The Boy at the Circus, as if in a Dalí Painting
–after AR

 The boy has the key to a savage party. What can he unlock here? The acrobats climbed ropes to swings and flew like skilled bees. There were suited capuchins, dwarves in gowns, twirlers, spinners, rollers and tumblers, and the flowered clowns. He took water to the elephants who wore skirts and honked for hay. The horses were crowned with peacocks. The band played at music and the dancers danced baroque steps. The crowd roared as a choir of lions yawned. The Barker passed him the tallest hat and the scalloped boots, and he led the parade, as the players waved, as the swans landed to fly him home to cloudy mirrors and an empty quarter.

Reflective writing prompt:
Write about what’s in the tent

Sorrow Is Not My Name by Ross Gay

—after Gwendolyn Brooks

No matter the pull toward brink. No
matter the florid, deep sleep awaits.
There is a time for everything. Look,
just this morning a vulture
nodded his red, grizzled head at me,
and I looked at him, admiring
the sickle of his beak.
Then the wind kicked up, and,
after arranging that good suit of feathers
he up and took off.

Just like that. And to boot,
there are, on this planet alone, something like two
million naturally occurring sweet things,
some with names so generous as to kick
the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon,
stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks
at the market. Think of that. The long night,
the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me
on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah.
But look; my niece is running through a field
calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel
and at the end of my block is a basketball court.
I remember. My color’s green. I’m spring.

—for Walter Aikens

Reflective writing prompt:
Write about what is, or is not, your name.

From: Prologue, The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho

The alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had
brought.

Leafing through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus. The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus.

But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.

He said that when Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest
appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water,
transformed into a lake of salty tears.

“Why do you weep?” the goddesses asked.

“I weep for Narcissus,” the lake replied.

“Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus,” they said, “for
though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could
contemplate his beauty close at hand.”

“But… was Narcissus beautiful?” the lake asked.

“Who better than you to know that?” the goddesses said in wonder.
“After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate
himself!”

The lake was silent for some time. Finally, it said:

“I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful.  I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected.”

Reflective writing prompt:
Write about the beauty reflected in your own eyes.

Please join us when we will listen to Melanie Brooks read an excerpt from her memoir “A Hard Silence.”  We will then close read, discuss, and free-write to the excerpt.

A conversation with Melanie follows the workshop.

Simulationist Narrative Medicine Community co-founder Ginny Drda read her 2020 poem “Magnolia Doesn’t Know.” 

                                  Jacob’s Chicken – Miloš Macourek

A chicken is a chicken, you all know how a chicken looks, so go ahead and draw a chicken the teacher tells the children, and all the kids suck on crayons and then draw chickens, coloring them black or brown, with black or brown crayons, but wouldn’t you know it, look at Jacob, he draws a chicken with every crayon in the box, then borrows some from Laura, and Jacob’s chicken ends up with an orange head, blue wings and red thighs and the teachers says that’s some bizarre chicken, what do you say children, and the kids roll with laughter while the teacher goes on, saying, that’s all because Jacob wasn’t paying attention, and, to tell the truth, Jacob’s chicken really looks more like a turkey, but then not quite, for it also resembles a sparrow and also a peacock, it’s as big as a quail and as lean as a swallow, a peculiar pullet, to say the least, Jacob earns an F for it and the chicken, instead of being hung on the wall, migrates to a pile of misfits on top of the teacher’s cabinet, the poor chicken’s feelings are hurt, nothing makes it happy about being on top of a teacher’s cabinet, so, deciding not to be chicken, it flies off through the open window.

But a chicken is a chicken, a chicken won’t fly too far, hence it ends up next door in a garden full of white cherries and powder-blue currants, a splendid garden that proudly shows the cultivator’s love, you see, the gardener, Professor Kapon, a recognized authority, is an ornithologist who was written seven books on birds and right now is finishing his eighth , and as he puts the last touches to it, he suddenly feels weary, so he goes out to do some light gardening, and toss a few horseshoes, which is easy and lets him muse over birds, there are tons of them, so many birds, Professor Kapon says to himself, but there isn’t a single bird that I discovered, he feels down, flips horseshoes and dreams a love-filled dream about an as-yet-unknown bird when his eyes fall on the chicken….

….to be continued

Reflective writing prompt
Write about using all the colors, or
draw a chicken.

flush by Rita Wong 

awaken to the gently unstoppable rush of rain landing on roofs,
pavement, trees, porches, cars, balconies, yards, windows, doors,
pedestrians, bridges, beaches, mountains, the patter of millions
of small drops making contact everywhere, enveloping the city
in a sheen of wet life, multiple gifts from the clouds, pooled
over centuries and channelled to power us, rain propels our
water-based bodies that eat other water-based bodies, mineral
vegetable animal. when i turn on the shower, i turn my face and
shoulders toward post-chlorinated rain. the tap releases free rain
to slake our thirst, transformed through pipes and reservoirs.
anonymous agent of all that we, unwitting beneficiaries, do.
refusing the inertia of amnesia, i welcome the memory of rain
sliding into sink and teacup, throat and bladder, tub and toilet.
bountiful abundant carrier of what everyone emits into the
clouds, be that exhale or smoke, belch or chemical combustion,
flame or fragrance, the rain gives it all back to us in spates, a
familiar sound, an increasingly mysterious substance

Reflective writing prompt
Write about life without rain

Pat Schneider

The Patience of Ordinary Things

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

Reflective writing prompt:
Write about the reliability of ordinary things.

Wing Tek Lum

Warmup Image:

Co-constructed poem:

a tree in winter
A tree without leaves—-a winter tree
grace
graceful trunk, twigs with the promise of hope sprouting
thorns-growth-curves
craggy branches
The tree's life is being challenged by weather. But it thrives.
Veil, interweaving of delicacy and strength
The skeleton of the tree. A winter view

Plum Blossoms by Wing Tek Lum

Cold mountain winds scour the valley.
A hush descends upon the hard earth,

betraying no tears.
The gaunt plum hugs the river.

Its branches, shorn of leaves,
reach out like stark cries

in the Winter night, a spider’s agony.
Yet nubs of blossoms

nudge through the crinkled bark
on one twig, then another.

Buds nestle in crooks and crevices,
white as frost, grudging smiles,

a compassion nourished from within,
seeking air, seeking light.

Reflective writing prompt:
Write about the harbingers of Spring.

Cindy Sherman, Untitled #610

Reflective writing prompt:
Write about the person who lives in your clothes.