Joanne Durham
Joanne Durham with her grandchildren
By Joanne Durham
I was pulling together poems for my poetry book, To Drink from a Wider Bowl, from the time my grandson was in the womb to when he was 3, so most of these poems are found in that book. “Under Construction,” “Sheltering,” and “Buying a Globe” all came from interactions with my grandson that just demanded to be written into poetry. “Trust” came from a photo I took of my daughter-in-law holding him. What an inspiration little kids are! The poem “Ready” happened because I wanted to enter Press 53’s Prime Number Magazine contest that called for a specific line, rhyme, and syllable arrangement. My grandson peeked in the room where I was sleeping and said, “Grams, I’m ready for morning!” and I found myself counting the syllables of his greeting–exactly what I needed for the first line of the poem that went on to be a contest winner! The only poem in this set that isn’t about my own family is “On Ocean’s Edge.” I was watching an older woman and a pre-teenage girl standing on the shoreline, and it made me imagine their interaction. Many of my poems set on the beach, which wound up becoming my chapbook, On Shifting Shoals, came from that kind of observation and wonder about what people I don’t know are thinking and feeling.
Ready
Grams, I’m ready for morning,
I hear your eager
voice chirping,
your gallop across the floor,
see your face peeking
in my door.
I feel my dear dreams scatter,
treasured sleep denied.
No matter,
I’m always for you
ready too.
I was pulling together poems for my poetry book, To Drink from a Wider Bowl, from the time my grandson was in the womb to when he was 3, so most of these poems are found in that book. “Under Construction,” “Sheltering,” and “Buying a Globe” all came from interactions with my grandson that just demanded to be written into poetry. “Trust” came from a photo I took of my daughter-in-law holding him. What an inspiration little kids are! The poem “Ready” happened because I wanted to enter Press 53’s Prime Number Magazine contest that called for a specific line, rhyme, and syllable arrangement. My grandson peeked in the room where I was sleeping and said, “Grams, I’m ready for morning!” and I found myself counting the syllables of his greeting–exactly what I needed for the first line of the poem that went on to be a contest winner! The only poem in this set that isn’t about my own family is “On Ocean’s Edge.” I was watching an older woman and a pre-teenage girl standing on the shoreline, and it made me imagine their interaction. Many of my poems set on the beach, which wound up becoming my chapbook, On Shifting Shoals, came from that kind of observation and wonder about what people I don’t know are thinking and feeling.
Ready
Grams, I’m ready for morning,
I hear your eager
voice chirping,
your gallop across the floor,
see your face peeking
in my door.
I feel my dear dreams scatter,
treasured sleep denied.
No matter,
I’m always for you
ready too.
Under Construction
Loader, excavator, backhoe --
creaking toy wheels
across the couch’s cushions,
my two-year old grandson teaches me
the vocabulary of construction.
He drums the sofa’s arm
to a beat in his head, abandons
it to circle himself dizzy, tips
the pink teapot
so imaginary tea gurgles
into the cup. His laughter
curls like steam.
Polka-dotted apron
sweeping his ankles,
brow creased, he steers the wooden
spoon to chase clouds of flour
inside the bowl, plops
sticky biscuits into the pan.
No one has lined him up yet, boys
on one side, girls on the other.
Fragments of light twist
through his cardboard
kaleidoscope, spinning images
of everything he could become.
Loader, excavator, backhoe --
creaking toy wheels
across the couch’s cushions,
my two-year old grandson teaches me
the vocabulary of construction.
He drums the sofa’s arm
to a beat in his head, abandons
it to circle himself dizzy, tips
the pink teapot
so imaginary tea gurgles
into the cup. His laughter
curls like steam.
Polka-dotted apron
sweeping his ankles,
brow creased, he steers the wooden
spoon to chase clouds of flour
inside the bowl, plops
sticky biscuits into the pan.
No one has lined him up yet, boys
on one side, girls on the other.
Fragments of light twist
through his cardboard
kaleidoscope, spinning images
of everything he could become.
Buying a Globe for My Grandson During the Pandemic
He can’t comprehend how north means anything
but sky, thinks south is underground.
So I search online – elephants trumpet
across Tanzania on talking globes, the Eiffel Tower
illuminates all of Europe. Customer reviews
dim the flashy displays - irate Indian buyers,
their birthplace mapped
as China. Americans demand borders
between states, not shown on any other country.
Globes crack in careless hands. One globe arrived
with two southern hemispheres. The owner thought
it an improvement, didn’t send it back.
I long for a brick-and-mortar store,
to know if names of distant rivers
are large enough to read. Feel the relief
of the Himalayas. Spin tilted stands
to test their resilience, lands joined
in a blue blur. I’m not giving up the search
for a perfect world for my grandson.
Sheltering
I’ll do it again, you whispered to yourself
each time you scampered across the footbridge,
so I didn’t say We have to go now,
though clouds were gobbling sun
faster than even you could lick the sides
of an ice cream cone to savor each melting drop.
Then a downpour swallowed us,
thunder growled and our shoes squished
on the sidewalk. I peeled off my windbreaker
and pulled it around you, fished your hand
from under a billowing sleeve, and led you
to climb the rickety stairs of the first house
we found with a covered porch. You saluted
each vehicle that passed – Hello pickup!
Hello school bus! Hello flatbed tow truck!
Then you galloped from one end of our shelter
to the other, singing each step – one, two,
three, eleven, eight. Nothing dampened
your joy. Worry slid off my drenched shirt,
dissolved into just another puddle. I didn’t call
anyone to rescue us. When the rain finally slackened,
hand in hand, we walked home.
Trust
Her hand steadies
his wobbly neck, his bottom
rests in her curled palm.
For a change, her eyes are shut,
his open,
grazing deep pockets
of space and sound,
sudden drafts and shifting heat
he doesn’t yet know
as the ceiling fan
and slant of morning sun.
He clutches the fold of her sleeve,
seeking the same heartbeat
that sustained him
tucked away in her womb.
His body born
from the thrust of a hard
push, trust born
from moments
like this.
Anticipation
Sages warn, Live in the present,
longing, hunger can do you in,
my Mom in her last days
paced room to room
with walker and oxygen,
there’s nothing to look forward to.
Clutched in the grip
of a global pandemic,
the sonogram of that child-to-be
releases a smile so deep
I think it’s from my own womb
not my daughter’s,
breaks my fast on joy,
spreads its feast across my face.
She carries tomorrow
in her belly - yes, I’ll take
rapture-in-the-making.
Her hand steadies
his wobbly neck, his bottom
rests in her curled palm.
For a change, her eyes are shut,
his open,
grazing deep pockets
of space and sound,
sudden drafts and shifting heat
he doesn’t yet know
as the ceiling fan
and slant of morning sun.
He clutches the fold of her sleeve,
seeking the same heartbeat
that sustained him
tucked away in her womb.
His body born
from the thrust of a hard
push, trust born
from moments
like this.
Anticipation
Sages warn, Live in the present,
longing, hunger can do you in,
my Mom in her last days
paced room to room
with walker and oxygen,
there’s nothing to look forward to.
Clutched in the grip
of a global pandemic,
the sonogram of that child-to-be
releases a smile so deep
I think it’s from my own womb
not my daughter’s,
breaks my fast on joy,
spreads its feast across my face.
She carries tomorrow
in her belly - yes, I’ll take
rapture-in-the-making.
At Ocean’s Edge
as the last lip of wave licks her feet
a twelve-year-old picks up a conch,
shows it to her grandmother, standing
close with familiar ease. Fingers linger
on its fanned smoothness. The older
woman rolls it over, jagged edges
missing their spiral core. With a sudden
jerk, the girl laughs, Oh, it’s cracked!
and tosses it back into the sea. She’s just
this week the taller of the two. Beneath
the brim of hat that used to shield
them both, the grandmother sighs,
feet sinking into broken treasures
that line the shore.
All poems come from To Drink from a Wider Bowl except for Ready which was first published in Prime Number Magazine, Prime 53 Poem Summer Challenge Winner and At Ocean’s Edge which was first published in Third Wednesday.
To read more about Joanne:
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/06/storyteller-of-week_9.html