Progressive Poem and Joy Kogawa

Irene Latham instigated the Kidslitosphere Progressive Poem last year. It was such a success, and loads of fun, that she couldn't resist a repeat this year. Today I add my line to the mix of wonderful words already on the page. Here is the poem so far:

When you listen to your footsteps
the words become music and
the rhythm that you’re rapping gets your fingers tapping, too.
Your pen starts dancing across the page
a private pirouette, a solitary samba until

Now I hand it off to Gayle Krause for tomorrow's next line.


I've been reading a book called, Shouts and Whispers: Twenty-One Writers Speak about their Writing and their Faith. It is a compilation of lectures given at Calvin College's biennial Festival of Faith and Writing. Presenters, who are well-known writers, answer the question, "What does it mean to be a writer working in a context of faith within the world of contemporary letters?" Contributors in this volume include Katherine Paterson, Kathleen Norris, Will Campbell, Paul Schrader, James Calvin Schaap, Anne Lamott, Luci Shaw, Joy Kogawa and Madeline L'Engle.

I have enjoyed reading the thoughts shared by these authors and have, in the process, been reading some of their respective works. Today being Poetry Friday, I'd like to share my discovery of Joy Kogawa. I had not known Joy's work before, but find her poetry to be beautiful in it's simplicity, much like the art of Japanese flower arranging, Ikebana.

Kogawa was a child of Japanese parents living in Vancouver, British Columbia, during World War II when she and her family were moved to an  internment camp in central British Columbia. She is a poet, novelist, and children's author. Her award-winning novel, Obasan, focuses on the relocation of Japanese-Canadians during WWII.

As I continue to write through my own story of grief, I was moved by this lovely poem that calls the reader and the sufferer to look farther, see more.

GRIEF POEM
by Joy Kogawa

o that after all no
thought breaks
the mind's cold spell

chill these bones their
language lost

in this fresh silence
weather hides all
odours of decay

by freezing time
I travel through
this numb day

look look
my small
my beautiful child

the icicle here
how it shimmers
in the blue sun

Read the rest here.

For more Poetry Friday, join Robyn Hood Black who hosts the roundup today.