43. Say It New – Victoria Redel
Some things want to be said, might need to be said in new ways. And I am not sure what I need to say.
At times these days I just don’t quite know what’s what. I’m in my same house. It still looks the same. Same bed. Same desk. Same chair. I wear the same black or white tee shirt. But then I turn my head, look up from a book and the day goes odd and the house and desk and bed and chair get strange too. As if they are not quite what they have been. Just like that Byrne song? “How did I get here?” Byrne asks. The day is the day but what does a day now mean? I want to write but am not sure how or what. Some things want to be said, might need to be said in new ways. And I am not sure what I need to say. Still I want to speak of joy. Of all the small joys. I want to be of use too. How do we find the words we need to give to the self or to a friend?
Here is a prompt that helps me feel my way on a path that tricks me to say it new and speak new truths. It is a prompt I’ve done in each class I’ve taught. And I don’t think that’s a lie. I will say it’s one that first gets groans and “no ways” and then turns out some of the best work in each class. Folks tell me that long since the class, they still use the prompt when they hit a rough patch in their work. It helps to trick the self to think “form” and not “what they should say.” It’s great to use this weird prompt when you want to write what gets you scared. Let’s say it lets you walk in at an odd bend. But, look, there’s no need to write fear prose or a fear poem at all. It could be a love piece.
– Victoria Redel
Prompt:
Write at least one full page of prose or a poem. It can be a made-up tale, a scene, a thing you’ve just done or seen. It can be a dream. But the one thing you can’t do is use a word that’s more than one syllable.
Huh? Wait? What! No way! Come on, it’s fun. Trust me, it is. And, sure, it is tough. At least when you start. But your voice will jazz in new ways. The beats of the words will pop in new ways. You will have to walk this way and that and bend and stretch to find your way to say the thing you need to say. Which means you will write in new ways. Which is cool. It will not sound as odd as it seems. (Just look… the one word in this whole long prompt that is not one syllable… is the word “syllable.”)
P.S. If you need more of a boost, here are some more words to use: wood, whir, first, red, brush, trace, friend.
Abby Alten Schwartz
Location: Lansdale, Pennsylvania
About: I loved the challenge of not only writing a poem but limiting each word to a single syllable. I was surprised to see where the poem took me and to discover that it resonated with others as well. It captures my feelings of uncertainty, anxiety, and ultimately, hope during this pandemic.
Age: 53
When The New What?
How do I get my mind past what is and get to what will be
when it is still not clear
what that will look like?
That has been the test all through this
pause.
First this. Then this.
Now this.
And here we are.
I am proud of how
I got used to it.
I got from there:
Fear
Angst
My heart at 3 in the g. d. morn’
Pow! Pow! Pow!
To here: two months in
and for the most part
I am calm.
I work. I play. I laugh.
I shop like a champ.
I clean like a loon.
But. There is still a big WHAT
out there.
And a huge HOW.
And most of all
a WHEN.
I think that it would be
not as hard
if I knew when this would end.
You see, I know for sure that my end will need to be at the end of your end.
And what will that end even look like?
I take in with pure awe
all that is,
and it is clear that we will not go back
to what was.
Should we?
Is this the part—
the mark on the page
when we look back
and say THERE: that was when we stopped as one and changed course?
Is this when we knew, once and for all, that the earth is ours to care for that we are ours to care for?
That we do not need to be in a rush
all the time.
That life is more than what we can buy.
Or earn.
To see, for real this time,
that we are one?
Anonymous
Anonymous
Walk.
See the green grass, tall trees and worn paths; free to all who feel the pull to be with the earth. Look up and breathe deep, walk and breathe.
Walk and breathe cool, clean, clear air. Feet fall up and down grass paths to weave past large old oak tree trunks and fields of corn, beans, wheat and grass. Smells of the earth. Breathe in deep through the nose and out by mouth. Feel the lungs flex in and out. Feel the flow of breath, life and now. Breathe.
Now scan your parts from sole to crown, all sides; right, left, front and back. Sole, toes, ball, arch, heel, leg, knee, hip, back, gut, chest, hand, wrist, arm, crook, neck, head and scalp. Wait and be with each part. Wait and feel. Do not judge. Just be. Then all parts as one, here and now. Just walk and be.
Then hear all sounds as they are. Do not pause on any one. Just hear them come and go as they will. Here, now, at this time and in this place. Just sounds as they come and go; Walk and hear sounds as they come and go.
Then thought. Deep down in the mind where thoughts start; the ground of thought. See thoughts come and go. Do not dwell, just see them come and go as they will. Be in this place, eyes shut, with thoughts that float in and pass through. Look in your mind, walk and be.
Then all as one. Feel the sun, feet in grass, smell the smells, see the birds, hear their songs and think your thoughts.
Warm breeze, calm breath, blue sky, clear air and still mind. One whole, right here, right now as you walk.
Breathe.
Thanks.
Peace.
Thanks for this peace in our world at this point in time.
Walk.
Barclay Ann Blankenship
Location: North Carolina
About: I have always been a bit of a hopeless romantic, loving the idea of long lost romances, late-night meetings under the moonlight, or even messages in a bottle. But, with the twenty-first century way of romance, some of this seems to be lost. Texting long Shakespearean professions of love hasn't caught on in popularity (unfortunately), so I considered what old school romance would look like with the modern jargon of today. The prompt fit along perfectly with the idea and ultimately gave me the inspiration to write it and end it a little silly.
Age: 22
One Syllable Romance
It knocked on the wood dock, soft and quick like a lost bone. She saw it bob to and fro in
the lake tide and trace the pier leg as it came towards her. The glass flask was full of some of the
lake by now, as well as a scrap. A note, she did hope, a friend. She watched it move back and
forth, up and down, to the beat of the lake. With each bob, it seemed it would go under and be
lost to her if she did not move fast.
With a long leg, she aimed out at the guest to pull it to her. Her toes grazed the crisp lake
in a brief touch. She felt the cool glass with her foot and moved with the weight of the thing,
with the tide, to bring it near. Once close, more close than at first, she leaned down to it. Her
reach went so far that her chest met her thighs as if she was in a fold. Her eyes had not bent the
light, not shown what was not there- in the glass was a note. She held the glass up to her face, to
see the note at close, and met it with a slight smile. Her one hope was that the note would not be
blank, but full with some lost love, by chance, some lost oath. The note had no folds, but had the
look of a scroll. A cork wedged in the flask kept her from it. She gripped the end of the cork with
her strong hand and with some tough twists, a grunt with the last swift pull, the cork was out.
She held the cork in her palm, the size of her thumb, and thought how strange for a thing
to be lost this way. She turned the flask to the ground for a shake, a need to read the scrap of
thoughts that called out, more with each look. At once, the note fell from the tight end of the
flask. The small scroll was taught with dry mist and held no weight in her grip. So light, she
could have let her grasp fail in a fluke. The threat of a breeze caught her long hair. It was swift,
stayed for a breath, then ceased. The note could have been caught in it, but was not, her quick
hand held her find tight, so it was saved from a lone flight back to the lake. She was sure, in her
grasp, to not crush what she did not know.
The note was plain, but what was not known of its aim, of its core, made up for what it
lacked in looks. With a tug at its sides, she saw the dark marks of black ink, some parts wet and
spread on the page. The lake had left its touch, yet to dry in the night air. But, it could still be
read clear and bold: You up?
Beth Garriott
Location: Charlottesville, Virginia
About: I’ve been on an opening and awakening journey for a few years - after family health crises and loss. Covid isolation has been hard but beautiful - I’ve upped my journaling game and have loved the wisdom of teachers and writers and artists to spark more healing and growth in me. I am hopeful that this personal awakening will help in our global healing as well.
Age: 40
Cassidy Leeburg
Location: Calgary, Alberta, Canada
About: Rooted in California and Colorado, I am now an American living in Calgary for nearly three years. Married with grown children, inventive cook, daydreamer, wordsmith, and forest-bather. I appreciate kindness, music, art, community, vulnerability, and breathless laughter.
Age: 56
I was just out in the sun. In fact, I am still here. The grass needs to not be dry, the herbs crave some space. Can I use a break? Yes! Must it be now? I see no end, but I see the blue sky and clouds.
Rows and rows of days in front of me. That can be a good thing, a great deal of time.
A bird flies near, a friend walks by, a bit of a chat, a check in. In the shade, I keep a thick book, some songs, a chair. High notes. Still, I wait and long for the day when we are free to move.
A lie stirs like a bug . . . but what is fact? Is a dream less real than an egg for tea? If the dream is my truth, let it stay and be my food.
I tire of these words, and yet I write on. The point should be: a bit of cheer, a small joy, to ease the drought. To be of use. These things make me smile. Time now to move the hose, drink a full glass, and make a beef stew.
Julie Gabrielli
Location: Baltimore, MD
About: I was intrigued by the economy of means of only one syllable. I chose a scene from a novel I'm working on and was pleased with how slow and meditative it felt to write.
Age: 57
Spiral Labyrinth
The last stone is in place. She’s worked her way from the start, a point in the trees, a blank place. Now, the swirls and curves have led here. The last bit, the trace on the ground of paths that rolls in paths, twist and turn and furl.
She kneels, knees on damp soil, rich earth, the smell of rot and life. Takes it in. Eyes closed, hands on the stone. It’s cool, rough, a blend of fire and time. She sees in its core, the start of it all. A place of warmth and sleep. Aware of what is to come. The life force in all things.
Dirt is caked in her nails, the lines of her hands. She brings them to her face, breathes in. Smiles. One day she will rest here. Deep in this soil, at home. What will that be like? To breathe not air, not song, but rest.
The end, she knows, can be the start. And so she stands. Slips her feet out of her shoes. Curls her toes in the soft, dark earth. Her place. She takes one step, then one more. Right foot place, curl, settle. Left foot reach, land, shift. The soil springs and warms. A beam of sun had graced her all this while. The path calls.
Turn and turn and back and pause. The trees watch. They know. Two feet down, one foot down, their roots wait.
Lyndsey W.
About: I just let it flow. Shout out to syllablecounter.net for keeping me honest
A Girl Can Dream
I felt him.
Then I saw him.
Pricks on the back of my neck.
Goose bumps on the backs of my arms.
A flash of white teeth.
Smooth brown skin.
My breath felt quick.
He sees me.
But would he speak?
It is rare when they do.
He drifts to my space.
A laugh that made me laugh.
My heart skips.
My nerves show.
Deep breath.
You can do this.
I can do this.
We talk.
For hours.
I am lost in him.
And him in me.
It felt like a dream.
Too slow.
Too fast.
The smooth jazz plays.
“Shoo doo shoo bee ooo bee”
Our love score.
Five years now.
We come back.
The babe is at home.
We hide in our booth.
Still lost.
My dream could be real.
I just had to let it.
Moira Griffith
Location: Alexandria, VA
About: I have always been an avid journaler, but these daily prompts brought newness and risk and trial into my writing. My family and I have spent a lot more time on our front porch during this "isolation" time - clapping every night at 8 pm, talking with friends and neighbors from a distance, and sitting quietly with ourselves. I wanted to spend some time being present on the porch and taking in all of the sounds and sights around me but limiting myself to one-syllable words.
Age: 23
On the porch with my pup. The day is still and calm. A bird chirps, the wind blows, a girl laughs. My pup sleeps at my feet; a cat sits on the stoop. White and gold and specks of brown. Bikes ride by, masks on. My legs have hair, but I don’t mind; they show me the time that has gone by. My toenails too. I ate bloob cakes and fruit too. I feel ‘wake and yet tired too. What will the day hold – a bike ride with Sean, a read of my book, a nap? When I write like this, I think of Seuss and his smart words. Next door, a zoom sound on to blow the leaves or cut the grass. Come to think of it, a hot drink might be nice – steam some milk and yum. I wear shorts, sleep shorts. I feel cold nor hot. All I feel is peace and luck. Luck for all that I have on this here porch.
Nicole Gervasio
Location: Harlem, NYC
About: I became estranged from my parents when I came out as queer and left for college many years ago; I was the first person in my family to do either of these things. The pandemic exacerbated an ache I'd long thought I'd resolved--the absence of adults I could turn to in times of fear and crisis. This May, I found myself again wondering what stronger family ties would feel like as I was moving out all my winter clothes for summer. This ritual, one of the few we observed religiously growing up, inspired my prose poem.
Age: 32
I write my way into wheat; it cuts and bends and sways with the wind that smells like musk. Dead things smell like musk; it was the scent my mom most loved when I was young. I am not young now. I feel the years stuck in my hair. Knots, words I should write, mail I should send. To send to you my grief... it would be a doll with her own head in her hands in a box I could crush with one foot. Why do I crave to wrench all nice things to warped ends? Why don't I trust in my worth? To earn the rights to a lock with a key that works. There are so few things to be scared of, and none shock me. A shock of hair, of words, of gin and spent cash and torn hems on all the clothes I did not grow to fit. I bought this dress to wear. And that one, and that one. That one, too. But where is there to go right now, in heels and so much skin to show?
Nivita Arora
Location: India
About: I love pausing in time for a moment to take stock of my surroundings - and this journal prompt was a perfect incentive to do so. It's almost a meditative experience, to sink into the Present moment so deeply, and observe and absorb the things unnoticed. I find that I end up learning just as much about myself, too!
Age: 23
How can I show you what can’t be seen?
Words are a tool that we could not think to live with out. Yet they oft prove to be more of a rude brick wall in our way. At times I wish words would cease to be, and like the end of a war we could rest on the hushed lake of care, where gun shots do not ring through young boys’ dreams and pride kneels on its left knee. Who can hear Love o’er the round-the-clock drone of phone rings in search of deaf ears? It’s no shock that no one can seem to find her these days.
And what of the ones who do hear the wails? The ones who swim out of the lake in the dead of night, run with pails filled with stars to pour out on sleep’s wrath. For all their work, there must be some words left for them, no?
But the face of the lake is flat, can’t be bent or curled to pull them back in. Even the Earth could not shift her planes to tilt her waters. But some day, when we have all reached that lake, I know not one soul will look back and long for the shore once more...
Romeo Cochrane
Location: Hatfield, Pennsylvania
About: My entry was inspired by the challenges of trying to teach remotely using google classroom and google meets with middle school students. Realizing that the pandemic removed the physical and emotional part of teaching and learning.
Age: 56
One-Syllable Thoughts from a Teach
A lot of who we are as men is tied to what we do for work. I teach to live… But… In this time when we stay at home, I think… Who am I for real? I still teach from home but…what am I with no work in a school? What is my cause? What are my goals? How am I to teach from home with no floor to stand on? No chairs? No desks? No din of kids run to in and out of class. No halls. No pass.
I feel like a grain of sand held by a force I can’t see in space… in one place. Free I float... but held in place. Trapped in a house with no walls, no floor and no roof. I float and wait. Stay at home in this state. I type and post and G. Meet and Zoom all day. But I ask… do I still teach?
Shhh… I live to teach. My work is not just a job to me. It means a lot. I do not just work for dough. I trust that what I do is for a high cause. More than me. I think ‘bout the kids I teach. We try to teach with tech. To reach and learn and teach. I squirm and twist to fit my brain and thoughts in the tiny space of the screen through the Net to help the kids to learn.
I see a small square face peer back at me and blink. I know those eyes that see the soul and truth. Zoom in… Zoom out!! Meet near but far. Small points of light and life. Like ghosts in frail cells. A voice with no form speaks in the vast space of the Net. Ghosts drift in the back of screens as Mom and Dad take care. Little bro and sis come near to stare in the screen as the child tries to learn from far.
We all try to hide from the germ that is out, in the house with no walls, no doors, no floors no roof. But it can see us. We do not see it. It too floats in space and looks for a place to land and make sick quite quick. To wipe clean small grains of life.
My arms stretch thin as I try to reach through the tech to teach from far. To hear and care and joke away the fear of the germ not seen, but real in dreams. The germ that makes ill and kills at will. On the news, in the air hangs the fear. The kids see masks and ask? We try to tell the truth in soft ways but their eyes know.
I feel guilt. Lots of Moms and Dads are not being paid. Can kids grow and learn in this way? Can Mom and Dad keep lights on and keep the faith? The germ hangs like a sword on a hair of fate. I sit on my chair in front the tech in the house with no walls, no floor, no door, no roof, no sills… and wait.
Sariann Monaco
Location: Boca Raton, FL
About: This was the one-syllable poem prompt and I just wanted life to feel more normal again. What came to mind was being in a public park, taking a walk in the sun looking for shade while licking ice cream.
Age: 54
She licks the cone
The heat is harsh
Her legs ache
She sees the shade
The treat melts
She walks to the bench
The cool air swirls
The breeze flows by
Day dreams whirl
She shuts her eyes
And thinks how blessed this life is
Sharmila Rao
Location: Navi Mumbai, Maharashtra, India
About: An aspiring writer seeking the companionship of words.
Age: 53
A MIGRANT'S PRAYER
My son, wake up, once more has come the time for us to leave. It is our fate, my dear.
Think, of that day, the first time we had set off from our home; I can see it, through the cold, white mist; our green paddy fields bowed low, the still trees near the well, stood in quiet grief, the soft moo of the new born calf as she gazed with glum , moist eyes.
Even the birds, they had known - flew with us till we were specks of dust in the eyes of the one's we love.
They waved, all of them, till I know not when. Will they be there, at the edge of the field to greet us once more. I did not turn.
You tugged at my shirt to ask why we must go. Tugged so many times till you got your reply, the one I thought you would like - to see the city life my son, it will be a good life, I said. Your eyes they had shone. Happy.
How could I let you know of our debts.
The big city, she has a big heart- gave us some space in her dark womb. She made us toil from dawn to dusk; heat, dust, work, food, grime,pain, and tears. We clung on tight to what was ours - life and hope - some day home, a piece of sky, a star.
All seems to fade now. The time has come for us to run, once more. For it is we who must pay, the most, for the sins and greed of those we do not know. Safe they sleep in their four walls. Not like us, who have no worth and who must leave.
My son wake up, soon it will be dawn. We must start. Leave the city or die. It is safe no more. Wake up! Oh! wake up dear, our home is far, much too far; and the road, it has no end.
Look, it's a new day. For us too? You ask.
I wish I did not have to lie: the sun will be up, soon it will burn, you will cry for food. And I must see you wilt.
Come let me take you in my arms once more. Carry you I will, till my last breath.
Oh god's that be, please hear our plea!
for, the road is long and hard.
The effect of the lockdown in India has been the harshest on the poor and hapless migrants who are daily wage labourers in the city. With no jobs and money and public transportation shut down, hundreds and thousands of migrants who have no security or protection were forced to walk hundreds of miles back home to their villages.
Some died during this arduous journey due to the intense summer heat, hunger and dehydration.
Ironically, it is they who run the wheels of every city.