Thank you Joy!!! Your writing class from before has inspired me so, and this was a beautiful refresher. Here's one from recently that has your elements! Here it is:
The Reassurance of A Mosquito
I tell them to stick together.
To watch out for each other
To listen to the eldest.
They nod, glance at the window,
the door,
the sun,
then back at me.
Who knows if they will listen?
From the window I watch them leave.
Swinging ponytailed. Lithe Limbed. One scarlet sequined hijab.
All they have to do: run up the hill, one stop sign, then two. A left. Then freedom. The park.
It’s just an hour.
Still my shoulders scrunch up an inch.
What do they know about the world and its dangers?
What could they possibly know?
I take comfort in the fact that the three girls are together. Did you know only female mosquitoes bite?
I think Tiny Tenders are the best thing I've learned from you. Not because of how they improve my writing (even though they do), but because of how they've changed the way I look at the world. 💓
I get comments from people a lot about how I look at the world, the things I'm noticing that they aren't. Poetry can be contagious when we name the tiny tenders <3
I loved these exercises - thank you for sharing them Joy!! I was rolling up my yoga mat after class yesterday and saw some purple stains on the bottom of my mat from fallen mullberries. These tiny purple stains transported me. A tiny tender that reminded me of my old backyard 2000 miles away last summer before the tree was cut down. I was still thinking about those tender little stains as I was falling asleep so I sat up in bed and wrote this down:
Sinking into sleep I puzzle at why
the dried mulberry blood splotches
on the bottom of my yoga mat remind me
of mud under my childhood fingernails-
both remnants of nature's whimsy?
As my eyelashes gently brush the threshold
between consciousness and release
my limbs tingle with memories of childhood
mudpies under grandma's mulberry tree
Stretching my legs long in cotton sheets
only to find my dry wintered heels catching
in the soft white abyss
Is this the adult equivalent of drawing
with cheap rose art crayons
that scritch and scratch as they stretch
across the papery white abyss of childhood?
The jarring little pricks
are like identical hiccups of electricity
slicing through tree rings
of hardened growth
Somewhere inside this tired supine woman
is there still a little artist with scratchy pictures spilling out
Thank you for this, Joy. This is the first poem I've written in years, and that is something. I'm on Week 2 of The Artist's Way and giving myself permission to make "bad" art since, to me, that's better than not making anything at all.
Joy, I’m new to your work, but I absolutely loved this class and want to dive in more!
Here’s my final poem to the prompts. Still unsure about the last line….
Recently, I saw out of the corner of my eye, a bull mounting a cow in a field. I thought I imagined it, but no. Surely enough, this majestic beast had leapt up to take his pleasure from the unassuming cow. Who knows what she felt. I drove too fast to see more, but what a strange thing to witness at 70 miles per hours. Is it grotesque that I wanted to pull over and observe this possible assault, to be a voyeur in their intimacy? Was it tender, I wonder, or was it just business? The bull’s pleasure is as old and steady as the weathered mountains behind him, the product of millions of years of evolution. My own lust has faded into pale prairie grass, guarding myself from new sensation as the same winds brush over me, wheel ruts scar my fields from Manifest Destiny’s wagons. A temporary respite before the promised land.
Thank you for this wonderful and generous offering, Joy.
I've only just played around with the first lesson and from it came this:
My son walked in and froze.
There's literally a cricket on your bed.
Did you know, I said,
crickets bring luck.
I went to get a jar.
I liked luck sitting on my bed
But maybe it preferred outside-
the place my daughter says
smells like home.
This was so fun, thank you! Here’s my lil ditty.
Angels peel oranges
on the new quartz.
Espresso brews,
the open fridge ding ding dings
toast burns
a hundred fresh crumbs gather on
the half-gone tile.
While I sweat and spin,
those angels giggle and blaze-
Hallelujahing their perpetual song…
Mom, mom, mom!
I love this
This was an excellent lesson, thank you so much! This is what I came away with:
My chocolate pointer rubs her face with her paws everyday
I lay there thinking about the sweetness of death
Grief gurgling and sputtering inside me
Her soft face and fat paws create static
Reminding me of electricity
Pinging around in my brain
Waiting for a new pathway
She grunts with satisfaction
Like humans do when they get a good itch
Or when strong hands rub my shoulders
Did you know that in a human’s life, you could have half a dozen dogs
All that love oozing out of you
Falling apart like a crumbling building
But in a dog’s life, they usually only get one human if they’re lucky
Once I heard that dogs know how long you’ve been gone by how much of your smell is left in the air
Telling time through scent
Their wet snouts wiggling in the air
Waiting for us to come back and open up the day for them
Wagging their whole bodies, like a deep inhale after being held underwater for too long
Joy what an absolute gift. Thank you so much for sharing your wisdom with us. I can’t wait to dive in fully 💛
https://open.substack.com/pub/reemfaruqi/p/reassurance-of-a-mosquito?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=jd3ii
Thank you Joy!!! Your writing class from before has inspired me so, and this was a beautiful refresher. Here's one from recently that has your elements! Here it is:
The Reassurance of A Mosquito
I tell them to stick together.
To watch out for each other
To listen to the eldest.
They nod, glance at the window,
the door,
the sun,
then back at me.
Who knows if they will listen?
From the window I watch them leave.
Swinging ponytailed. Lithe Limbed. One scarlet sequined hijab.
All they have to do: run up the hill, one stop sign, then two. A left. Then freedom. The park.
It’s just an hour.
Still my shoulders scrunch up an inch.
What do they know about the world and its dangers?
What could they possibly know?
I take comfort in the fact that the three girls are together. Did you know only female mosquitoes bite?
I think Tiny Tenders are the best thing I've learned from you. Not because of how they improve my writing (even though they do), but because of how they've changed the way I look at the world. 💓
I get comments from people a lot about how I look at the world, the things I'm noticing that they aren't. Poetry can be contagious when we name the tiny tenders <3
Thank you. Can't wait to dive in. ❤️
Excited to hear what you think. xxxx
Wow, wow, wow. Thank you, Joy.
I cannot wait to jump in. ✨
I loved these exercises - thank you for sharing them Joy!! I was rolling up my yoga mat after class yesterday and saw some purple stains on the bottom of my mat from fallen mullberries. These tiny purple stains transported me. A tiny tender that reminded me of my old backyard 2000 miles away last summer before the tree was cut down. I was still thinking about those tender little stains as I was falling asleep so I sat up in bed and wrote this down:
Sinking into sleep I puzzle at why
the dried mulberry blood splotches
on the bottom of my yoga mat remind me
of mud under my childhood fingernails-
both remnants of nature's whimsy?
As my eyelashes gently brush the threshold
between consciousness and release
my limbs tingle with memories of childhood
mudpies under grandma's mulberry tree
Stretching my legs long in cotton sheets
only to find my dry wintered heels catching
in the soft white abyss
Is this the adult equivalent of drawing
with cheap rose art crayons
that scritch and scratch as they stretch
across the papery white abyss of childhood?
The jarring little pricks
are like identical hiccups of electricity
slicing through tree rings
of hardened growth
Somewhere inside this tired supine woman
is there still a little artist with scratchy pictures spilling out
of her uncalloused hands?
Loved the master class, Joy!
Here's my little practice poem.
Green sleeves wipe her cheeks.
“You've done this too”? She whispers
Hopeful I have some answers.
Grief like morning tongue
Swollen in my mouth
Waiting to be scraped clean.
Heartache, his children's toys
clasped warmly in cold hands.
Widow to widow I lie.
Soul-wrenching!
Thank you for this, Joy. This is the first poem I've written in years, and that is something. I'm on Week 2 of The Artist's Way and giving myself permission to make "bad" art since, to me, that's better than not making anything at all.
Antlers
Yesterday I saw a buck in the
middle of our country road
stock still
as if made of sandstone
They’re more elusive than does
someone told me recently—
their tangle of antlers an easy target for
eager trappers
A heavy crown they won’t shed until
hunting season’s over
Come spring, they’ll fall to the forest floor
with a gentle thud
new growth already budding at the temples
like the wild ramps underfoot
I wonder if he’ll feel lighter after
I wonder what I might shed to feel lighter, too
Joy, I’m new to your work, but I absolutely loved this class and want to dive in more!
Here’s my final poem to the prompts. Still unsure about the last line….
Recently, I saw out of the corner of my eye, a bull mounting a cow in a field. I thought I imagined it, but no. Surely enough, this majestic beast had leapt up to take his pleasure from the unassuming cow. Who knows what she felt. I drove too fast to see more, but what a strange thing to witness at 70 miles per hours. Is it grotesque that I wanted to pull over and observe this possible assault, to be a voyeur in their intimacy? Was it tender, I wonder, or was it just business? The bull’s pleasure is as old and steady as the weathered mountains behind him, the product of millions of years of evolution. My own lust has faded into pale prairie grass, guarding myself from new sensation as the same winds brush over me, wheel ruts scar my fields from Manifest Destiny’s wagons. A temporary respite before the promised land.
stumbled open this lesson, came up with this so thank you:
A branch hangs, haphazardly
amongst swaying kin holding them close –
still, attached.
Vines cry themselves down,
ignoring, even dressing,
the bifurcated tree-body yelling
“Why?” when wind coaxes
the tears to the ground, falling
amongst autumnal mountains
a child should have kicked open
and fell into.
I play
no part
in tending to the garden.
Let mountains rise in my wake.
The branch will fall one day
when I’m not watching.
How generous. Thank you so much!
Thank you!