Presented by:
Robert E.
Yahnke
Professor, General College
University of Minnesota
On the first night of my course, "Humanities, Aging, & Family Living," I introduce students to poetry as a primary means of gaining insights into the aging process. I share poems from William Carlos Williams, Rolf Jacobsen (translated by Robert Bly), Maya Angelou, and Linda Pastan. Each of the poems I share with them that first night are richly detailed, filled with poetic images, and focused on specific themes about aging.
On the second class period I introduce them to Kenneth Koch's experience teaching poetry writing in a nursing home in New York City in 1978. Koch organized his lesson plans around topics, such as colors, music, touch, seasons, and comparison. Some of the assignments: write about quiet times, talking to the moon and stars, lies, and "I never told anybody." The many sample poems included in the text reveal the creativity, imagination, humor, and insight of the old. I share the following information with students.
Poetry Writing Tips
*Based on Kenneth Koch's text,
I Never told Anybody:
Teaching Poetry Writing in a Nursing Home
PREMISE: There is no barrier between ordinary speech and the speech of poetry, which uses the music of ordinary speech.
Then I distribute an assignment for students to participate in a collaborative class poem. Koch did the same thing at his first meeting of his poetry writing class. I give them the following information:
Focus on memories of an older person; think of places you were with an older person; think of something you remember about that place; think of happy times and sad times; think of colors, sounds, images, seasons, clothes, words spoken, music played; think of things associated with the older person; think of a building, an outdoor scene, some event; think of some sharing or interaction or encounter; think of names of people, animals, towns, buildings, streets; make your memory very small, specific, limited in scope.
Some of the students write a draft of an entire poem. Others write a few lines. I organize all of their responses into a series of related sections so that the work of everyone in the class will appear in the collaborative class poem. Then I comment on the individual selections and encourage them to rework and resubmit at a later date. Often some of the students' best work is based on their revision of their first night's work.
Here are some examples of collaborative class poems. In all cases I have changed names or specific locations to respect anonymity. The first two poems are from two sections of the course "Creativity & Aging," taught as part of a curriculum offered through the University's All-University Council on Aging.
Oh! It's my turn again!
Cussing, she hobbled down the stairs
Pearl tugged on her red and gray plaid jacket
It is cool this afternoon in the raspberry patch
Carefully she bends, gently she gathers the sweet red berries
Her small frame moving easily between the rows
That have grown in the spot for forty years
She snagged her red and gray plaid jacket on the vines
Now she knows the patch like she knows her home in the dark
Raspberry cheesecake, or raspberry pie?
Harry is watching his cholesterol--better make it pie.
Focusing on the cold air
that passed by
now and then,
he tugged at the small woolen scarf
barely covering his frail body.
"Whose hands are these?" he wondered
as he set his hands
back on his lap
a tear fell down
(Out of the air, it seemed)
and meandered
like a stream
over his thumb
and once-strong
hands.
"Whose tear is that?" he wondered
once again surprised
by the movie that
was being played
in front of him . . .
over and over,
day after day.
He didn't see the small step jutting out from
the corner grocery store and stumbled,
blooding his 80-year-old Irish nose.
As stubborn as her old black sweater
she sits and knits a hundred purple hats
I noticed our reflections . . .
When did she get so stupid?
When did her eyes lose their color?
How can we still look alike?
Grandma Belland
Wasn't my Grandma.
But she was great.
She made us ornaments at Christmas
And always wanted us to visit.
I remember her smile--
She did that a lot.
"Hey, Pop!" I said.
He narrows his eyes.
"Quiet! The news is on!"
But the corners of his mouth go up
And his eyes shimmer.
I put my arms around him
And kiss him on his bald head.
He tries to ignore me,
But I know he loves it.
Aunt Ada! You goofy gal!
I think back and I laugh.
But back then
You made me so angry
We had to watch the soaps,
Instead of Sesame Street.
And you'd cheat when you played cards with us.
I understand now,
But I used to get so angry!
Grandpa has always had white, shimmering hair
for as long as I can remember.
We used to feed the white sheep he kept.
We used to play in the hay loft for hours--
we'd play Star Wars.
We used to help him pick huge red apples from his trees.
Soon Grandpa will go on to the bright light in the sky!
We stood
in the crisp evening air
with the crickets
chirping at us from everywhere.
In wore my nightgown,
thin jacket,
and dusty tennis shoes.
The strong, aged hands
lifted me
toward the sky.
I stretched out my arms
in hopes of catching
a firefly.
The process of combining the poetic fragments into a whole, the collaborative class poem, is made easier when students create concise word pictures of specific, focused memories with an older person. Often one organizing principle is relationships with grandparents or other family members.
I try to remember the little things
Like the name of old neighbor's children
And the color of their hair.
The sun brightens the day
The sun uplifts the sick
The sun calms the mind of the troubled
Oh! The glory of the sun is seen everywhere!
Trees and bushes are filled with
buds of promise of new green
leaves and fragrant lilacs. They
look feathery from a distance
I've seen the promise of the season
for many years
I hope to see the promises
for many more years
Tears
can not
be blamed
for f
a
l
l
I
n
g
--imperfect host
The beginning and ending of big things.
Sitting at the old piano,
out of tune,
in the church basement,
Marge was no longer grandma.
I remember
When Grandpa brought me
cucumbers
from the garden. I was
Happy.
Kelly wheeled her chair
over to the old maple tree
And licked the sweet sticky
spring from her fingers.
Tony was there dancing and singing
Larry was glad to get our cookies
Carl had a broken leg so he went to bed early
Grandma smoked,
Mary told us about her boyfriends and
Judy stole tissues and stuffed them in her shirt.
She said someone stole her new teeth
She said I looked like a movie star
The cows all had names,
I heard them every day.
It wasn't 'til later I found that
they changed day by day.
A central concern when arranging the sections of the collaborative poem is the movement from one set of related sections to another set. In the case of the following poem, composed from fragments from 23 students, I established a movement from the negative aspects of aging (physical decline, loss, grief) to the positive elements (intergenerational relationships, the old as strong, vital characters).
"My wife," whispered the broken old man
as he sat waiting by the window
"Her hair, her smile," he whispered,
slumped in his iron chair.
"Tell me again why you are here," he says
His hair tousled, his socks mismatched, his face worried
"Too many years gone by"
"Barely noticed"
"Take me back to that house on Sullivan Street."
"I don't belong in this home for invalids"
"I want my chair--I want my family--I want my life."
I woke in the dark
In the early morning, the first day of September,
And I heard my Mom
Crying in the next room.
And I heard my Grandpa crying in the next room.
I knew she was gone.
The house felt silenced.
When Grandma died, Grandpa practically lived
up north in that tree--There was no reason
to go back to the city
Some days he'd sit in his flannel shirt and camel hat
atop that oak tree
and watch the land,
the stream,
the animals.
I remember that cold day
When Grandma's hands began to shake.
When I was a child,
She cradled my little body in her arms.
Now it's my turn
To cradle her.
Now my 75-year-old grandmother,
Who used to take strolls in the park,
Read and tell stories to her grandchildren,
And live all of days with energy and delight--
is diagnosed with Alzheimer's--
Wondering what she will be like--
Will she look like me? Will she act like me? Sound like me?
Ah, yes. That small quaint white house and well-tended yard.
Looking so still and quiet.
And I stand at the bus top on a blustery January morning,
And see three people,
one, a woman bent and bundled
in layers of well-worn clothing.
Grandma shouted back,
"I don't see any hooks in your ass!"
Peppermint and sugar melt in my mouth
as he tells me again
of wooing my grandmother
"Only 18 and so beautiful!"
"Judas Priest! Let the damn dog out!"
". . . and me so old already."
Two noisy kids fighting over a ragged ball--
Then, in the blink of an eye--
The old woman leaped out of her chair--
like a panther pouncing out of the long grass
onto its unsuspecting prey--
And that ragged ball--
That source of her discontent and rage--
Was in her grasp like a babe in a mother's arm--
We were dumbfounded!
It's her chair, well padded with at least five blankets--
She gazes out the window as the boats pass . . .
Just watching . . . peacefully . . .
Her face is wrinkled, her glasses thick . . .
Her mind miles and miles and miles away . . .
I remember my grandmother weeping quietly in her chair
As I leave her small stale-smelling room--
I peek in
at her
without her noticing
--she hasn't moved--she is still crying--
Yes, put your arm around me, frail and gentle woman--
I can smell your GRANDMA perfume--
Its strong scent brings back the memories--
Sweet, gentle Grandmother--
Standing by a cold, snowy window, and
Remembering her sweet younger days--
I walk through the doorway of her room in the nursing home--
And there she sits in a wheelchair--
Watching TV, a bag of cheese puffs
in her lap,
a glass of orange pop
in her hand.
She smiles,
and she gives me an
orange kiss
as I hug her.
Mud pies and honey from the hive.
A pony named Happy and two Siamese cats.
My memories and mine only.
Grape juice and 7-Up in a tall green plastic glass.
I sip and sip
Swinging on the hammock under the willow tree
at Grandma's house
I like the willow tree
And I like you Grandma.
Red
Barn, raspberries, strawberries, hollyhocks, carnations
The worn towel she wrapped me in a
Nap-time blanket laid under the willow tree
Jenna's soft wrinkled cheeks.
Cucumbers full of prickly vines, green beans ready to harvest--
The hot summer sun reflects off the lake across the road--
And Grandpa and I kneel in the fresh, damp soil of the garden--
I want to pick everything in sight--right away--and he says,
"Be patient."
We walked along the cold spring pathway,
My frail grandmother on my arm,
And we came to an abrupt halt.
She had noticed the first robin of the spring.
Turning to me, she said, "I love you."
Fresh carrot cake smells teasingly from the kitchen
mixed with some forgotten medicinary musk
A cross and a poem on the wall testify to long devotion and service
Small and bent, a friend brings biscuits and tea
to complete a joyful greeting.
Grandma and I are sitting in the big green chair with arms
We both fit just right
We watch TV and Grandma dozes off,
Her long gray hair pulled into a bun,
And she snored a loud grizzly sound--
But I stayed right next to Grandma in the big green chair.
Grandpa sits in HIS chair,
his legs crossed, twirling his glasses
between his right forefinger and thumb,
Telling stories, watching bowling, laughing.
I'm supposed to clean the house,
But I sit on the couch instead--
Listening, watching, laughing.
PSTL 1902 Seminar: Aging
Prof. Yahnke
COLLABORATIVE CLASS POEM
September 19, 2006
Smiles shine on me—
No nights exist,
as my rainbow shines eternal
I float with the clouds,
ride on the wind,
and never look back
at where I'm coming from.
Hanging out with uncle Ed
Staring at the dark night
Gazing at the stars
On a hot summer night
Crickets chirping and dogs barking
Having a good laugh
I can see the wrinkles on his face
With the gray coming through
What an adventure he had
From the Vietnam war
To the life in California
Through the good times and the bad—
I can see it in his eyes
So old in appearance
Yet a kid at heart.
A time of Joy
whenever she is near,
Song after song, elegantly played on the piano,
while I sit watching on the bench,
Hours upon hours of knitting, reading, and silly card games
The sweet aroma of freshly baked cookies
and warm oatmeal,
Lefse,
"Grandma's hotdish",
special fruit salad,
all fill our tummies.A long walk by the river and through the woods
Marine on the St. Croix,
Tiny birds chirping, deer lurking,
One quick stop at the corner store,
Then back to grandma's house we go,
A place that I’ll never forget.
I’ve spent countless hours
in my grandma’s house.
Together we played card games at the dining room table,
which was always covered with a white lace tablecloth.
She taught me how to shuffle and deal,
and how to play Slap Jack.
We both wanted to win
and she wouldn’t go down without a fight.
We would play for hours in the quiet of the afternoon,
until long after the evening sun had set.
It was so peaceful and secluded
from the bustle of the street outside.
Sometimes we went outside to enjoy
the wonderful summer sun
and the sweet smell of lilacs.
We had fun—just the two of us.
Walking through the fairgrounds
My hand in yours
Pungent smells of corndogs, caramel corn, and saltwater taffy—
And I feel safe with youPeople crowd past us to our left and to our right,
But we're in our own world
You protect me, as we fight our way through the crowds—
I feel safe with youThe sun is shining and the breeze is blowing softly
We stop to buy some sweet snacks
My mouth is watering—
And still, I'm safe with you
One in a Million
While the rides are continuously in motion
All the people are rushing around me
Excitement and fear fills up in my heart
As I watch bodies turning upside down
Smelling corn dogs and craving ice cream
Feeling blessed to be seated next to such a person
Singing songs, drawing pictures feeling love
Followed by darkness unexpected
unprepared sitting in sadness
Purple was her color
I made it mine too
Our color
PurplePiano, drum, & guitar in the basement
Never once did I hear a complaint
Fall trick or treating
Summer Valley Fair
Spring Easter Sunday
Winter my favorite time of year
Christmas
Ham, turkey…
I smell the sweet potato pie
Football games on thanksgiving
All gone in one night
Jazz music plays softly as I lay down to sleep
After a sandwich and Cheetos
“I love you”
“I miss you”
“I’ll see you later”
“Happy birthday”
“Merry Christmas”
My Ash, that’s what she called me
Those straw summer hats
Going to work at four in the morning
An unbelievably big heart
Could have asked for anything
holding Lexi in her lap while laughing loudly at T.V.
I would watch her fall out cold into a nap
Tears filling up in me
because I know I’ll never meet another woman like her.
My Grandpa is old.
He always talks about how he used to love to drive his rusty truck.
He loved to hang out with his drinking buddies
and just have a fun time. \
He remembers how he used to carry
loads of chipped wood for his cheap house.But then I remember being right next to him on the hospital bed.
It was a cold place with old people moaning everywhere.
I didn't’t like it.I remember when he chose me
as the person he would give his necklace to.
I was delirious with happiness.
The necklace had been with him for a very long time.
The name “Angel” was carved on it.But then there was a time
when he got out of his bed at night
Went to find me and told me that tonight was the last time he would walk the earth.
I was scared.He would always wear that smelly sweater—
the one with the red and pasty bars.
When he is feeling bad or just wanted to be alone,
He would go to his room and play the same song over and over
and I still don’t know if he realizes that he does that—or if he just loves that song.But then he used to be able to speak well,
And now to hear him you have to be up to his face.
Or all you will hear is mumbles.
And that makes me sad.He was born in Honduras
and says that he wants to be buried in the country
where he belongs--
His land.The memories have faded
Since he left this place.
But I can still see every crease
In that weathered face of his.
His skin was dyed by the sun,
Slightly browned to say the least.
It felt to the touch like clay,
Molded by the poke of a finger.
Stubble covered his donut chin
And traveled part way down his neck.
His eyes, little dashes
Due to extra skin and puffiness.
But as long as I can recall
Every inch of his face,
There will never be a more handsome man in the world.
Forget
I never forget
the name of my first dog, Flicka.
I never forget
my first car.
I never forget
the drought of 1937.
I never forget
where I was when the war ended.But now I forget
simple things like how to tie my shoes.
I forget
how to balance my checkbook.
I forget
where I am,
And I forget
the names of my own children.
Now my only wish |
is to remember
the forgotten things.
My middle name
He thinks intensely for several minutes
Endlessly filing through the volumes
of
Information accumulated over more than 70 years
The word finally comes to him
The short, old pencil fills in the oddly-arranged boxes
‘Movies of the 50s’
The reminiscence is so obvious on his face
Don’t Remember
I remember Saturday afternoon visits to my great grandmother
Reluctantly I would step out of the car and move in slow, shuffling steps to the house.
I remember dallying to smell the bright red and pink hibiscus flowers
and breathing in the brilliant purple bougainvilleas and picking a sunny yellow lilac
I remember my mother telling me to stop fooling around and hurry up
I remember the smell of menthol vapor rub as I slowly entered her room
her gravelly voice telling me to come closer
and when I did her dry soft smooth hands gripping my moist sticky fingers
and pulling me towards her
I remember her light brown eyes, her almost white hair, her soft craggy face
as I leaned in for the kiss
I remember the rustle and crinkle of the plastic liner under her sheets
I remember answering the usual questions about school and my friends
I remember being impatient and wanting to leave!
I remember feeling happy when we finally left and sad of something my eight year old mind
could not explain.
But ask me her name and I do not remember.
Grandparents
Reflections on Old Age
Reflections on Loss & Old Age
Poems on Course Materials
The Poets of Aging: A Selected Bibliography
New Poems by Students
Return to the POETRY OF AGING home page