tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53887584651565244722024-02-20T17:57:21.705-08:00Edith Hope BishopWriter, Teacher based in Seattle, WashingtonEdith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.comBlogger115125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-19821332692323936422023-10-07T16:21:00.000-07:002023-10-07T16:21:10.714-07:00Phoebe - One Year<div class="Ar Au Ao" id=":42c"><div aria-controls=":45i" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":45i" class="Am Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" g_editable="true" hidefocus="true" id=":428" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 327px;" tabindex="1"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">A year ago today I lost one of the greatest loves of my life.
Phoebe Search was bright, hilarious, deeply sensitive, and stubbornly joyful.
She loved to sing at the top of her lungs, preferably for an audience. She
loved adventure and mischief and philosophy and psychology and pop culture and
garbage TV and smut. God, she loved smut. In delightful contrast, she was her
best around children, and loved all of them, including her own, with the special
ferocity of a mother who cherishes every fart and runny nose. She wanted
nothing more than to shelter and protect their innocence from all the hardest
parts of life. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">She’d seen more than her fair share. She knew loss and rejection
and horrors I wish no soul ever had to endure. People she loved sometimes brutally
hurt her. Physical and mental anguish were familiar guests in her body. But she
was also a powerful force for survival and flourishing against the odds. She
survived all kinds of suffering to live and laugh and dress up for another night
on the town. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">It was so easy to adore her. People she barely knew sometimes
unabashedly loved her. She held sparkles and space for all kinds. She could
forgive and comfort and boost people in ways that still inspire me. She left
behind a huge village of fans and family and friends that miss her
tremendously. So many of us work to honor her legacy of love and joy.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">I could go on a long time about all of her accomplishments
and loves, but I’m going to keep this a bit more personal. I’m going to try to name,
more specifically, what I miss most about her. It’s simple, really: her easy laughter,
her sharp intelligence, and her love. I miss the reassurance she offered that I
was ever worthy of unconditional love. That even at my worst, I was precious to
her. Honestly, I told her shit that would curl your teeth. Dark thoughts.
Selfish needs. Twisted fantasies. We whined and bitched and gossiped and plotted
all sorts of awful crap together. And she never batted an eye. She joined me in
all of it and then we’d laugh or cry it all off and be free of it. I can’t tell
you the number of times I called her because my feelings had been hurt, only to
have her counter any insult with lavish praise and righteous rage on my behalf.
I did the same for her. She was on my side and I was on hers. And even when I
thought she was being an idiot, or knew I was, I could count on us to hold each
other through it. That’s rare. To be that free with someone without fear of
judgment. It’s a gift.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">Doubts creep in now that she’s gone. If she knew how I
really and truly thought or acted back then, or now, would she still love me?
Am I doing enough to honor her memory? Did I do enough to save or help or
shelter her while she was still here? Did I disappoint her? Could she ever have
possibly known how much I loved her? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">I’m trying to trust that she’s with me, a year later. That
she always will be. I’m trying to believe that it was all real and that every
moment with her is emblazoned on my being. I’m trying to feel her love. But I’d
be lying if I said it comes easy. It doesn’t. I miss her. I want the
reassurance. I want her hand in mine and her voice telling me to shut up and
sit down so she can lecture me on love. I want to trust that we did the best we
could and that our love lives on. Most of the time, I just ache when I think of
her. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">But I do know one thing for certain, and that seems to be a
kind of reassurance of its own: I’d do it all again. The best and worst and
everything in between. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. </p></div></div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-53979314701166182902023-04-27T20:41:00.006-07:002023-04-27T20:41:49.736-07:00By CandlePoem 27. This one is from 20 years ago when we lived in New York City. Sending you love and candlelight.<br /><br /><div>Untitled<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, April 2003 <br /><br /></div><div>one candle in a city apartment<br />after the turn of the twenty-first century<br />before dark even<br />before he gets home<br />one tiny ancient flame<br />saying / believe in this<br />and there is such a thing as history<br />and a promise<br />you can feel it/</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-67972766959281718702023-04-26T20:33:00.001-07:002023-04-27T20:33:50.058-07:00Looking GlassPoem 26. Nearly finished now. <br /><br />Looking Glass<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, April 2015<div><br />Imagine this poem<br />written backwards on glass<br />and you standing near,<br />reading it slowly,<br />reordering the letters<br />almost unconsciously<br />to find meaning<br />mingled with image.<br />That could be <br />the way of things. <br />Made to shatter<br />or wash clean <br />in spring rain.<br />Offering what<br />you knew was there<br />and more.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-61653752638748167752023-04-25T20:30:00.001-07:002023-04-27T20:31:57.805-07:00A ListDay 25. Today's poem is just a list, but it's a list of DELIGHTS. <br /><br />By Edith Hope Bishop, April 2023<br /><br /><div>A warm cup of chamomile tea with honey.<br />Butt-dialing a friend and getting to hear their surprise and delight when you explain. <br />Cats.<br />Dogs.<br />Extra time when on a tight deadline. <br />Friends who somehow know what to say and say it. <br />Grape skittles.<br />Heated blankets and cocoas after walking home in the rain.<br />Interesting and readable short essays on bizarre science facts.<br />Just breathing.<br />Kindnesses you weren’t expecting: a letter from a distant friend, a stranger’s compliment, a pre-paid toll or coffee, a door held open. <br />Love. All of it. <br />Music that makes you feel like dancing.<br />Nights like tonight.<br />Opening presents.<br />Playing instruments.<br />Quiet mornings after busy adventures.<br />Rainbows.<br />Stories for all occasions, but especially those that need courage.<br />Telling someone exactly why you love them and knowing they heard (and believed!) you.<br />Uncovering the answer to something you’ve been puzzling over for days.<br />Very flattering outfits. <br />Watering all the plants.<br />Xtra legroom on a long flight.<br />Your favorite place to sit and watch the rain. <br />Zillions more moments and details, all yours.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-72215632947239715132023-04-24T21:35:00.003-07:002023-04-24T21:35:33.291-07:00YoursPoem 24. XO.<br /><br /><div>Yours<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, December 2019</div><div><br />I would be a poet<br />if you’d have me.<br />I would be your poet.<br />If you discovered, for example, <br />on your way out,<br />that you’d lost a word-<br />fallen from your pocket<br />slipped from your grasp-<br />I’d stitch you a new one.<br />Handing it to you-<br />I’d let my touch linger-<br />let our eyes meet-<br />and that night, while you slept,<br />I’d write you again<br />in soft December sun<br />and every blue the sea knows<br />and come morning<br />you’d have me again-<br />slipped under your door-<br />an unsealed envelope.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-72609772081419159092023-04-24T21:34:00.005-07:002023-04-24T21:34:56.707-07:00The Realist's PleaPoem 23. Just one week left. Gentle reminder that I love your poetic responses (but I also just love you). Here, have a sonnet:<div><br />The Realist’s Plea<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, November 2015</div><div><br />I think no godly basket will collect,<br />the souls we’ve dared to cultivate.</div><div><br />Nor will some cosmic lottery select,<br />which spirits live and join the greats.</div><div><br />I can’t see us returned as trees,<br />nor soldiers brave, nor kindly priests.</div><div><br />Though some profess eternity,<br />it seems to me that all will cease.</div><div><br />What was whole will fall apart.<br />What was real will scatter.</div><div><br />Though we love with all our hearts,<br />None of this will matter.</div><div> <br />Yet there is Peace in time’s demise,<br />And Peace in life, if we be wise.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-31756548421447500202023-04-22T20:28:00.005-07:002023-04-22T20:28:49.634-07:00RefugeApril 22. Earth Day. Here's a poem I wrote about loving the earth and all my sisters (including trans, nonbinary, and queer people) in spite of humanity and the patriarchy.<div> <br />I wrote this poem after election day in 2016. It was later published in the Sirens Benefit Anthology in 2021 titled Villains and Vengeance (still available for $5 on Amazon). I had almost forgotten about it when my dear friend, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/sarah.mack.982?__cft__[0]=AZWp4Nlyb7GKsBrHCnSY60HtFl0whzaCY4GL434Gg12Z_mrftsf7wGYJnqCTBcH6feKWbTJ2bLdHxNGtGzbZyVazjZZoAMHCucuh8dQwPfaZfw&__tn__=-]K-R">Sarah Mack</a>, sent me a kind message after rereading it recently. Her message meant so much to me that it prompted me to start sharing poetry again this month. Thank you, Sarah.</div><div> <br />Happy Earth Day to all.</div><div> <br />Refuge<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, November 2016</div><div><br />Maybe we don’t fight the good fight.<br />We try another route.<br />First, we let the house plants die<br />forget to shut the screen door<br />come home late<br />that sort of thing.<br />Leave them uneasy<br />and off-kilter<br />unsure why there isn’t sugar<br />in the jar or<br />wondering whatever<br />happened to the cat.<br />Then quietly<br />while the game is on<br />we grab our boots<br />our babies<br />the bags we packed<br />several centuries ago<br />and we slip out.<br />We take the boats.<br />Pushing off in the dead of a December night<br />we’ll float away, like Glinda<br />or space dust<br />or something they haven’t named yet.<br />But listen, let’s just sink the yachts<br />right away<br />run them to ruin on the rocks.<br />They won’t be needed<br />and we can all agree<br />they’re ridiculous anyway.<br />It’s the smaller vessels<br />we’ll steer<br />to the secret places<br />we’ve been mapping<br />while they thought we were<br />napping, or preening,<br />or paying rapt attention<br />to some awards show<br />or comic franchise.<br />They won’t follow right away. Not for a while.<br />They’ll have to organize, and find their socks,<br />call in sick, make their excuses.<br />That will give us time.<br />And we’ll need time<br />to find cover<br />in the swamps<br />where, naturally, we belong.<br />The difficult, unworkable<br />wastes ruled by no one but reptiles.<br />Too hot, too humid,<br />where plants blister and bite.<br />Where every step is reflected in dark water<br />and no trace will ever be found.<br />Sawgrass and cypress will hide us.<br />Mud will coat our skins and hair.<br />Our children will shake with fear<br />but we’ll comfort them with song.<br />And at night, when we’ve put the youngest to bed,<br />under palmetto canopies<br />their bellies full of fish<br />we’ll hardly believe what we’ve done.<br />That we managed it at last.<br />The truth will glow in each hardened face,<br />each knot and braid,<br />each bond we made,<br />and when they come for us,<br />as they inevitably will,<br />it will be too late.<br />We’ll already have remembered<br />the lives they took<br />and still singing <br />in all that air<br />we’ll twist our bodies<br />in a dance like grief<br />and open time.<br />The winds will come.<br />The dead.<br />All the lost, all the taken.<br />Lightening and hail and the great waves of old.<br />The creatures, who were never theirs,<br />of fin, of wing, of scale and tooth,<br />will come.<br />They’ll help us collect<br />the stones and sticks,<br />the mud and branches<br />we’ll use to build our home.<br />We’ll have a home.<br />Do you hear me?<br />An impenetrable,<br />unceasing,<br />constant shelter<br />that is only ours.<br />Let them waste their lives<br />searching for us in the swamps.<br />Let them loose their planes, their toys,<br />their guns, their tempers in the rain.<br />We dine on oysters and wild oranges.<br />Our children grow in grace.<br />We never wear shoes.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-62096392100574324522023-04-22T20:27:00.006-07:002023-04-22T20:27:59.397-07:00The EndI missed Poem 21. There was a lot going on.<br />But here's a recent first draft. I'm pretty sure I'll revise this one, but there might be some potential here.<div> <br />The End<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, April 2023</div><div><br />Does love end<br />or does it dull<br />disperse<br />descend<br />falling quiet<br />as April rain<br />on rooftops<br />in the city<br />where No One<br />stands<br />to feel it<br />on her face<br />and hands<br />and bare arms -<br />Does love end <br />or does it morph<br />into something<br />like recognition<br />or respect<br />without the <br />kissing<br />without hands <br />nesting together<br />and the warmth - <br />Does love end <br />or is it misunderstood<br />as something that <br />could ever have<br />a beginning or an end -<br />Can it exist outside<br />of our temporal containers<br />and instead <br />be something we feel<br />not felt<br />not yearned to feel<br />something here -<br />just here.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-25571772223383699362023-04-20T20:26:00.001-07:002023-04-22T20:27:11.206-07:00LegacyDay 20, poem 20. Love to all of you, always. Do I say that enough? I should. <br /><br /><div>Legacy<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, May 2017</div><div><br /></div><div>Let my legacy <br />be the wind<br />combing shoreline grass<br />near tumbled rocks<br />alive with orange blooms<br />and darkest blue.<br />Shells and life<br />I never knew. <br /><br /></div><div>Let my legacy<br />be the crow’s back<br />a mystic green<br />among the black <br />as she rests<br />on speckled eggs<br />or when she cries<br />her clan down<br />from untouched height.<br /><br /></div><div>Let my legacy<br />lie below the sea.<br />A wild place left<br />unseen by any <br />but sly fish<br />and her kin<br />an unsung place<br />of coral and fin.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-82277012812299787952023-04-19T20:05:00.007-07:002023-04-19T20:05:45.649-07:00The Sea Hags Walk<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBAeM98WlcATGchG4AKQCGHQ_GK1FVgHhCLuMWWVzUnYxgkZOVDrcXshdwcA4EnVjOVYsjXIfzfhlTX2nlS0C9tsHqxsssziURmc3lxtLPk4PpxPm_63XYgZlYXCkIK3tFrmbIX735eVJtrRv0NMWHVjSqvkxJli0LPgKHTVNmn8oF5tfH7ocY9no/s4032/IMG_3288.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBAeM98WlcATGchG4AKQCGHQ_GK1FVgHhCLuMWWVzUnYxgkZOVDrcXshdwcA4EnVjOVYsjXIfzfhlTX2nlS0C9tsHqxsssziURmc3lxtLPk4PpxPm_63XYgZlYXCkIK3tFrmbIX735eVJtrRv0NMWHVjSqvkxJli0LPgKHTVNmn8oF5tfH7ocY9no/w480-h640/IMG_3288.heic" width="480" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Poem 19. <br /><br /><div>This one is a Terza Rima, which I think might be one of my favorite forms. It was first written in 2015 but has seen many revisions over the past 8 years and I'll just come out and say it: I love this one. (Probably no mystery why!)</div><div><br />The Sea Hags Walk<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, November 2015</div><div><br />Along this stretch of common shore<br />where seagulls laugh and kelp crabs pray,<br />we’ve walked a thousand times and more</div><div><br />and marveled at the cheerful play <br />of waves that toss us salted treasure,<br />tides that bear their gifts each day.</div><div><br />For whether shell or bone’s your pleasure,<br />or seaglass fine and smooth your taste,<br />there’s weed and wrack in equal measure,</div><div><br />and we find wealth where some see waste.<br />This china cup is broken, true,<br />but with a bit of earthen paste</div><div><br />we’ll patch it up to good as new<br />and fire the copper kettle hot,<br />to serve a bit of driftwood brew</div><div><br />and sit on piles of nets and knots,<br />and sift through all the stones we found, <br />and toys cast off by careless tots,</div><div><br />and silver keys, and sodden pounds<br />of plastic bags and fishing line, <br />and crinkled cans to kick around.</div><div> <br />And when our sorting’s done, we’ll dine<br />on clam and oyster seaweed stew<br />until we’re feeling fat and fine.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>We’ll walk again when supper’s through,<br />and search once more the old for new.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-60993967158589385652023-04-18T20:24:00.006-07:002023-04-18T20:24:49.904-07:00UntitledPoem 18. This one is from the depths of a no-good-very-bad year. I still can't quite believe it all happened the way it did.<div> <br />Untitled<br />By <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ehopeb?__cft__[0]=AZVXW7Gl22us9fscWAFEFDoCMCeXARejlAT698MtifK7Zi9LxwG-j79deoTrib7_rfDeex_4V3_i455UqM3ejyQaw1gdVPkZ8hV06M3L_6UUIQ&__tn__=-]K-R">Edith Hope Bishop</a>, October 2020</div><div><br />Daisy died of grief,<br />Rose of broken heart, <br />Violet died of sorrow,<br />Mum just fell apart.</div><div><br />Hellebore died at a natural age, <br />Iris from lack of rain, <br />Hollyhock perished of full neglect,<br />Poppy of mortal pain.</div><div><br />And though every bloom eventually fell,<br />all beauty gone to seed, <br />Forget Me Not stayed,<br />pressed here, on this page,<br />waiting, should we feel her need.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-76661549222653497042023-04-17T20:54:00.002-07:002023-04-17T20:54:26.059-07:00Current CrushApril 17 and poem #17. <br />I love personification. I just do. <br />Here's another recent first draft.<br />Love to all. Always.<div><br />Current Crush<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, April 2023</div><div><br />Peace won’t quit bugging me. <br />I’ve explained that I’d like her better<br />if she played hard to get -<br />I’m not that interested in <br />anyone too needy. <br />But Peace claims she isn’t needy; <br />she’s attentive.<br />And interested. <br />She’s into me and not ashamed of letting me know. <br />I’m flattered, I guess, <br />but how do I tell her I once had <br />a fling with Danger? <br />Would that kind of nonsense <br />put her off?<br />And would she still want me<br />once she got to know me-<br />you know, once she heard all my stories,<br />if she knew my real thoughts-<br />even the ones about longing?<br />Or what about my involvement with Despair?<br />I don’t know. <br />I don’t know. <br />I don’t always answer<br />when she calls. <br />I leave her on read sometimes<br />so as not to seem too excited.<br />But I still look for her when I’m out. <br />I still wonder what she’s up to when I’m home alone. <br />I still think of her, and only her, every time it rains.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-2884846500527102582023-04-17T20:53:00.001-07:002023-04-17T20:53:23.492-07:00School Teacher to Her StudentsDay 16 of National Poetry Month. <br /><br />Here's another one from November 2015. This one feels more true than ever. Much love to all my former students, but especially those reading this. <br /><br /><div>School Teacher to Her Students<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, November 2015<br /><br /></div><div>Now that you’re gone and I’m resigned,<br />I have a few things to say to you<br />that weren’t appropriate <br />when I stood in front of you <br />in an official capacity.<br />First of all: we are separated,<br />you and me, by much more than<br />age and life circumstances.<br />We are separated by the <br />assumption that I (once) had answers<br />and that you (in your youth) had questions.<br />This is false. <br />My experience<br />tells me that Adolescents <br />(as opposed to 4-year-olds) <br />have far fewer questions than <br />the Adults in their lives<br />would like them to have. <br />Young people do, however, <br />have Desires, Needs, and Fears.<br />Surely, if there was a question you would have asked naturally,<br />it was "When?".<br />No, I had most of the questions: <br />Won’t you save us?<br />Will you be careful with your sweet young body?<br />Could this matter to you?<br />Have you stopped to consider the moon?<br />Having asked them, <br />I’m less certain now. <br />With every year that passes, <br />there is less I know,<br />less I would pass on,<br />Except this, maybe:<br />A Poem.<br />The moon on a cloudless autumn night, <br />a sliver of honest light.<br /></div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-84770173669223294082023-04-16T20:31:00.000-07:002023-04-16T20:31:25.991-07:00A Pathetic Fallacy<br />Day 15 (Late). I'm afraid yesterday was a bit too intense a travel day for a post. But here I am, back in business. I'm remembering that in 2015 I spent all of November trying to write a new (to me) kind of poem each day. Some of the forms were *hard* but I truly enjoyed the challenge. Here was my attempt at an English sonnet. That said, I've newly added syllables to lines 9 & 11. They aren't important for meaning, but I like the rhythm better when it's read aloud. <br /><br /><div>p.s.<br />Fun tidbit: This isn't the only time I've written about a 'pathetic fallacy' In fact, I wrote an entire novel based on one. </div><div><br />A Pathetic Fallacy<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, November 2015</div><div><br />Today I climb the rocks that line the shore,<br />And gaze on waves that ask and ask for you,<br />I think on what was lost, our love and more,<br />The future we won’t share, the life we knew.<br />The seagulls wail but I am deaf to them, <br />The dark and swell and weed and gloom abound,<br />The wind picks up, as iron clouds descend,<br />Tides rise to meet the rush of grey rain’s sound.<br />Oh, but I know how pathetic this fallacy, <br />I know you may roll your skeptical eyes,<br />Just allow me this ruin, this brief blatancy,<br />Project what I will on these storm-struck skies.<br />My grief is gentler when the heavens cry.<br />And for all we know, I may comfort the sky.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-32451980918464101842023-04-14T22:42:00.003-07:002023-04-14T22:42:17.503-07:00LearningDay 14 of National Poetry Month. I'm certain I've never shared this much poetry before. It feels good, but also somehow sad - like letting go of a wild creature you've raised and loved, but eventually must set free.<div> <br />Learning<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, August 2017</div><div> <br />The forest’s leaves don’t ache<br />to be remembered and loved.<br />They know their place -<br />breathing always<br />the infinite and<br />temporary.<br /><br /></div><div>I would press one <br />in a book<br />but finding her<br />some distant day,<br />I’d forget her name,<br />and feel instead the sun <br />the afternoon we met.</div><div><br />Oh, help me be small.<br />Oh, let me be nothing to you.<br />A quiet flash of green <br />on your long walk.<p></p></div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-48683862347386336412023-04-13T23:28:00.001-07:002023-04-13T23:28:09.485-07:00On the Advent of Tea TimePoem number 13. We've been traveling for spring break and it's been absolutely wonderful, but now I'm a bit tired from all our adventures. And so...<div><br />On the Advent of Tea Time<div>By Edith Hope Bishop, November 2015</div><div><br />I’d like to say I disagree<br />With time restrictions on my tea<br />I’m for tea from dawn to night<br />And whenever else I think it right.</div></div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-68666080115061208402023-04-12T23:06:00.000-07:002023-04-12T23:06:00.614-07:00UntitledPoem 12. A reminder that you're invited to respond with your own poetry, but all responses are most welcome. <3<div><br />This poem happened around 30 minutes ago and is about today's hike in Maui. It's a first draft... but I'm hopeful.<br /><br />Untitled<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, April 2023<br /><br />Walking in a lava field in Maui<br />I happened on a flower -<br />lavender, star-shaped -<br />that once grew<br />on the banks of the canal <br />where I grew up in <br />South Florida. <br />I’ve since learned<br />this type of flower<br />originated in <br />Madagascar <br />and will grow well in <br />shade (the canal bank)<br />or full sun (the lava field).<br />It’s long-lived<br />and prefers coastal life.<br />Some call it a periwinkle<br />but that it isn’t its color at all.<br />It’s rather bright with a<br />magenta middle.<br />You might call it loud. <br />It's been called bright eyes<br />and the graveyard plant.<br />It's common, apparently,<br />can be invasive, <br />and is toxic to humans,<br />except that it also produces<br />two compounds <br />used to treat cancer.<br />So you see, this one flower<br />brought back both my <br />childhood and your ghost,<br />as all things do, <br />if I think long enough.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-34955510931370045792023-04-11T22:46:00.004-07:002023-04-11T22:46:51.452-07:00Without YouAnother day, another poem. Number 11. <br />Love to all.<br /><br /><div>Without You<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, November 2018<br /><br /></div><div>Don’t worry, Love, <br />I know how to lose.<br />It won’t be pretty<br />but I will proceed<br />relentless<br />as each season-<br />At first I’ll let my<br />thoughts of you drop<br />from the trees<br />settling delicate <br />on the forest floor<br />and underfoot<br />I will, when frost <br />scrawls the future<br />revise my memory<br />striking out your part<br />in all this<br />as snowdrops <br />push upward<br />I’ll blanket myself<br />with phrases erased<br />each new leaf<br />will remind me<br />of a time we might<br />have kissed<br />but stepped sideways<br />and when sun <br />threatens to melt<br />my very breath<br />I’ll lie awake <br />drenched<br />alive in the <br />death of us.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-180242941885448312023-04-11T00:29:00.000-07:002023-04-11T00:29:00.297-07:00UntitledDay 10. Poem 10. 💙<br /><br />Untitled<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, Dec 2016<br /><br />On writing poems<br />in the cracks of time<br />I would advise<br />not waiting til <br />the pot boils<br />a snow day <br />the mail comes<br />& you heal fully.<br />If I know anything <br />of words<br />I know they,<br />like any true love,<br />rarely come<br />when called.Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-31363315617467553022023-04-09T23:15:00.004-07:002023-04-09T23:15:32.537-07:00Silence9th day of National Poetry Month. You're invited to respond with a poem of your own, or perhaps some lines you like. But even if you don't respond at all, I'll still adore you.<div> <br />Silence<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, May 2019</div><div><br />Silence, <br />I’m told,<br />is fertile ground.<br />What can I plant<br />there?<br />A word <br />to grow<br />between us.<br />A phrase<br />unfurling.<br />I would kiss you<br />in the shade of<br />that tree.<br />I would.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-32211364339170648482023-04-08T19:55:00.002-07:002023-04-08T19:55:35.672-07:00UtterancePoem number 8 for National Poetry Month and a reminder that you're invited to respond with lines of your own or a piece you love. (Though all responses are welcome!) xo<div><br />Utterance<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, December 2019</div><div><br />I’ll be the word you want.<br />In that moment of loss<br />when you’re certain there’s a term-<br />an expression-<br />for the idea-<br />the precise concept<br />you’re grappling with<br />yet failing to hold<br />but somehow sensing<br />a peripheral wisdom<br />you know the one.<br />Somehow its <br />slipped away-<br />escaped through <br />a hole in your pocket<br />a leak somewhere<br />just there<br />in the shadows<br />elusive as youth<br />and the sweet bliss<br />of first love<br />that word<br />that’s the one. <br />Let it be me<br />my name <br />that you finally find<br />and speak<br />and the sweet relief thereafter<br />the assurance that<br />you had me all along.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-2106147704625648542023-04-07T19:59:00.002-07:002023-04-07T19:59:32.195-07:00School Lessons on Loss7th poem for National Poetry Month. This one is harder for me to part with. I've kept it close for almost 8 years now. But it's time. I'm dedicating this villanelle to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/racollard?__cft__[0]=AZUTRKitKhEerfLwKZltBKehGuzGqmaNiIbF09kGzOrsVXSEngGxDpDrtkkQySTvk9pM5qZfyDs-0TS7VCKS72xGW-Hqbx5j3d58ztxI_go7IWectQOIUN6tUF_V-LjZWDLSc1rYZLOA-gXRT7PruBoE&__tn__=-]K-R">Rita A. Collard</a>, my beloved elementary school teacher, who continues to teach me so much about life, laughter, loss, and above all, love. I love you, Mrs. Collard.<div><br />P.s.<br />I've so loved reading the poetry folks have gifted in response this week (mostly on FB). Please keep doing so. I've also loved seeing you responding to each other in my comments. Thank you so much.</div><div> <br />School Lessons on Loss<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, Nov 2015<br /> Dedicated to Rita Collard</div><div><br />In autumn falls the gold and brown.<br />Wise Gingko and Brave Oak in turn<br />wither as the wheel goes round.</div><div><br />Children: do not fret or frown<br />to see Fair Maple blush and burn<br />though autumn falls the gold and brown</div><div><br />and silver rains with gentle sound.<br />Good Elm is well, this truth you’ll learn<br />though she fades as wheel goes round.</div><div><br />Summer’s death feeds fertile ground,<br />Stout Mushroom sprouts near Fancy Fern,<br />as autumn falls the gold and brown.</div><div><br />New life and warmth will soon be found.<br />Sweet Cherry needs no great concern<br />though she weeps as wheel goes round.</div><div><br />Children, dance and play and sing,<br />let games enact our earthly ring<br /> be unconcerned we all fall down<br />though Autumn sheds her gold and brown<br />we too must make the wheel go round.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-55363693869021772862023-04-06T14:57:00.001-07:002023-04-06T14:57:09.716-07:00To the Land-Locked Mermaid6th poem for National Poetry Month.<br />And a continued invitation to respond with lines of your own, or a piece you love. (But all responses are welcome!)<br /><br />To the Land-Locked Mermaid<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, Jan 2016<br /><br />Don’t be afraid to swim through grass,<br />bathe in dark soil,<br />comb your hair with pinecones,<br />rouge your lips with berry.<br />You can still lounge on rocks<br />and stare longingly at land,<br />those mountains in the distance.<br />If you feel lonely, sing to the farmer, <br />seduce the woodcutter.<br />They're almost as winsome as sailors.<br />Collect feathers for your hair, <br />or dandelions.<br />If you miss your sisters, <br />send them seeds on a summer wind.<br />And if your scales happen to dry out, <br />(this is likely),<br />wander free in heavy rain.<br />Let your spirit transform again.<br />In mud be reborn,<div>in earth, your self. </div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-20238413416651564622023-04-05T20:37:00.000-07:002023-04-05T20:37:07.848-07:00Natural Events<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkoLqONCdISN_W6d6kl5aNAeBQnfIe-vD2y1kcIEP4zFqseuqjzt2wHK5bQXOZ26MGEPaaDJSHKAFPAIYnEUHfZ1Y86h1h_4B3dRrxCmfxovJAKpe2JHwsJOEyS9k0zTBEwZLDv360M0WJ8_4X7JplE9aLGYSNl8POGa1z-u3GAlpbQ0yD_KGv9mvv/s2260/IMG_3198.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2260" data-original-width="2259" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkoLqONCdISN_W6d6kl5aNAeBQnfIe-vD2y1kcIEP4zFqseuqjzt2wHK5bQXOZ26MGEPaaDJSHKAFPAIYnEUHfZ1Y86h1h_4B3dRrxCmfxovJAKpe2JHwsJOEyS9k0zTBEwZLDv360M0WJ8_4X7JplE9aLGYSNl8POGa1z-u3GAlpbQ0yD_KGv9mvv/w640-h640/IMG_3198.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">5th poem for National Poetry Month.</div><div><div>And a continued invitation to respond with your own lines or a piece you like. <img src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/t6a/1/16/1f497.png" /><br /><br />P.s.<br />Today's poem is a draft. I can't really know if I like a poem until I've left it alone for a while and returned to it. But the events in this poem are true, and happened today, so I thought I'd share it anyway. xo<br /><br /><br />Natural Events<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, Apr 2023<br /><br />The full moon rose<br />almost two hours ago<br />or so they say.<br />Earlier, I caught a falling cherry blossom.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I didn’t mean to.</div><div style="text-align: left;">It just landed in my hand</div><div style="text-align: left;">on its way down</div><div style="text-align: left;">and I held it for a while</div><div style="text-align: left;">unsure of what to do</div><div style="text-align: left;">or what it meant.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I told a friend,</div><div style="text-align: left;">“Look, I caught a blossom,”</div><div style="text-align: left;">so she caught one too,</div><div style="text-align: left;">and so did her friend,</div><div style="text-align: left;">and so on.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I dropped my blossom to watch it float</div><div style="text-align: left;">and land face down on the lawn.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Then this one lady tried to catch</div><div style="text-align: left;">her own flower,</div><div style="text-align: left;">but they quit falling.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Completely.</div><div style="text-align: left;">She just stood there,</div><div style="text-align: left;">empty-handed.</div><div style="text-align: left;">The full moon rose</div><div style="text-align: left;">about two hours ago</div><div style="text-align: left;">but I’m still upset.</div><div style="text-align: left;">The trees should have been more generous.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I should have given her my flower.</div><div style="text-align: left;">A moon in the sky</div><div style="text-align: left;">isn’t the same as a blossom in the hand.</div></div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5388758465156524472.post-12010086417540522902023-04-04T17:24:00.000-07:002023-04-04T17:24:17.010-07:00For Virginia Woolf4th day of National Poetry Month.<br />Gentle invitation to respond with your own poetry or lines you've loved.<br /><br /><div>For Virginia Woolf<br />By Edith Hope Bishop, March 2015</div><div><br />Art falls from the shelf,<br />cracking here on the floor,<br />a thing unmade and broken.<br />Trash, tragedy, or both.</div><div><br />Let’s eat instead,<br />chewing paint and clay,<br />sweeping fingertips across the floorboards<br />to catch the crumbs. <br />You swallow song,<br />while I lick words from dust.<br />What’s lost may nourish<br />what’s left to say.</div>Edith Hope Bishophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07120552493525238359noreply@blogger.com0