Texting with my adult daughters

National/Global Poetry Writing Month, Day 13: No pressure. Just an homage to one of my favorite poems in the world.

This has been hanging in my room(s) since 1997, when I cut it out of my dad’s copy of “The New Yorker” (sorry, Dad). See that grayish backing paper (so fancy)? It used to be sky blue.

NaPoWriMo.net prompt #13: “Donald Justice’s poem, “There is a gold light in certain old paintings,” plays with both art and music, and uses an interesting and (as far as I know) self-invented form. His six-line stanzas use lines of twelve syllables, and while they don’t use rhyme, they repeat end words. Specifically, the second and fourth line of each stanza repeat an end-word or syllable; he fifth and sixth lines also repeat their end-word or syllable. Today, we challenge you to write a poem that uses Justice’s invented form.”

Well. I had a mild bout of hyperventilation when I saw today’s prompt. I LOVE this poem. LOVE IT. Have already written a couple poems of my own in Justice’s beautiful form (one is posted here). So I was super nervous about approaching this wonderful assignment. I ended up just plunging in with the first thing I could think of: texting with my adult daughters (hence the very literal title).

The book I’m referring to in the second stanza is “Hinds Feet on High Places” by Hannah Hurnard, which made a deep impression on me as a young girl.

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1

There’s a sprinkle of fear when I hear their pings
chosen (lightly) to show how I think of them:
one is “boing boing,” exuberant and silly
and the other a passionate strum of guitar.
	I love my daughters dearly, but since they left home
	I dread bad news, texted far from their home.

2

The hero's journey usually features a man, but I remember a book
with a heroine. "Much-Afraid" was a woman, so scared of the world
in the same way I was as a little girl. She took a long passage to have
her name changed. My name changed forever when I gave birth: 
	I became known as Mama and Mommy and Mom.
	I became known as everything and nothing as Mom.

3

The world is filled with darkness, daughters. Let us be light.
We can draw on the walls and blast "Tusk" in the night.
We can bake bread and cookies, butter soft on the table.
The dog will bark; the cats will fight; maybe we’ll get chickens?
	And the fear that I feel when their three dots appear
	will fade out, will sun-bleach, someday disappear.