Tanita was in charge of our challenge this month, and ya’ll?
It was a doozy, not just poetically but emotionally.
The idea was that we should write a poem inspired by — or in the style of — the poem Minor Miracle by Marilyn Nelson, which you can read by clicking here, and believe me, you should.
It’s a beautiful thing, right?
But also, there’s nothing minor about it.
It is one big long hold-your-breath moment of fear and horror and humanity.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but that’s a bit much live up to.
Still, we each sat down to reckon with miracles in our own way.
Here’s mine….
Knock on Wood
(after Marilyn Nelson’s Minor Miracle)
Knock on wood, says the guy
in front of me, knock on wood,
like it’s a little thing,
a minor miracle, the luck
that plucked us from the sky
complete and unharmed.
Knock on wood, after having dropped
our heads between our knees as the plane
rattled like a silverware drawer
as the babies cried and the woman
on the aisle ran black rosary beads
through her fingers and the man
in the window seat whispered
Who will sit shiva for me?
In the middle of that, in the middle
of all of that, I did not whisper
or pray or knock. I just thought
about what I had to lose.
I paid attention to what we all
had to lose, and it was a lot.
.
Now, here’s where you can read the others.
And we’ve been joined by a new poet — Sara’s daughter Rebecca!
Yay for the passing on of poetry!
Sara
Rebecca
Tricia
Kelly
Tanita
Andi
Laura
And Tabatha Yeatts is hosting Poetry Friday over at The Opposite of Indifference. Enjoy!
” I did not whisper
or pray or knock. I just thought
about what I had to lose.”
OH. Yes. We do that. We could call it praying, or knocking or an unheard whisper, but we make that list….of it all….of all that.
(Also, if I have to endure turbulence, I’m totally telling my seatmates it’s only “rattling the silverware.”)
I love this thought — that really the praying and knocking and whispering and list making are all the same thing….
I love that “rattling the silverware drawer” line too! And also the rosary beads and whispered fear. You’ve given us that moment, reminding us to think of what we have to lose. Beautifully done!
Rosary beads are such endowed objects, aren’t they?
“I paid attention” is the highest compliment to a life one can give. I like that ending you chose.
I think so, too. I hope to be evermore attentive in my life….
This made my stomach clench up just reading it, Liz. I’m a nervous flyer anyway! Choosing to stay in the here and now, in this life and all that you love in it, feels like just the right impulse in that situation. I love the silverware drawer and rosary beads. And I’m emotionally exhausted. Well done!
I’m sorry to put you through that!
All of flying is a minor miracle to me, but especially those times when the plane flies through turbulence. We have everything to lose and yet we climb aboard as if it can never happen to us. You chose a powerful moment!
It is! It is! Sometimes when I’m up there I think, “You have GOT to be kidding me!”
I’ve had far too many bumpy flights, so this poem strikes a chord with me. The line that guts me is “Who will sit shiva for me?” I often wonder who will dispose of all my stuff, but I try awfully hard not to think about who will be left to mourn.
Thanks for this poem. After reading it I’ll never think of knocking on wood or flying in the same way.
Yes, I often wish I’d burned my old journals!
I like the momentum you have there in the middle of the poem, and the way you slow it down to be grateful. (Like Tricia, I was struck by the man who worries “Who will sit shiva for me?” Such a very human, revealing question.)
I wish I could say I changed the pacing on purpose!
If we are in such a moment, you’ve made me wonder what would I do, or say? Is ‘knock on wood’ as that person said? You’ve written the moment that makes us all tremble, a “what if?” that’s not easy to imagine. “Like a silverware drawer” is brilliant to me, yes, like that.
It’s true — we really don’t know what we’d do in moments of panic or crisis, do we?
You Poetry Sisters always knock my socks off, but this month with Marilyn Nelson at your backs, you’re going straight to spoons in my silverware drawer. This poem is a soundscape of terror with an un- happy ending
Marilyn Nelson sets a wildly high bar!
Your poem was “a lot” and said “a lot,” with such a powerful shift from the first stanza into the second where you carry us in fear almost to the end–then stir us with paying “attention to what we all
had to lose,” that’s where my head would be too,
Just wow. I am going to read Nelson’s poem. Sounds like a really great mentor text.
You created a different kind of hold-your-breath moment, Liz — so much praying-knocking-whispering-list-making humanity here.