2016 Found Object Poem Project: Day 1
Welcome to Day 1 of our 2016 daily write-in! This year's theme is FOUND OBJECTS. We have a new writing prompt for every day in February.The object of this project is to turn off our inner critics, play with a daily writing practice, and share the results in a community setting.For those of you who are new to the project, please read my introductory post. You'll find more information and all of the Week 1 FOUND OBJECTS at this post. At the end of the month, I'll have prizes for the most frequent contributors. However, there's no obligation to write every day. Drop in as often as you like.Ready? Let's get started!
Found: One hundred year-old mailing box.I purposely left out information about the objects when I posted the prompts. Think of it as a Freedom from Information Act, a way of giving us more space to think, imagine, and play.Now that our poems are in, let's find out more about today's FOUND OBJECT. It was contributed by Robyn Hood Black, who says, "Here is something I found (& bought) in an antique store a while back, and I keep in my studio - just because I love it. It's a little wooden box that was used to mail something! Over 100 years old."Diane Mayr, who blogs at Random Noodling, sent in this poem. I'm a big fan of portrait poems and I love the way Diane creates a character, and hints at her back-story, in this poem.The Truth of the MatterI was afraid to openthat wooden boxaddressed to me inan unknown hand.It came by morning poston a Tuesday in April.Its contents shiftingand rustling. Tellingme of a fallen soldier'seffects? Or of thesweet-bitter savorof lemon cream taffysent to quicken myblood in anticipationof his homecoming kiss?© Diane MayrI tried the whole box/fox/socks angle, but something else wanted to escape from the wooden box and my imagination took over.Postmark: Valley of the Kingsby Laura ShovanWhat's in the box?An ancient breathcaptured, savedat Pharaoh's death.What's in the box?A long-lost cursein hieroglyphicpicto-verse.What's in the box?I hear creaking.Are those mummyfingers sneaking?What's in the box?I'm curious, butperhaps I'd betterleave it shut.Jessica Bigi took the call for sensory images to heart. Check out all of the tactile, visual, and scent images in this poem.Box Of MemoriesBy Jessica BigiSimply a boxStained from teaGinger, nutmegScented cherry woodA splintered craftof Grandfather’s handsWho we’ve never metMomma’s tearful voiceSaying take only this boxSome jam and breadLetters I’ve written youSmall carved horses thatGrandfather madeMint tea, some salted brothPictures of Momma and meMy tearful voice sayingMomma please go tooTake this box dear girlOnly one can go so I must stayI'm too young to understandSailed that rain soaked shipWhich smelled of salty grimeMy box of precious memoriesI brought to share withAn aunt I’ve never meanther land, my new home, my new lifeeating bread with jamwe opened my boxand wiped tears from our eyesOh, child how I miss your motherYou have her beautiful eyesI smiled and hugged my auntYou have Momma's hugs andBeautiful heart, I told herHere is another box poem that tells a story. I like the way Mary Lee Hahn uses the contents of the box to represent a moment between the past and the future. The object inside takes on an extra layer of meaning.The Box I Keep at the Back of My Dresser DrawerI rememberwhen he sent the new watchI’d had my eye on.He was thoughtful that way.The postman handed me this wooden boxwith the address writtenin his confident handwriting.Written before the accident,when a whole different future lay before us.©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016When I'm working with writers, one of my favorite exercises is to look at an object or work of art and write down all the details of what we can see first. Then, using facts as a diving board, we splash around in our imaginations. Molly Hogan pays careful attention to the details of our found object in this poem.Wooden BoxBy Molly HoganCapable handsheld the potential ofraw, green wood,inspired,rejecting spoon, platter,a plethora of options,crafted a secret-holder,a box for treasures,dovetailing cornersfitting the lid preciselysanding smooth the sliversand splinters,adhering paperwith written wordswhispering on wooda destinationthat has faded into memorywith the accumulatingpatina of time.Inside the boxechoes of those handsand unknown treasures,past and present,breathe,stirring dusty moleculesand memories.You can also check out Molly's blog post with her poem here.One of people who has participated in this project every year is Linda Baie of Teacher Dance. Her poem is tied to a specific time in history.In My Attic GraveyardNot so romantic anymore.this dusty box on the attic floorwhere mice have had a meal or three.Something’s gnawed on the corner – See!Mildew’s set in, the smell has set;perhaps some days in the sun will getthe box back to its sweet wood smell,the better ready to show it well.Mister E.N. Chisholm of Lycoming Countyreceived and paid dear for this precious bounty:the final effects of his fallen friend,perished among trees of far Ardennes.Linda Baie ©All Rights ReservedSome of you may have noticed the corners of the wooden box, which reveal that -- rather than nails -- the maker used a dovetail joint to fit the sides together. Margaret Simon (Reflections on the Teche) opens her poem with that detail.BoxBy Margaret SimonTongue in groove he tells meis how they used to do it,before nailsbefore cardboard and glue.This old boxtraveled over milessnow-covered hills,through the mountains, perhaps.I slide the woodacross groovesbreathe pine, spicy pipe tobacco,remember my grandfather’sstories of the railroad,how steam would rise abovehouses and whistlehis way home.One more poetry box to open, friends. Here is Matt Forrest Esenwine's contribution. I like the way he incorporated writing from the mailing label into the poem.Dear Mr. ChisolmYour package awaits; look,this brown wooden boxworn from years of hard weatherand thick, heavy hands stillexhibits your name as it layhere in Leolyn,down by the creekdeep in Lycoming’s lands.– © 2016, Matt Forrest EsenwineLATE ARRIVALSI'm so pleased that Poetry Friday blogger Catherine Flynn is writing alongside us and also writing about the process at her blog, Reading to the Core.
Nested withinthe musty confines ofthis worn pine box,rubbed smoothfrom years of use,a cache of pencilswait in silence.
Inside their graphitefilaments,a cacophony of words,some sweet, some sour,are poised,eager to escape.
© Catherine Flynn, 2016
Jone MacCulloch is also blogging about the project at her blog Deowriter. The box reminded Jone of a true and very sad story about her aunt.
Her frail handshanded me the box.Take it, she said,don’t look inside.Burn it.Fingers crossed,I promisedto spark a matchand watch the flameswhenthe new moontipped like a bowlhung low in the sky.She crossed overpulledby the tide of life.The boxrests on the mantel.Its secretstug until I mustopen it likePandora.And when I do?It’s a letter fromthe war.She’d have to returnher wedding dress.He was not returning.© 2016 Jone Rush MacCulloch all rights reservedBrenda Harsham at FriendlyFairyTales.Com was as intrigued by the box as the rest of us were.Don’t LookBy Brenda David HarshamDad said don’t look in the box.He stared me down.My eye dropped to his bootsas if weighted by sinkers.“Okay,” I mumbled.“Promise me.”My eye flickered up, andhis brown eyes held me fast.“Promise,” he repeated.“I promise.”I kicked a rock clear upthe blue-back mountain.I listened hard for turkeys.I wound around dusty paths.I hunted ginseng,but I found nothing but weeds.Every step I took,I remembered that plain-looking box.That box looked as boring as boots.That infernal box, that magical,crazy-making box!I got to remembering the boxand not the promise.I ate my chicken and dumplings,swimming and dunking in gravy.I scooped up my peasand held my nose closed.I could still taste them.I gobbled them quick as cake,my face making the death grimace.I washed away the pea flavor withmy last biscuit, saved upfor just that moment.My mama eyed my plateand gave a nod, rememberingthe other times.Peas hidden in my napkin.Peas dropped for the dog.Peas smuggled to Henry.These peas are tiny lumpsof poison in my bellybut the biscuit covers them.I lay down alongside Henry, butas far away as I can manage.He stank of coal dust fromhis new job in the mines.Mama was so proud of her eldest.Is that where I’m headed?I remember the boxand wonder. And wish.I sneak downstairs, easing along the wall,where the boards don’t squeak,until I’m standing over it.My hand’s ready to lift.I hold my breath, as if without breathing,it’s not really me doing the lifting.I close my eyes.I lift the cover.Is it jewels? Grandpappy’s watch?Turkish Delight? Cocoa beans?I open my eyes.It’s dark and I can’t be sure.I light a candle, hoping papadoesn’t hear the scratch.It’s empty. Not even a speck of dust.Empty.“That’s right, Andie.”I drop the lid down and spin around.Now I remember my promise.My dad’s bare feet poke from underhis flannel robe.“I’m sorry, Daddy.”“Andie, it’s as empty as broken promises.Only when you keep your worddo you find treasure.”Daddy turned his back on me.I was left with a guttering candle.And a feeling in my belly likethe taste of peas.***Charles Waters of the blog Poetry Time has been a project regular over the last few years. I'm glad to see him back with us!WOODEN BOXDad’s chipped, faded, stained wooden boxcontained love letters written to Mom when they firstmet at summer camp. Each piece of paper smelledlike mothballs and cologne. In his slanted cursivehe called Mom, dewdrop, best friend, partner for life,the same words he still uses to describe her today.These treasures show how our family came to be,these stacks of paper represent how I became me.(c) Charles Waters 2016 all rights reserved.***I’ve been corresponding with my friend Joanne Polner, a photographer and mother of one of my best high school friends. Joanne read all of our poems about the antique box on Day 1 and wrote this response poem for us! I’m sharing it here, with her permission.The Box PoemsI’ve got the chillsFrom the secretslet out to breatheI turn from poemto poem and feelthe feather ofinspiration—the kind that makesyou hold yourbreath.Is it lifeor death?or the spiritof so many soulsreleased intoour world?My rapid heart makesmy face blush;The tipsof my fingersare coldas I slide thepagesback underthe coverofthe box.— Joanne R. PolnerJoanne also sent us a note about the poem. “You see that I have transformed the concept of the individual poems of your contributors into a collection kept hidden ‘lo these many years.’ Truly, I felt those varying emotions that I wrote about. Praises for your contributors!”Reading Joanne’s poetic response to our work filled me with joy. This is what doing a community writing project is all about, expanding our community and inviting people to join us as readers and writers.***Donna Smith's poem incorporates the mailing label on the box into the poem.Dear Mr. Chisholm,I am sending you this giftBefore you leave, of inks and pens,So you will write as well as siftPlease consider as you goJournaling your travel story.Although in the presentYou may not feel the glory,You know full wellIt can’t be deniedThis is a bold moveFor you have defiedAll the well-intentioned friends,As you set your mind to cross this landTo seek the golden shoresAnd sift the rivers’ sand.So tell the tale of leaving home,Write in days that come tomorrowFor the young who later want to followAnd from your strength may they borrow;Record the ways and all the deedsLet them know your undaunted spirit;Write it now, while you remember,Write it all, so they will hear it.Your friend,who wishes he were Alaska-bound, tooBy Donna Smith of Mainely Write***I like the way that Carol Varsalona's poem imagines a very specific object inside the box.
I'll continue to post responses to FOUND OBJECT 1 as they come in.See you tomorrow for Day 2.