Poetry

I love marrying photography and poetry together. When I see something that is screaming for a poetic interpretation, I snap the shot on my little iPod camera (thank you Charlie!) and compose a few lines. These all appear on Instagram at:

https://www.instagram.com/seasonedpoetess/

Saying Goodbye to Snuggles

May 11, 2021 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

We tried to keep her going as indicated in my February post. When we left her for Spring Break in the capable hands of our caregiver she seemed stable, but texts and calls with this gal confirmed that she declined quickly while we were away. In true, valiant Snuggles fashion she waited for our return and died in our arms that night. Losing a beloved dog that has been a family member, defender, protector and my personal transition partner as we moved to an entirely new community two years ago is a gut wrenching experience. It took many reassurances from Charlie to come to terms with the fact that we didn’t kill her by leaving her for Spring Break. “She was diagnosed with kidney failure in December and she’d been declining since.” This is all true, but when we lose anything precious, words don’t ease the pain. Only time can heal. Since it’s been over a month, I needed to tell a few people in person. Friends who faithfully took care of Snuggles while we traveled. I drove to the home of this special family, bearing a pot of blooming ranunculus. Their four children hugged me as I shared the news. They also brought baskets of freshly picked violets “to eat.” I must have looked hungry. Those innocent smiles and bunched up, bent violets proved a healing balm to my frayed soul. I wrote this poem for them as a tribute to Snuggles and to their loving hearts. Thank you Livi, Ivy, Eli, Anna and your parents for always loving Snuggles.

walking in golden sunshine….

Violet – the Color of Morning

You left before white lilacs

before violets

before windows open.

You waited for us,

because you’re that kind of girl.

Eyes brown and deep as

grandma’s, waiting and knowing.

We picked you up off concrete squares

when modest uphill climbs overwhelmed.

We waited.

We denied.

Weeks after,

abandoning our route,

we searched out new pathways,

spying for green.

“April is the cruelest month,

breeding Lilacs out of the dead land,” Eliot tells us.

Emergent life traversing the edge

between frost and flourishing.

Particular friends

needed personal telling.

Their care and love

deserved ranunculus in

plastic pots accompanied by hugs.

Not really enough, if one spent time

calculating the cost of love,

of what you gave and what we deserved.

I crossed their lawn

and told the story,

“Of course dogs go to heaven.”

Childhood innocence climbed trees,

picked violets and told me,

“You can eat these!”

We prayed for what was coming.

We mourned what had been.

Livy and Ivy flounced in prairie dresses,

bearing violets to the end.

Seeing With Freedom in 2021

January 5, 2021 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

As a writer I’m drawn to large projects that are years in the making. Yet, focused work on my current manuscript can feel limited: not all of life is contained in Renaissance Italy (hint, hint the manuscript for my new novel is done:)! For our anniversary, my husband gave me an iPod with the date of our wedding engraved on the back. This little blue baby allows me to take beautiful photographs instantly and capture the grandeur of God’s handiwork with clarity and presence. When I need a break from writing I wander the woods photographing moss or in this season, frozen fog.

Perhaps this might seem unproductive. Inefficient. Indulgent, even.

We so seldom take time to rest in the world around us, a world marked by isolation and fear in 2020. It’s time to fight against those Covid practices and get outside. When was the last time you collapsed and made a snow angel, plucked an icicle and felt it melt away in your exposed hand? This childlike endeavor requires a willingness to stop, sit and see.

STOP, SIT, AND SEE

These three actions may help us live a balanced life, but the Western ideal of success places no value on the virtues of stopping to take in what God may be wanting to show us. Instead, as author Anne Lamott describes it, our culture pursues “forward thrust, going forward, staying one step ahead of the abyss… and if we can’t stay ahead of the abyss then we go to IKEA and buy a throw rug.”

We buy a throw rug to cover up the abyss because we don’t want to see it. Outrunning the abyss of a meaningless, unproductive life drives us onward. After all, in our short few decades on earth we’ve been convinced by our parents, our schools, our families and friends that we’ve got to make a difference in this world. The endless pursuit of difference-making is exhausting. Could taking time to stop, sit and see bear fruit instead? Exploring the lives of poets, artists and prophets tells us unequivocally, “yes.”

I recently led a poetic journaling event with young moms desperately in need of a night away from their kids. Instead of hanging out drinking wine and talking incessantly about their kids, they were longing for a creative and restorative activity. I used the German poet, Rainer Maria Rilke as my subject for leading these women because he knew the value of investing slow and significant time to develop a creative work. He tells us that, “to be an artist means, not to compute or count; it means to ripen as the tree which does not force its sap, but stands unshaken in the storms of spring with no fear that summer might not follow.” Oh, to have the confidence of a tree who does not count its rings. Gathering rings, rendering sap and bearing fruit takes time and God is in no hurry. To access his light we need to cease our hurry and see the small things which are often overlooked, like the cracking open of milkweed pods or the ever-changing color of water.

FINDING GOD IN THE WILDERNESS

On a chilly spring evening I attended a lecture at a local college on the life of artist Lilias Trotter. I’d never heard of this gifted Victorian era artist who gave up a career as the first renowned female painter in England to pursue life as a missionary in Algeria. She devoted her life to loving Muslim people, especially women and their children. Similar to the work of moms today, her work was arduous— hand washing laundry in rivers, feeding numerous children and forging friendships with women in sewing circles while learning Arabic. Her calling could easily have overwhelmed her. Yet, she chose to find daily sacred space by wandering into the desert to capture images of God in highly detailed, painted landscapes in her journal— precise images as small as a matchbook due to the scarcity of art supplies. She learned to “hold back everything that would crowd our souls” in order to access God’s light and, in turn, give that light to others. Her commitment to separating herself from the rigors of work to see God in the wilderness inspired me to do the same. My lens of wonder in all his works needed time to focus and a deliberate attempt to “uncrowd” my soul allowed open spaces for his light to come in.

“The daisies have been talking again—the reason they spread out their leaves flat on the ground is because the flowers stretch out their little hands, as it were, to keep back the blades of grass that would shut out the sunlight. They speak so of the need of deliberately holding back everything that would crowd our souls and stifle the freedom of God’s light and air.” – Lilias Trotter, 1899

Which brings me back to my walks in the woods collecting moments (borrowing from Heinrich Boll here). Some of these images call for a quick poem, a little nugget of carefully crafted words to describe what speaks in creation. This gift forces me to slow down and look for beauty unfolding, then rest and reflect on what I’ve seen and take the next step, create! When we create we become more like God because we are made in the image of the author of all creation, and our grand author is not scrolling social media counting his followers.

As Rilke said, we don’t need to “compute or count” followers, likes on Instagram, page views, or friends. We need to ripen as the tree and wave with the freedom of tall grass. Make time for God, look for him in icy crystals, listen for him in the cracking of milkweed. Stop, sit and see, and if you are so inspired, give him back some of what he’s shown you.

Milkweed

Irresistible winter cracker

temptress for fifty years,

your milky silk

flowing through fingertips,

drifting where?

Unremarkable,

brown seed carried

on snowy thistledown,

to unseen kingdoms

where fairies ride

and race upon your

feathery seats

like charioteers,

monarchs in summer.

Milkweed— magic maker

earth’s clouds,

God’s laughter,

enticing hardened

grown-ups to play

jump, toil

and spin

in open fields again.

MARGARET PHILBRICK

This article has been amended from the original which appeared in Popel Women, 2019.

https://www.propelwomen.org/cmspage.php?intid=39&intversion=500

Letters to My Mother During Covid19

April 24, 2020 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

Dear Mom,

Greetings smiley, sweet Nana! We received a call last night with the unfortunate news that a Coronavirus case has been confirmed down in your memory care wing. The good news is that it is NOT a resident there, but rather a staff member. These faithful workers have been wearing masks and gloves since early March as a way of protecting you if they contract the virus so we are grateful for these steps. And we are praying that no residents come down with the virus. Thus far there are NO cases among residents in any part of your retirement facility! JOY!

On to happier news. I love you! I’m so thankful that you are healthy and taking care of yourself. I’ve been reflecting on your fascination with orchards, tart cherries and apples. Drinking Montmorency TART cherry juice is a regular Door County treat for you when most of us can only tolerate the sweetened cherry juice. There is a magical quality to orchards, especially Seaquist Orchards where they trim the grass between the trees. What is it about an orchard that captures the human heart? Is it the abundance of fruit, the graceful ordering of trees, the history of cherry picking migrants camping out during July in long frame buildings, sleeping single file on metal cots? The ramshackle remnants of those cherry picker houses still line highway 42. A family transformed one into their colorful summer home.

Growing up, we always went cherry picking and so our children go cherry picking and even now in your 80’s when we head north with your caregiver Maria we revisit those reliable rows of trees at Lautenbachs or Seaquists. The last time we went, your hair stuck to your face as the wind speckled cherry juice on your sticky cheeks. Maria grew up in Poland and she too loves tart cherries so she took home ziplock bags full of them in her little, silver Nissan Versa. You have a friend who wrote a lovely poem about Door County which mentions the cherry trees. Kindly, after reading my letter about our favorite county on my website it came to me in an email. Close your eyes and picture the images in this poem as someone reads it to you.

DOOR TO PARADISE

Pure clear water, vistaed heights,

Glorious dreaming through the nights!

Bright greens and blues, cloudless skies

O’er crystal lakes of paradise!

There we’ll find sweet red cherry trees,

Warm as the sun, soft as the breeze,

Long peaceful trails, secluded bays,

And happiness throughout our days.

This glimpse of heaven is enough reward

For pious patience, for working hard,

For righteous efforts wisely spent

Weaving love’s ephemeral raiment.

Here the best scenes our memory saves

Wash over us gently like silver waves

Lapping repeatedly upon our shore,

Where storms and clouds return no more.

Pure clear water, vistaed heights,

Glorious dreaming through the nights!

Bright greens and blues, cloudless skies

O’er crystal lakes of paradise!

There we’ll find sweet red cherry trees,

Warm as the sun, soft as the breeze,

Long peaceful trails, secluded bays,

And happiness throughout our days.

J. Jennings, 1997

I look forward to picking many cherries with you this coming July!!

Love,

Margaret

Thank You Luci Shaw

April 10, 2018 by Margaret Philbrick 4 Comments

Dear Luci,

Happy National Poetry Month! When I heard you were being honored at Festival of Faith and Writing this past weekend and I was not going to be there, my heart lost a sad beat. The last time we spoke in person was back at Festival 2014, but your work sings to me in every season. Some nights I come across your heart and unique poetic voice while reaching for chapstick in my nightstand drawer, but instead I grab Harvesting Fog and my lips dry out as my struggling eyelids give way and your book rolls up and down with my sleeping chest. Or I hear you when I’m running on a trail in the woods, telling me to watch out for, “their blunt ends jutting,” or staring at the rain, waiting for the right word.

I think we knew each other when I was a skinned knee girl at Saint Mark’s Church in Geneva, IL. Or, more likely, I knew who you were. Not until college when I read your Advent collection, Winter Song did your voice come alive in my ear with that special connection that allows us to “know” a writer by her words on the page. We are related by the “word made flesh.”

When you spoke at Festival in 2014, I remember, “I’m an Episcopalian because of the mystery.” I thought, me too! We must be the only two female, Episcopalian (I’m actually Anglican) poetry writers in this world! It’s the mystery by which we connect our disconnected lives to the great mystery of the Incarnation and our words come. “Enkindled, enfleshed, enlightened, they are born.” Thank you for teaching me not to rush, but to watch and listen instead. To listen for the sound of heaving earth and cracking Spring while walking the dog. To take off my parka hood, no matter how cold, to hear the birds and squirrels chattering and chasing amongst last fall’s dry leaves. Their crackle a reminder that what is past is past and to dust it shall return, “humble earth can turn beautiful.” For in the stillness and silence the word can be found and this is a shared secret of writing’s joy. T.S. Eliot told us on “Ash Wednesday” and you reminded me from that big, Festival stage, “In our day we must learn to be still, to wait, to hold our tongue.”

Thank you for inspiring me to teach poetry, every April. Yesterday we visited Seamus Heaney’s “Clearances,” his tribute to his grandmother, “A cobble thrown a hundred years ago keeps coming at me.” Thank you for speaking into the necessity of awareness of memory and recommending the brilliant book, The Geography of Memory. My first novel benefited greatly from Jeanne Walkers’ heartbreaking reflections of her mother’s descent into dementia. I tell my students that poetry gives voice to things we cannot see. Sometimes a sliver as subtle as a glinting shadow stops our breath and Sprit-filled words compel us to capture the holiness of light and shade.

I’m sure that my sweet, writing sister Tammy Perlmutter will do a wonderful job blessing and honoring you this weekend, but since poetry is personal, I can’t help myself. Our crooked letters bump and grind against each other with the discomfort of teenage angst, loves lost and gained, middle age’s menopausal fog (not to be harvested) and later years of sensible shoes, hand knit sweaters and an incising eye that can only come from standing decades in the mystery, with gratitude.

Thank you Luci Shaw.

http://www.lucishaw.com/poetry_possibilities.html

With love,

Margaret

Almost Spring!

March 19, 2018 by Margaret Philbrick 1 Comment

Looking out my classroom window at the greying hues found in the seamless connection between the sidewalk and the cloudy sky, I hear the birds making an announcement. Despite this week’s official arrival, Spring has been working its way up from the ground since Valentine’s Day. The arrival of the red cardinal up in our neighbor’s birch tree happens right around the same day every year and from that point Spring comes. Some years the Snowdrops break through the crusty, old snow first and others, Winter Aconite is the winner. We live in a part of the country that usually gets hit by unseasonably warm temperatures around Mother’s Day causing just about every person to remark, “Wow, what happened to Spring? We’ve already moved into summer.” Well, it’s been quietly creeping up on you since mid-February. Stop. Take an early look and listen.

My classes compose Spring themed poems in April because it is National Poetry Month, but also because Spring is about all things new and a poem splashes this truth across the page. Here’s a little one about one of my favorite Spring flowers that you can’t buy in the grocery store, pictured above – Winter Aconite or in fancy circles:

Eranthus

Always in a race

with your neighbor,

the Snowdrop,

pressing forward

out of winter despite

your common name,

Winter Aconite.

Unexpected

ray of ground

level sunshine,

friendly buttercup,

enveloped by

poisonous leaves.

If I eat you

like your friend Digitalis

I’d drop back to

earth, my cardia

arrested.

You like to live

on the edge,

between winter and

spring, life giving

yellow warmth

and icy cold

death.

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