"This work is unlike any other, in its range of rich, conjuring imagery and its dexterity, its smart voice. Carroll-Hackett doesn’t spare us—but doesn’t save us—she draws a blueprint of power and class with her unflinching pivot: matter-of-fact and tender." —Jan Beatty

Posts tagged ‘Tenderness’

Daily Prompt Catch-Up! 12 New Prompts!

12 February 2018

The world today desperately needs tenderness. Make art about acts of tenderness, tender hands.

tenderness

13 February 2018

Make art about losing time.

losing time

14 February 2018

Make art about feeling fragmented.

fragment

15 February 2018

Make art about the weight of grieving.

grieving

16 February 2018

Make art about righteous anger.

anger

17 February 2018

Make art about what shines.

Lotus flower

18 February 2018

Make art about the betrayal of children, betraying a child’s trust.

betraying children

19 February 2018

Make art about what patriotism means to you.

patriotism

20 February 2018

Make art about who watches over you.

watching over

21 February 2018

Make art about working toward the answer.

answer

22 February 2018

Make art about the revolution.

revolution

23 February 2018

“And a little child shall lead them.”- Isaiah 11:6 Make art inspired by this. 

child shall lead

 

Daily Prompt Catch-Up <3 All About Some Love and Joy–Gotta Be, In These Dark Days

14 June 2017

Make art about ways of finding (re-finding) your joy.

find your joy

 

15 June 2017

Make art about taking a risk on Love. 

risk to love

 

Daily Prompt <3 What We Love

 

Happy National Poetry Month! Another favorite poet, the amazing Amy Tudor. 🙂 ❤ 

What We Love

Amy Tudor
I walk my old dog down a street called Holiday,
past trees whose white bark is trimmed with silver
in the light rain of early Spring. The dog’s small heart
is failing and the vet’s said he shouldn’t be out,
but if we walk slowly he can go four or five squares 
of sidewalk, then I let him stop and rest. 

He puts his nose up into the cool air, the wind ruffling 
his black and white coat and the gray on his ears, 
the wind smoothing over him. When he can’t go 
any further (halfway past that lovely ocre-colored house 
in my neighborhood, the one that’s half-hidden by linden 
and guarded by an iron gate), I carry him against my chest.

One day a black lab stood at a driveway gate
and barked at us as we passed.  My old dog 
looked from beneath half-lidded eyes and didn’t answer, 
and finally the other dog’s owner, an older man,
came out the screen door and called the dog to come back.  
The dog rose from where he sat, a hind leg dragging 
and his right-front hitched as he moved toward the house.  
I watched it go.  The man looked at me holding 
my old dog against my chest.  The man smiled.  
He raised a hand, half-greeting, half-regret.

I should say here that I know the rules I’m breaking.
I was told years ago that poets shouldn’t waste 
their time on trivial  things like dying pets. 
“It’s been done, and done, and done to death,”
a friend once said.  And it has, sure 
as death’s been done and done and done to death. 

So I’ll make a deal with you– forget 
what I’ve said about my dog in my arms, 
his nose in the air, the wind like hands.  And forget 
the man and his black lab that limped up 
those brick back steps.  I won’t write about any of that.  
I’ll write a poem about what we love instead. 

What we love is a night and a house 
wreathed with linden, the dark kept outside 
a circle of light over an iron gate.  It’s fine 
as silver paper or the wind of early Spring.  
What we love is a tree that grows outside our window 
as we grow inside its panes, a small good thing 
we bring home – or that follows us there — one day.  
Then it’s a friend that walks with us, gentle 
and welcome as rain.  It’s what we call to us to come 
when darkness is coming, and it’s what tends us, 
and what we tend. And finally it’s what we carry 
close against us, feeling blessed as we hold it 
and joy for what it gives and has given, 
for the comfort it’s been through hard, heavy days, 
forgiving every burden it’s been, grateful 
for even the grief we must carry when it’s gone, 
that soft, warm, impossible weight.

Make art about what you love.

tenderness

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