & panic. Poke
balloons in my chest,
always popping there,
always my thoughts thump,
thump. I snooze — wake & go
boom. All day, like this I short
my breath. I scroll & scroll.
I see what you wrote — I like.
I heart. My thumb, so tired.
My head bent down, but not
in prayer, heavy from the looking.
I see your face, your phone-lit
faces. I tap your food, two times
for more hearts. I retweet.
I email: yes & yes & yes.
Then I cry & need to say: no-no-no.
Why does it take so long to reply?
I FOMO & shout. I read. I never
enough. New book. New post.
New ping. A new tab, then another.
Papers on the floor, scattered & stacked.
So many journals, unbroken white spines,
waiting. Did you hear that new new?
I start to text back. Ellipsis, then I forget.
I balk. I lazy the bed. I wallow when I write.
I truth when I lie. I throw a book
when a poem undoes me. I underline
Clifton: today we are possible. I start
from image. I begin with Phillis Wheatley.
I begin with Phillis Wheatley. I begin
with Phillis Wheatley reaching for coal.
I start with a napkin, receipt, or my hand.
I muscle memory. I stutter the page. I fail.
Hit delete — scratch out one more line. I sonnet,
then break form. I make tea, use two bags.
Rooibos again. I bathe now. Epsom salt.
No books or phone. Just water & the sound
of water filling, glory — be my buoyant body,
bowl of me. Yes, lavender, more bubbles
& bath bomb, of course some candles too.
All alone with Coltrane. My favorite, ‘Naima,’
for his wife, now for me, inside my own womb.
Again, I child back. I float. I sing. I simple
& humble. Eyes close. I low my voice,
was it a psalm? Don’t know. But I stopped. 

***********

Maybe sometimes persistence is overrated.

Here's where to find the persistence poems of my fellow Inklings.  Thanks to Janice at Salt City Verse for hosting us all today. I'm traveling tomorrow, so catch-up commenting will take place from Lille, France on Sunday, if all goes to plan!

Catherine Flynn@ Reading to the Core

Mary Lee Hahn @ A(nother) Year of Reading
Molly Hogan @ Nix the Comfort Zone
Linda Mitchell @ A Word Edgewise
Margaret Simon @ Reflections on the Teche