tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46865002642794021152024-09-14T20:21:34.585-05:00"I have a compulsion to wander and a compulsion to return— a homing instinct like a migrating bird" --Bruce ChatwinAmanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.comBlogger1392125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-44925633023735219922022-05-31T11:32:00.006-05:002022-05-31T11:32:37.058-05:00

 By: Brendan ConstantineThe Opposites Game                              for Patricia Maisch This day my students and I play the Opposites Gamewith a line from Emily Dickinson. My life had stooda loaded gun, it goes and I write it on the

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-84926433004194247172022-02-09T13:50:00.001-06:002022-02-09T13:50:36.712-06:00

Love, if it is love, never goes away.It is embedded in us,like seams of gold in the Earth,waiting for light,waiting to be struck.~Alice Walker, Hard Times Require Furious Dancing

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-70902698965435108402022-01-20T17:54:00.004-06:002022-01-20T17:54:35.718-06:00

By: Skyler Saundersheartbreakinghow we decidedthe only one thatcounts is romantic.there are so manystrains aching inthis cavity. so manypeople whose eyesI seek in a crowd,whose laughs make bubblesin my lungs. there'sso much morethan kissing.don't you seehow this alllove? don't youknow there's toomany of youto name?

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-1735029414981756602022-01-14T16:05:00.002-06:002022-01-14T16:08:24.169-06:00

 I rarely come here with original writing anymore. It's usually a poem I stumbled across or a quote that I overhear that causes me to log in to this 'ol thing and copy/paste. Like when a child collects rocks and saves them in a special place to protect and save them, that's what this blog is to me now. It's a place for my treasures. This is my sister's wedding video which is filled with

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-75177182532351247502022-01-14T15:56:00.005-06:002022-01-14T16:08:03.409-06:00

 I rarely come here with original writing anymore. It's usually a poem I stumbled across or a quote that I overhear that causes me to log in to this 'ol thing and copy/paste. Like when a child collects rocks and saves them in a special place to protect and save them, that's what this blog is to me now. It's a place for my treasures. This is my sister's wedding video which is filled with

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-78312904642649215562021-10-05T11:55:00.005-05:002021-10-05T11:55:46.828-05:00

When do you knowWhen to go?When he cares for you,And cooks for you,And brings you cups of coffee in bedOn Saturday mornings when you're slow to wake up.When do you knowWhen to go?When he takes you on trips around the world,And shares his best bottles of wine with you,Knowing that your palate is unrefined, But still wanting to know what your tongue tastes.When do you knowWhen to go?When he

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-50626669223387209292021-07-13T14:47:00.002-05:002021-07-13T14:47:48.880-05:00

By Morgan Harper NicholsEven here, you are growing.When August is approachingand you feel a little restlessthinking about howthis month might endand howthis year might endand how you are supposed tostart again,you are growing,you are growing,in gracecouragestrength.And it is okayif it does not feel like it.It is okay if there are momentswhere you cannot seethe way you have grown,because far

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-1966828669783664132021-04-21T10:45:00.000-05:002021-04-21T10:45:57.766-05:00

By: Jonathan PotterIf I could flyMy plane to youI'd put the skyInto my shoeAnd make my wayAcross the blueIn half a dayThat's what I'd doTo spend the eveningTouching youAnd then the morningThrough and throughAnd on and onAnd deep intoYour dusk my dawnOur one from two

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-18768392473561873892021-04-06T14:49:00.007-05:002021-04-06T14:52:39.283-05:00

By: Alicia Ostrikerwhen love floods a person        it cutsa canyonthat deepens year after year        carrying siltaway leavingthe essential person        revealedletting everyone seethe layers of yellow        sandstone, red basaltgrey granitewhen love washes over a person    &nbsp

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-32946567768463347642021-03-02T12:21:00.000-06:002021-03-02T12:21:12.584-06:00

By: Al YoungStay beautifulbut don't stay down underground too longDont turn into a moleor a wormor a rootor a stoneCome on out into the sunlightBreathe in treesKnock out mountainsCommune with snakes& be the very hero of birdsDon't forget to poke your head up& blinkThinkWalk all aroundSwim upstreamDont forget to fly

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-27028869991086265522021-02-28T10:15:00.001-06:002021-02-28T10:15:16.452-06:00

In the notes app in my phone, I have a note titled, "Things to Write Poems About." It's a list of things I've felt, noticed, thought in the past year. It's also a list of ideas for poems that aren't poems, just ideas. They live in my phone the way that a bag of flour lives in my cupboard. It's nothing until it's combined, kneaded, created. Then it's bread. My poems aren't poems when they live in

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-90855800061935010222021-01-22T09:20:00.003-06:002021-01-22T09:22:29.845-06:00

By: Amanda Gorman"When day comes we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid,the new dawn blooms as we free it.For there is always light,if only we're brave enough to see it.If only we're brave enough to be it."<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LZ055ilIiN4" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope;

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-80911856000338032852021-01-10T10:47:00.002-06:002021-01-10T10:47:28.920-06:00

We're 10 days into a new year, 10 days away from a new president, And in the middle of a raging pandemic. Our candidate won, Yet people refuse to accept it. The miracle vaccine came, Yet people refuse to take it. We have never been more connected, Yet people have never been so divided. Life feels bleak and threatening, America: frustrating and impossible,

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-74087825281737499992021-01-05T12:58:00.001-06:002021-01-05T12:58:22.841-06:00

By: RumiThis being human is a guest house.Every morning a new arrival.A joy, a depression, a meanness,some momentary awareness comesAs an unexpected visitor.Welcome and entertain them all!Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,who violently sweep your houseempty of its furniture,still treat each guest honourably.He may be clearing you outfor some new delight.The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-27352532634992960582020-12-04T15:43:00.003-06:002021-01-05T12:59:05.327-06:00

By: Kim AddonizioThey hang around, hitting on your friendsor else you never hear from them again.They call when they're drunk, or finally get sober,they're passing through town and want dinner,they take your hand across the table, kiss youwhen you come back from the bathroom.They were your loves, your victims,your good dogs or bad boys, and they're overyou now. one writes a book in which a

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-13494788157837975392020-10-23T10:19:00.001-05:002020-10-23T10:19:01.575-05:00

By: Mary OliverI worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the riversflow in the right direction, will the earth turnas it was taught, and if not how shallI correct it?Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,can I do better?Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrowscan do it and I am, well,hopeless.Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,am I going to get rheumatism,lockjaw,

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-65128489293748413332020-10-06T11:41:00.008-05:002020-10-06T11:41:36.641-05:00

by Joyce Sutphen Everything remembers something. The rock, its fiery bed, cooling and fissuring into cracked pieces, the rub of watery fingers along its edge. The cloud remembers being elephant, camel, giraffe, remembers being a veil over the face of the sun, gathering itself together for the fall. The turtle remembers the sea, sliding over and under its belly, remembers legs like wings,

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-66794131805443702442020-09-28T10:28:00.003-05:002020-09-28T10:28:37.992-05:00

"This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos contains

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-65471660420942001552020-07-30T10:02:00.007-05:002020-08-06T16:07:39.817-05:00

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-1858737415689208852020-07-17T14:58:00.002-05:002020-07-17T15:01:43.085-05:00

By Kenneth RonkowitzA star chart tells methat the star I am seeing tonightis 500 light years away.It may have died 499 years ago,and I am still seeing its last light.Stars are born, they live, and they die. What is the light that remains when we leave?If I die after writing this poem, is this my light, and how long might that light remain and be seen?I wondered last night and still this

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-25035802172977613722020-06-01T13:46:00.000-05:002020-06-01T13:46:00.174-05:00

I want to write about what's going on in America right now, what's going on down my street, what's going on in my heart.  I want to write about how angry I feel about the cruelty of racism and discrimination. I want to write about how awful I feel about those things even though I've never experienced them firsthand. I want to write about what I've learned about how we got here and what I

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-44600218270753793162020-04-22T09:54:00.002-05:002020-04-22T10:08:10.315-05:00

My mom tells me that when she sees that I have a new post, "it's like sitting down with a warm cup of coffee and piece of chocolate." She prints out my poems and essays and gives them to grandma to read at her kitchen table. They both tell me that I should submit my writing to be published, but who needs the validation of getting published when the two women I admire most in the world already

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-77427971000946632182020-04-10T11:00:00.000-05:002020-04-10T11:01:24.236-05:00

On Wednesday night I learned that the world had lost John Prine, that I had lost John Prine, and the familiar feeling of loss once again came out from the shadows. The acuteness of the grief didn't compare to when I lost my dad or my grandpa, but the achiness felt the same. We were out of time and it just didn't feel fair. I remember so vividly listening to John Prine records with my dad--and on

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-54790382793518532262020-04-10T10:24:00.005-05:002020-04-10T10:24:57.481-05:00

What it feels like To be a fly stuck Between a closed window And a window screen Is what it feels like To be me today.

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4686500264279402115.post-73643933076132567992020-04-06T12:30:00.001-05:002020-04-06T12:30:58.530-05:00

It's my 21st day and 22nd hour of staying home and social distancing (not that I'm counting or anything). There is so much to write and record and reflect on what's happening, but I'm struggling with how to organize everything swimming in my head. So I'm not going to organize it; I'm just going to type it. Other than going to a grocery store once for tomatillos and margarita mix, I have not been

Amanda Lightfieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10933752685060867494noreply@blogger.com0