IT'S WEDNESDAY, AND THIS IS WHAT I KNOW

 

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It’s Wednesday, and we gather here to share what life is like in our corner of the world. A poem doesn’t always have to be breathtaking, or amazing, though it is lovely when that happens. Those of us who write frequently might give ourselves a break on days when we simply show up, start tapping the keys, and see what happens. I am often surprised by the result.

Since 2020, Mary and I have been following Laurie Wagner’s Wild Writing practice – we wrote our way through covid following Laurie’s guidance to simply face the blank page and tell the truth. Laurie says, “It starts on the page and becomes a way into your life.” She says to just write whatever comes, what is happening right now.  What do you want to remember? Other thoughts arrive. Welcome them. Write them down.

This approach works for me on days when I don’t have a single bit of inspiration. One of her favourite starting lines is: It’s Wednesday, and This Is What I Know. It can be any day, but today is Wednesday. What’s going on in your house, in your town, in this big world? 

You need not use the prompt line in your poem. It is just a jumping off point. Write whatever comes up for you.

In the inspiration poems below, there is a line I love: “How is your life? I want to ask.”

How is your life today on Planet Earth? Tell us about it. Link your poem, and visit your fellow poets. It's nice to check back, as some poets link later in the week. I am looking forward to hearing about your day/life/thoughts!

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Today, When I Could Do Nothing

Today, when I could do nothing,
I saved an ant.

It must have come in with the morning paper,
still being delivered
to those who shelter in place.

A morning paper is still an essential service.

I am not an essential service.

I have coffee and books,
time,
a garden,
silence enough to fill cisterns.

It must have first walked
the morning paper, as if loosened ink
taking the shape of an ant.

Then across the laptop computer — warm —
then onto the back of a cushion.

Small black ant, alone,
crossing a navy cushion,
moving steadily because that is what it could do.

Set outside in the sun,
it could not have found again its nest.
What then did I save?

It did not move as if it was frightened,
even while walking my hand,
which moved it through swiftness and air.

Ant, alone, without companions,
whose ant-heart I could not fathom —
how is your life, I wanted to ask.

I lifted it, took it outside.

This first day when I could do nothing,
contribute nothing
beyond staying distant from my own kind,
I did this.

by Jane Hirschfield

Here is another:

YOU READING THIS, BE READY

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life –

What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

by William Stafford