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This Poem was Submitted By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2005-02-09 21:44:23 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Reunion

What if I could spend tomorrow, all day, with my grandmother? Maybe it would start like this: Grandma talks all afternoon after she takes me through the back door into her kitchen. Once we are in there, stories start to roll out, roll out like biscuit dough. As she moves around the kitchen, she remembers what happens at the stove, what happens over by the sink-- what she sees out the window. The big snow -- and all of us squeeze around the dining table -- our cocoa steams up the windows. And then that time Grandpa cursed and put out the chimney fire with Red Devil. I open the door where she lives, that place inside me where she always lives and she begins reading her memories out of it; she begins to show me the spare bed with the blue quilt. I smell the lavender she keeps in the clean sheets, and the flax seed she uses to make hair-setting lotion. After that, Grandma and I just hold each other and have a good cry.

Additional Notes:
Revised

This Poem was Critiqued By: Gerard A Geiger On Date: 2005-02-24 17:59:05
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Dear Joanne; What a beautifully heartfelt poem about time spent with your Grandmother. Memories of congregating family members around the kitchen and hearth...along with the attendant smells associated with a clean well-kept home during the apex of its use as hub of the family activity center. Picturesque, homespun, warm and gentle....may I have a corn muffin, please? You may say no....but I bet Granma would say yes....and give me some strawberries to go with it!!.. Thanks for this delightful work, always your friend, Gerard

This Poem was Critiqued By: Troy D Skroch On Date: 2005-02-23 00:51:53
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.87500
Joanne, Ok, Ok, I'm better now. Sorry I went crazy in that critique the other night. I kind freaked out after spending time with your last poem only to refresh my screen and see it posted under a different title. I'm going to try to reformulate my thinking into a couple of questions for you. Do you believe that once a poem is communicated or shared with another living person it is in effect "born"? Do you think of a poem as a living entity? Do you think that by revising a poem you have in effect taken it off life support and turned it into alphabet soup? I mean doesn't the poem kind of become like Frankenstein after you've communicated it and then decided to take it to the operating room? At the minimum it leaves scars or does it? At what point does a poem become a poem? Is it crazy to view the mind as the womb of the poem and see the actual birth of the poem being the point those thoughts are communicated to another? It is crazy I guess. From a historical perspective I think of it like this as well: No second, no minute, no hour will be repeated. The state of your mind, at the time of your writing, can not be duplicated. How then can you actually revise a work? I know this sounds weird and doesn't promote healthy thinking, but after taking that walk with you in the woods and committing myself to the images mentally and actually seeing the world you described and more (the more came from cross referencing some of your other poetry), and then to have it edited, somehow seemed wrong to me and caused this reaction. How's that for a run on sentence. If I could just keep my thinking consistent I'd be alright. Oh, shoot, I just looked at the additional notes. LOL I think I wander over to Brenda's for another dish of crow. LOL Whew! I'm glad that's over. I'll never react to revisions again in that manner. I sorry that you had to be the mental bystander to my private argument, defense and somewhat bizarre resolution. But you know what Joanne, listening to my diatribe may be a once in a life time experience. "God I hope so", she says. Let's talk about your poem. Wouldn't it be amazing if it were true. If in fact, one of the gods, would give us an all day pass to grandma's and we could be about 6 or 7 years old again. It's a tearful thought and a good one. Grandma talks all afternoon after she takes me through the back door into her kitchen. Once we are in there, stories start to roll out, roll out like biscuit dough. Yes the kitchen, never the living room until night. That in my experience was the only time the TV ever came on. In the kitchen we would play slap jack, roll out cookie dough, cut Christmas cookies, make potato bread or cake and I would get to lick the spoon or beaters!! LOL That was the best. Grandma would even cut my hair in the kitchen. In the morning the smells of pancakes and Grandpa's coffee. And stories about everything from what was happening in the garden to what the neighbors were up to (it was a very small town). LOL The kitchen is so full of life and you bring it the page so well. The big snow -- and all of us squeeze around the dining table -- our cocoa steams up the windows. And then that time Grandpa cursed and put out the chimney fire with Red Devil. Around the table all of you squeeze in with runny noses. Your stocking caps, jackets and boots hung up or piled on the floor in the entry. Strands of sweaty hair stuck to foreheads, the result of having too much fun outside using snow shovels for sleds. Irregardless, everyone's eyes are admiring the cups of hot cocoa. Grandpas are not supposed to curse! At least when little ears are listening. Neither are fathers I've been told. From an artistic point of view I really like the look of Red Devil and how it fittingly ties in with Grandpa's cursing. Just the observation of crazy bug. The next two stanzas are very private and I won't intrude. Ok, just one thing. If you remember the poem I posted last month I used the phrase "we stand before the house of memories". Doesn't it just feel right to associate memories with being in a house. So much time is spent there and your mind is kind of like a house. I just like that you opened the door to your memories is all. Ok, yes, I'm going. Sorry to keep you so long just got to slip into this next paragraph quick there we go. Thanks for the cocoa. And Joanne, this is living poetry. And out into the rain he scuttles cursing the bees and being careful not to step on the howling tree frogs. troy bending light into our thought womb child laughs are born we birth the world - it is ours rainbow slapped with happiness we fly toward the sun and breathe life leaving it up to the breezes

This Poem was Critiqued By: Turner Lee Williams On Date: 2005-02-15 15:05:27
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.92857
Joanne–A host of good things going on here:IMO, almost an allegoric List/History/ Open/Free Verse Poem presenting poignant tribute. This plain language,literal,down- to-earth piece portray bittersweet eclectic retrospectives: those collection of memories producing vivid imagery of a unforgettable “Grandma/Grandchild/childhood” which is provided by double protagonist(s) (is there such a word?),since there's no antagonist. Moreover, the “Reunion” becomes a lament/catharsis. Similiar flash- backs made me misty eyed-again; "Once we are in there, stories start to roll out, roll out like biscuit dough." (what a yummy simile) Nothing wrong here: no suggestion, no redemption, none needed. Thanks for taking me back with you. TLW

This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne Duval Morgan On Date: 2005-02-12 23:17:21
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Beautiful memories leave a poet with wonderful sentiment memories, and a aura of the peoron that ceated those memories. One is aware of what you speak, for I remember handmade soap, and a kitchen where feasts of food prevailed, and the stories that were imbibed and never forgotten. That's what you created in this great poem, and in retrospect it sends me back to a time, and to a little woman, always dressed in an apron (as were all French women of the time). Memories stories to rise and create a warm glow of memories, right down to the cry together, yes we would you know (although I lost my Memere in 1958, thememories are etched in my makeup, and I wouldn't change any one of them. It was the age of innocense never to be relived, for we go through life, and sometimes all we have are the memories. The love shows through in your writing, and undoubtly she made a very heavy impression on your spirit, and you caught her persona and made the reader feel the kitchen, sense the smells, and recognize women back then had only just gotten the right to vote, it was a time of transitation, a lovely innocent time when Grandchildren got to know the Grandparents, and remember all those memories. Needless to say I enjoyed this poem a great deal, you captured what I feel is the essence of love. Great going.....Love, Jo Mo

This Poem was Critiqued By: Paul R Lindenmeyer On Date: 2005-02-11 16:34:53
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Joanne, Well, once more you weave your memories into the present "what if's" and make the cold room I'm in warm and full of the smells of "cocoa", "lavender", and "clean sheets" every wonderful Grandma entices her grandkids with. The story line is classic, and the short lines move the reader at a pace eager to find the conclusion. How else could it conclude, but in a heartfelt embrace of shared tears remembered. Touching and memorable to all who were fortunate enough to have such a woman in their lives. I had one, and my daughters have two of these Grand guardians to witness and hopefully emulate. Thanks for the enjoyable read, and sending me back to a kinder and gentler time. As always, my best to you. Peace, Paul

This Poem was Critiqued By: Wanda S. Thibodeaux On Date: 2005-02-10 23:30:11
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Dear Joanne, This is so natural, given the chance you would really do just these things. "Roll out the biscuit dough" is an original quote for sure, or perhaps Martha White said it...ha! The image of Grandpa cursing and spitting out the chimney fire is a treasure. I think you must mean chewing tobacco by "Red Devil." "I open the door where she lives, that place inside me where she always lives and she begins reading her memories out of it; she begins to show me the spare bed with the blue quilt." I love what you have said here. Didn't all Grandma's have spare beds and when not in use they kept their newest treasures on them, something they're sewing, knitting, etc., but the bed would be immaculate, the covers stretched tight. Those were such inviting beds. Even though memories invoke sadness sometimes, such as you might hold each other and have a good cry, there is such joy in remembering our loved ones and the things about them we cherished the most. Lovely piece, beautifully written. My very best, Wanda

This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2005-02-10 19:18:26
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Nice nice memories. I wish I could have known my grand-parents better and longer. I do remember one time visiting my mother's parents. After awhile I asked where my father was. My mom said he was in the basement. Down the dark stairs I went into the dank basement. It was like a large cold storage room with a dirt floor and one single light hanging from a chain. There was my father, and my grand-father sitting with their backs against a big wine barrel. Beside that was a pickle (dill) barrel. They were both soused and eating pickles with one hand and drinking wine with the other. Funny, funny for it was the first time I had ever seen my father soused. So thanks for the memories as one comedian once said. Well done and enjoyable read.Oh, and Red Devil? I think up here it's chawing tobaccy. Right?

This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2005-02-10 15:22:38
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.50000
Lovely tribute, which brings us into the room and puts us in touch of our own warm kitchen memories and each in our own way, our grandmothers. Reunion Good title – simultaneously straightforward and intriguing . What if I could spend all day tomorrow, with my grandmother? [would give it a little more enjambment] Maybe it would start like this: [nice] Grandma talks all afternoon after she takes me through the back door into her kitchen. Once we are in there, stories start to roll out, roll out like biscuit dough. I like the repetition of the rolling action As she moves around the kitchen, she remembers [nice R assonance] what happens at the stove, what happens over by the sink-- what she sees out the window. This is really interesting as in the story the grandmother as well as the granddaughter are “remembering” – and thus revisiting something which was in the past for both of them which makes this more of a visit than a memory and “fleshes” out the story in a really neat way. The big snow -- and all of us squeeze around the dining table -- our cocoa steams up the windows. And then that time Grandpa cursed and put out the chimney fire with Red Devil. I like the specificity of the nouns but I wish I knew what Red Devil was – to me it is a brand of fireworks . I open the door where she lives, that place inside me where [-she always is] and she begins reading her memories [-out of it; she] begins to show me the spare bed with the blue quilt. I smell the lavender she keeps in the clean sheets, and the flax seed she uses to make hair-setting lotion. I think the last stanza is a little drawn out – and for the first time veers toward the maudlin - what if it were to end simply We hold each other Then we have a good cry

This Poem was Critiqued By: Elaine Marie Phalen On Date: 2005-02-10 14:13:33
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Joanne, I read the earlier version of this and my eyes prickled throughout. They're still prickling so you've retained the initial intensity of emotion. I, too, keep imagining "what if ...?" my grandmother were to suddenly appear for a warm cuppa, or my mother drop in for a chat now that she can move around freely. Grandma talks all afternoon after she takes me through the back door into her kitchen. Once we are in there, stories start to roll out, roll out like biscuit dough. I like the immediacy of the present tense and the repetition of "roll out" both sounds nice - lovely "o" assonance - and suggests a continuity, as if the stories are neverending and you - her inheritor - will add your own to them. It's significant that you go by way of the "back door", reserved no doubt for close friends and family, as this will be a warm and informal visitation. As she moves around the kitchen, she remembers what happens at the stove, what happens over by the sink-- what she sees out the window. Again, there's repetition to imply that all is ongoing, and all that has been of signifiance to her. The remembering also suggests - to me - a woman who may have once forgotten what stoves and sinks are for. Possibly, she suffered a stroke or Alzheimers that impaired her menntal abilities later on in her life. (?) The big snow -- and all of us squeeze around the dining table -- our cocoa steams up the windows. And then that time Grandpa cursed and put out the chimney fire with Red Devil. These are vignettes of winters past, the welcome heat of cocoa and company, the mixed blessing of a chimney that can provide both fire and conflagration! (I wonder how many readers will recognize that Red Devil?? Boy, this does take a person back!). I open the door where she lives, that place inside me where she always lives and she begins reading her memories ......... "reading her memories" - lovely! out of it; she begins to show me the spare bed with the blue quilt. Okay, here's where the eyes start getting wet. "The door where she lives" is two-way, because she can come to you, as well as you to her, if both of you believe it can happen. The wall between the worlds is thin and we get to pass through when our minds are receptive, especially in sleep or hypnogogic relaxation. "She begins to show me" ..... hmm. This reminds me of the way our mutual friend, Margaret, is able to reveal the identities of those she contacts: they "show" her items important to them, while living, and we recognize the meaning behind them. Perhaps only you and your grandmother would truly remember that blue quilt; when you were a child, I bet you slept there often! I smell the lavender she keeps in the clean sheets, and the flax seed she uses to make hair-setting lotion. This introduction of olfactory imagery is very pleasant and also conveys a three-dimensional aspect of the woman herself. She not only assumes visible form, she communicates special scents (I've read that we can often detect a spiritual presence in a house because of a certain smell associated with that person). The tiny detail of the homemade setting lotion tells us that here is a resourceful lady and, perhaps, one not accustomed to "store-bought" luxuries denoting wealth. After that, Grandma and I just hold each other and have a good cry. The cry is so cathartic! It speaks of regret for things left unsaid forever, and for an absence too long endured. It is the release of such deep love that it almost overwhelms the two parties involved, yet they are sustained and stabilized by the hugs. This is an act of communication beyond mere words. However, there's the unstated idea that a parting must come and the tears are but a prequel to that separation. The grandmother must return to her own spiritual realm and the speaker, to her physical self. There's no permanence, yet, to this reunion. The tears link them through the salt and water which are so integral to our human makeup. But it is a "good" cry - strong and comforting. There's an air of acceptance here. The speaker is moved but not maudlin at any point, which allows us to share her experiences without drawing back. Beautifully done. I'm so glad to see this one again! ((Big Hug)) Brenda

This Poem was Critiqued By: Claire H. Currier On Date: 2005-02-10 03:33:46
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.85714
Good morning poet........Grandma, the one person in the whole world we could always count on for those lovely stories, hot cocoa and popcorn.....grandma here in New England made popcorn balls, the best ever, and the recipe was not left to be found......so enjoyed your being able to take us along to visit with your grandma, to be able to not only see but to hear some of those great tales and grandpa....putting out that chimney fire with red devil.......the smell of lavender, oh so real, thanks for taking the time to care and to share such memories......the one thing that will always stand out about my own grandmother is her hair, long, flowing, touching the floor.....we would wash it in the large basin and then go outside in the bright sunshine to have it air dried..........I cried the day she came home and it was gone......again, good structure, great word flow, and images, the most important are those emotions and images projected forth. God Bless, Claire

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