Poem of the Week, by Jane Hirshfield

Posted on by alisonmcghee

I’m covered with long scabbed scratches from pruning my raspberry jungle the other day. Earlier, I dug up the wildly proliferating baby evening primrose and replanted them here and there. Both raspberry canes and primrose send out lateral roots: beware.

A bunch of phlox I dug up sit in a bucket by the sidewalk: FREE PHLOX. Same with some tiger lilies. On my porch table are eight pots of inch plant I rooted a few weeks ago. (Want one?)

It’s foolish to let raspberries and peonies and lilies and black-eyed Susans and primrose run rampant in your garden, crowding out both each other and any glimpse of ground, but I am helpless before their beauty.

Tree, by Jane Hirshfield

It is foolish
to let a young redwood
grow next to a house.

Even in this
one lifetime,
you will have to choose.

That great calm being,
this clutter of soup pots and books —

Already the first branch-tips brush at the window.
Softly, calmly, immensity taps at your life.​ 

Click here for more information about Jane Hirshfield. Today’s poem first appeared in Given Sugar, Given Salt, published in 2001.  

alisonmcghee.com
My podcast: Words by Winter

Poem of the Week, by Andre Swanepoel

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One of my students in a memoir workshop was a reserved veteran who wrote lecture-like essays instead of personal passages from the heart. I could feel how hard he had worked to build the invisible shell that surrounded him.

What did this feel like to you, as a child, in the moment it happened?, were the kind of comments I made on his work. When you look back now, how do you feel? Is there anything you remember that you can’t shake, like an object you were holding, or a look in someone’s eyes?

At the end of the semester he read something so different, so personal, a passage that questioned instead of lectured. He glanced up at me over the other students’ heads, uncertain and almost scared, like a boy. I held his gaze and nodded, once–Beautiful–and his eyes filled.

Like the father in this poem and the son he instinctively understood, we can protect the ones close to us from what hurts them and holds them back. Sometimes it’s other people. Sometimes it’s the walls we build around ourselves.

The Day My Father Didn’t Teach Me to Shoot, by Andre Swanepoel

they said he would.
the uncles. the neighbours.
boys at school
who already knew the difference
between a clean barrel
and a limp wrist.

they said,
you’ll see—
he’ll take you out back one day,
line up the bottle caps,
hand you the rifle
like a secret
you’re finally old enough to carry.

but the day didn’t come.
not at thirteen,
when my voice cracked
and i was still trying
to walk like him.

not at sixteen,
when the bruises on my shins
weren’t from rugby.

not even at eighteen,
when i thought maybe
he was waiting for me to ask.

sometimes,
i imagined the drawer—
the oiled cloth,
the slow pull of the rod
down the mouth
of something meant
to be passed on.

but my father wasn’t like that.
he never spoke of guns,
never asked if i wanted one.

i think he saw something in me—
not softness,
but a distance
so wide and silent
he didn’t know how to cross.

and he left it alone.

i used to picture him
handing me the keys to his bakkie,
saying:
drive like someone
who knows what’s theirs.

he never did.

and maybe that’s the gift—
to never be handed
the weight
that leaves a wound—
one you never fire.

Click here for more information about Andre Swanepoel.

alisonmcghee.com
My podcast: Words by Winter

Poem of the Week, by Paula Gordon Lepp

Posted on by alisonmcghee

The other day, I was leaving Fed-Ex and a man coming toward me was pushing a metal cart laden with so many packages so inordinately tall I couldn’t even see him. I held the door and he thanked me profusely: Bless you! Bless you!

It makes me happy to help with overhead bags, let others go ahead in line, hold open doors. Then I read this poem. And flashed back to a long-ago night when our new-to-us dog escaped the house and dashed away, and two boys out on a cross-country training run witnessed this and said “Miss, we’ll find your dog! We’ll find him!” and took off.

And why reading this poem, and remembering that night, and those boys, and their kindness, and their instant unthinking action makes me choke up, I do not know. It feels good to help others. But maybe asking for help is the flip side of that coin, an unspoken benediction so they too can feel good.

Gas Station Communion Poem, by Paula Gordon Lepp  

It was a little thing, really,
this offer to fill my tire.
I was unscrewing the valve cap
and heard a voice behind me.
‘Here, I’ll get that for you”

“Oh that’s ok, I’ve got it,” is what I
normally say to such overtures,
this knee-jerk reaction to refuse.
I am the one who offers to help,
I am the one who serves.

Perhaps it was the eager spirit
in his face or his brown eyes
full of hopeful connection that
caused me to say okay.

I felt the vibration of
his unspoken benediction:
I can’t do much for you,
fellow weary traveler,
but I can do this. Lay
your burden down and
I will carry it for a bit.

And I couldn’t help but wonder
how many times I have denied
someone the blessing of serving
because I have been too stubborn
to accept their gift.

As I was standing there in
the sun drenched gas station
parking lot, the hiss and tick of
the air pump sounded very much
like a psalm. I watched his hands
filling more than just my tire with air,
while goodness and grace
swirled around us.

Click here for more information about Paula Gordon Lepp.

alisonmcghee.com
My podcast: Words by Winter

Poem of the Week, by Kobayashi Issa

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Is it too early to start talking about our January 11-16, 2027 Write Together session? Probably. But I loved our summer and fall workshops, so here we go. Join us each morning in the Zoom room for an hour devoted solely to generating new ideas, having fun, and  writing together with no expectation of sharing or feedback. Click here for all the details. 

A friend and I were talking about living conscientiously, trying to hurt the planet as little as possible, be good to fellow humans, work for a better world. All the small and big decisions that go into this and how they can feel impossible sometimes.

Like when it comes to travel, which we both crave. Walking the streets of other countries, eyes and ears wide open, has taught me more about the vastness of the world than anything else.

I’m not willing to give up flying, my friend said, almost whispering. Neither am I.

All the Time I Pray to Buddha, by Kobayashi Issa, translated by Robert Hass

All the time I pray to Buddha
I keep on
killing mosquitoes. 

Click here for more information about Kobayashi Issa. Click here for more information about poet and translator Robert Hass. 

 alisonmcghee.com
My podcast: Words by Winter

Poem of the Week, by Faith Shearin

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Twin Citians! I’d love to see you at Truth Be Told, an evening of live storytelling to welcome the fall. Date: Sunday, September 27, 7-9 pm Place: New City Center, 3104 16th Ave S, Minneapolis, MN 55407 Theme: Stellar storytellers sharing true personal stories on the theme of “Connection” Cost: Free! A goodwill offering will be split between the storytellers and Sisters’ Camelot, a local food justice nonprofit

Most nights now I sit on the floor for a couple of hours, surrounded by old sagging boxes, reading all the letters and cards I’ve saved from high school on.

I’ve avoided this job for decades. It’s always felt like too much, too much, too much. Then I randomly decided to call it the Gratitude and Blessings Project, and a switch instantly flipped. Oh my beautiful friends, here you are again, with your inimitable handwriting.

Look at the thousands of letters, no exaggeration, from my word-loving mother, and the few from my non-writer father, like the one on yellow legal paper in which he “wholeheartedly endorsed” my plan to become a novelist. “If it doesn’t work out there are a zillion other options and you will find them, Alison.” Astonishing words from a Depression baby who wanted only stability and security.

All these decades-ago missives, full of secrets and dreams and longing and laughter. All our young selves shimmering up from the pages. All the times and ways we loved each other, all the hallways that lead back to those rooms.

Directions to Your College Dorm, by Faith Shearin

All hallways still lead to that room
with its ceiling so high it might have been

a sky, and your metal bed by the window,
and your crate of books. First,

you must walk across the deep
winter campus to find your friend

throwing snowballs that float
for years. Then, open our letters:

shelves of words. You will find
our coats, our awkwardness, the tickets

from the trains that witnessed
our confusion. Love was the place

where we became as naked
as morning; it was dangerous and

dappled and we visited its shores
with suitcases and maps from childhood.

I remember our shadows growing
on your wall while a candle

swallowed itself. You kept a single
glass of water on a desk and it trembled

whenever we danced.


Click here for more information about Faith Shearin.

alisonmcghee.com
Words by Winter (my poetry podcast)

Poem of the Week, by Ernest Hilbert

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Once when my son was little I heard him and his friends whispering in the doorway where they had snuck up to watch me type.

Is your mom the fastest typer in the whole world? one of them said.

Yup, my son said, she is.

When it comes to typing all I want is speed, because then my fingers can outrace my thoughts and spin words out without thinking. But when it comes to cooking and quilting and gardening and folding laundry, slowness is what matters, especially now. Physical labor that absorbs hands and muscles and lets thoughts wander free.

Song, by Ernest Hilbert

A song for those who learn forgotten, slow
skills, crafts submerged long past by massed commerce,
by hard, dark, oily machines, and the din
of duplicates shipped by the millions, stowed
in cavernous depots to be dispersed
to each home, used once, and then binned.
This is for those who weave by hand, who brew
their own suds, and roll their own smokes, hammer
together shelves, print on presses, plant gardens
in vacant lots, raise beams, fire pots, the few
who challenge the swift, transient tenor
of the age, the lonely sincere wardens,
the last, noble pull of old ways restored,
valued and unwanted, admired and ignored.

Click here for more information on Ernest Hilbert.

alisonmcghee.com
My podcast: Words by Winter

Poem of the Week, by Danez Smith

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There are a few spots left in our two remaining half-day online workshops: The Art of Writing Picture Books, September 9 and Poetry, from Flicker to Flame, September 10. Click here for all the details. All our workshops are exhilarating and no-pressure and designed for writers of any and no experience. I’d love to see you in the Zoom room. 

Sometimes I feel so sad for men, older men especially. All the unspoken rules. All the ways our culture tries to train boys out of their openness, their gentleness, their human need for hugs and touch. Multiple men I know have told no one about the ways they were sexually abused as children. I think of my giant of a father, and the look on his face when he told me how his mother used to scream at him when he was little.

I think of how often men depend on the women they love to translate the world of emotion for them, to navigate the nuances of relationships. I think of how sex sometimes seems the only acceptable way for a man to give and receive physical affection, the only time they can let down their guard.

Lifelong fierce feminist that I am, I think of all the bright, tender little boys I know, and knew, and how we need a world softer for them. Which would translate into a world softer for us all.

from Differences, by Danez Smith

once, there was a boy
who learned to sing
who then learned not to sing

once, there was a boy
who heard another boy singing
then told him to stop

these are the same boy
this is every boy

another story: once, a boy
loved summer & so moved
to the sun

same story: once, a boy
ran from winter but could
not shake the dead trees

same story: once, a boy
stood in the woods
until he became it

same story: a boy is a tree

same story: my mother cries
whenever she sees a tree

For more information about the wondrous Danez Smith, please check out their website.

alisonmcghee.com
Words by Winter: my poetry podcast

Poem of the Week, by Ada Limón

Posted on by alisonmcghee

There’s plenty of room left in our two remaining half-day online workshops: The Art of Writing Picture Books, September 9 and Poetry, from Flicker to Flame, September 10. Click here for all the details – all our workshops are exhilarating, no-pressure, and designed for writers of any or no experience. I’d love to see you in the Zoom room. 

In one short year I have watched a new family member transform herself from newborn, with that lalala newborn cry, into a toddler who zooms around her apartment on a foot-powered trike. She reaches for Goodnight Gorilla and points to every animal in it by name. She doesn’t see the point of grass and tries to brush it off the ground with her hands.

She’ll generously offer wood chips to a playground friend, take them back if the friend tries to eat them, and roll her eyes because she knows it makes us all laugh.

These babies! They come out fully formed, exactly who they are, ready to run. This poem goes out to all you parents dropping your kids off at college or sending them back to school.

What I Didn’t Know Before, by Ada Limón

was how horses simply give birth to other
horses. Not a baby by any means, not
a creature of liminal spaces, but a four-legged
beast hellbent on walking, scrambling after
the mother. A horse gives way to another
horse and then suddenly there are two horses,
just like that. That’s how I loved you. You, 
off the long train from Red Bank carrying
a coffee as big as your arm, a bag with two
computers swinging in it unwieldily at your
side. I remember we broke into laughter
when we saw each other. What was between
us wasn’t a fragile thing to be coddled, cooed
over. It came out fully formed, ready to run.

For more information about Ada Limón, whose poems are beloved to me, please visit her website.

alisonmcghee.com
My podcast: Words by Winter

Poem of the Week, by Greg Watson

Posted on by alisonmcghee

When faced with a blank screen or page, how do you start writing? I mean this literally: how do you begin? This is my lifelong conundrum, and I solve it by secretly assigning myself a random structural form that frees me up and gives me a way in. There’s plenty of room in our Freedom of Form online workshop this Tuesday, August 25. Click here for all the details – I’d love to see you in the room! 

Last week I gathered all my courage and took on The Final Frontier, as I have long referred to the many boxes stuffed full of letters and cards saved from high school on.

There are thousands of them. It is a profoundly absorbing task. Each day I’ve spent two-three hours reading and sorting. All the years flown by, missives from the past selves of everyone I’ve loved in my life, shimmering up on the page.

Now, by Greg Watson

I told you once when we were young that
we would someday meet again.
Now, the years flown past, the letters
unwritten, I am not so certain.

It is autumn. There are toothaches hidden
in this wind, there are those determined
to bring forth winter at any cost.
I am resigned to dark blonde shadows

at stoplights, lost in the roadmaps of leaves
which point in every direction at once.
But I am wearing the shirt you stitched
two separate lifetimes ago. It is old

and falling to ash, yet every button blooms
the flowers of your design. I think of this
and I am happy, to have kissed
your mouth with the force of language,

to have spoken your name at all. 

Click here for more information about Greg Watson. Today’s poem was first published in 2008 by March Street Press and appears in The Distance Between Two Hands. 

alisonmcghee.com
My podcast: Words by Winter

Poem of the Week, by Craig Arnold

Posted on by alisonmcghee

Have you ever wanted to write about your own life, but don’t know where to begin? Focus in on tiny, specific memories, and that’s all you need. There’s plenty of room in our Memoir in Moments online workshop this coming Tuesday, August 18. Click here for the details – I’d love to see you in the room. 

My craving for grapefruit was uncontrollable when I was pregnant, to the extent I would buy ten-pound mesh bags of it and hide three or four in various rooms and drawers, just in case someone came over and tried to take my grapefruit. This is not rational, but neither are many things.

This poem stunned me because it describes exactly the way I eat grapefruit. That cloud of oil, the pearly cells, the pooling juice.

Meditation on a Grapefruit, by Craig Arnold

To wake when all is possible
before the agitations of the day
have gripped you
                To come to the kitchen
and peel a little basketball
for breakfast
              To tear the husk
like cotton padding        a cloud of oil
misting out of its pinprick pores
clean and sharp as pepper
                             To ease
each pale pink section out of its case
so carefully       without breaking
a single pearly cell
                    To slide each piece
into a cold blue china bowl
the juice pooling       until the whole
fruit is divided from its skin
and only then to eat
                  so sweet
                            a discipline
precisely pointless       a devout
involvement of the hands and senses
a pause     a little emptiness

each year harder to live within
each year harder to live without

Click here for more information about poet Craig Arnold. Today’s poem first appeared in Poetry in October 2009. 

alisonmcghee.com
My podcast: Words by Winter