You are the moonflower and the moth

During the past year I've enjoyed co-facilitating a poetry discussion and writing series at the retirement community where I work, together with Karen Sheriff LeVan, Professor of English at Hesston College. We've entitled this series Words & More, and our primary intention is to use poetry to invite reflections on aging and identity.

Each installment of Words & More has two sessions, one week apart. In the first session we introduce the poet and poem that we've selected. Poems have included Jane Hirshfield's "Optimism", Li Young Lee's "From Blossoms", Naomi Shihab Nye's "Famous" and William Stafford's "Yes".

In the first session the poem is read aloud at least twice and the group engages in a facilitated discussion of what is first encountered in the poem. Conversation is always lively and the hour passes quickly. Before wrapping up the discussion we offer the group one or two writing prompts that are in some way connected to the selected poem. Participants are encouraged to spend time in the following week using these prompts to come up with their own pieces of creative writing.

In the second session we begin by reading the poem aloud again and inviting any additional reflections that may have emerged during the week. The majority of the hour is spent listening to and responding to the pieces created by participants. Each time it is a uniquely rich and creative experience!

As facilitators Karen and I also become participants, and we enjoy playing with the writing exercises that we've offered the group.

In our last installment of Words & More we spent time with Billy Collins' poem "Litany". Here is a video of Collins reading the poem live:

I wish I could share here all of  the inspired pieces offered by our group members. Here is the one I wrote:

 

Wait for it      (after Billy Collins’ "Litany")

You are the moonflower and the moth.

You  are the first mosquito bite of spring

and the snap of the small-mouth bass

who eats the mosquito

as it lingers too long

over the still pond.

You are not the still pond.

Actually, I am the still pond

and the heron with the broken, unhinged bill

patiently fishing at the water's edge.

I am the gingko tree undressed by winter

and I am the husk of the cicada

still clinging to its trunk.

You are the actual cicada

the cicada nymph to be exact

(and it’s important to be exact here)

surviving underground

beneath the yellowed patch of grass

where the dog pees each morning

and you wait to emerge

in about seven years.

Eric Massanari

 3/13/17