“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feeling. It takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” William Wordsworth, Preface to the Lyrical Ballads
I was inspired to write my first poem shortly before I retired from a 30-year career teaching English at Horace Greeley High School in Chappaqua, NY where I worked to inspire my students to write with confidence, voice and a spirit of exploration.
Art Appreciation, that first poem, inspired by my granddaughter Sally, is about an after-dinner ritual we shared that I do not want to ever forget. I’ve included it below.
So, in addition to embracing Wordsworth’s insight about the origin of poetry, I would add that much of my inspiration for my poems comes from the twin desires to remember and never forget.
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Art Appreciation
After the cannellini beans, bok choy
and cantaloupe are sufficiently mashed
and puddled in the tray, I lift her out
of her highchair, soggy and sated,
and we begin our ritual of naming.
First is a photograph of cows
snapped on a long-ago bike ride
through the Hudson Valley, ears
tagged and faces near. We moo
together, long and loud.
Next, we visit the living room
to greet luminous faces,
one over the love seat, the other
resting on the fireplace mantle
Baby Face challenges us
to locate eyes, nose and mouth,
each discovery prompting
a parallel pantomime.
In the den, we find a collage
of portraits, too many to examine.
Instead, I pick a few, point and chant,
Daddy, Uncle Ben, Daddy, Uncle Ben.
Circling back through the dining room,
downstairs tour almost complete,
we flap our wings with cranes in flight
and wave at Amish farmers joyous
in their barn raising.
As we climb upstairs Sally reminds me
to pause on the landing where
she points and exclaims
that, that, that.
eager to hear the litany
birds, bunnies, bulls,
as we spot them interspersed
among figures of Mexican laborers.
Who knew our house contained
such a menagerie?
Late at night, I tiptoe down the hallway,
and peek into her dimly lit room.
Daytime exuberance tucked away.
There, nestled among pastel blankets
and her favorite bunny, gently breathing,
damp with dreams, I admire the finest
treasure of all and whisper to myself,
Sally Yuka, Sally Yuka.
Elise Chadwick 