A Poem-a-Day

My chief creative-joy-achieving strategy for February has been joining an online group of poets organized by brilliant, inspirational poet Molly Fisk, who is a specialist in creative joy if anyone is.

The group works like this. You sign up and pay a modest fee to cover administrative costs. Every day Molly posts a prompt (you can find the February prompts on her website, on the February 2018 tab at the bottom on the home page). Then you write a poem on that prompt - or on some other topic of your own choosing - or no poem at all. Then you post your poem on the private group website - or not. You can comment on others' poems if you feel like it - or not. The only rule is not to offer unsolicited critique - just to express appreciation. If you feel like it!

The combination of structure and freedom here - the daily prompts, but the lack of coercion to produce accordingly - has been magical for me. Also, many of my fellow poets in the group are amazing - experienced, well-published poets of astonishing gifts who, like me, just thrive under Molly's gentle guidance.

When I'm writing a poem for Molly, I don't need to add Cool Whip to my Swiss Miss hot chocolate, or sit in a cozy cafe, or do a single solitary thing to make the experience more special, as writing poetry is already as special as anything could be. So: first I get a half hour of joy writing my poem. Then for the rest of the day I get many flashes of joy as I go back and read my poem over and over again, with a mother's proud fondness in her cherished offspring.

Here is my favorite of the poems I've written so far. Thanks for letting me share it here!

Voices

Me to four-year-old granddaughter:  “It’s so cold this morning. Don’t you want to wear your slippers?”

Her to me: “NO!”

Me in high squeaky voice while wiggling the slippers at her entreatingly: “Don’t you want to wear us?”

Her to them: “YES!”

It’s always come so naturally to me, the desire

to animate the inanimate. When my boys were little,

I would make their jackets beg to be zipped up,

their lunchboxes plead not to be forgotten.

Finally, when he was twelve or so, my son rebelled

against their tyranny: “No more making voices

for inanimate objects!” Adolescence was hard enough

without having the Eggo waffle imploring to be eaten,

the carrot weeping at being left upon the plate.

As if every object – all of them – were Puff

waiting for Little Jackie Paper, or Pooh saying goodbye

to Christopher Robin at the Enchanted Place.

My granddaughter left yesterday, back to her mommy.

We see her so seldom now, my son and I, since the divorce.

And now it’s not only me who misses her

but the slippers abandoned in the closet,

the sippy cup lonesome in the cupboard,

the small spoon all by itself in the drawer.