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Poetry Prompt: Unhoped Joy

By Callie Feyen 7 Comments

Where this week, will you find joy unhoped for?

I am trying to figure out a line of Queen Margaret’s in Henry VI, Part 3 when Jesse asks me whether my hands are cold after my morning run. The line is this: “Mine, such as fill my heart with unhoped joys.”

These winter running days aren’t too bad, except for my fingers, so Jesse has been buying multiple pairs of gloves in an attempt to keep my hands warm. It’s not like him to do this. Pardon the pun, but I have been Jesse’s girl since February of 1995, and he’s not the sort to make multiple purchases in order to fix something. He gets the right thing the first time, or he’ll do the next practical thing — in this case, tell me not too run because it’s too cold.

Lately though he’s been doing some borderline (for him) impractical things: sleeping on the couch in our living room couch near our dog, Corby, when she is having a bad night; giving our daughters ski lessons (not a low-cost, easy-to-learn sport); buying a restaurant-quality heat lamp so we can sit outside (next to the fire pit he built) with friends this winter.

I hesitate, but I end up telling him that I pulled my fingers out of the gloves and balled them into fists with them still on. “That helped,” I tell him, but I can tell he thinks I’m giving him a consolation prize. “Thanks for trying,” I imagine myself saying, “Here’s a lifetime supply of hand warmers and a coupon for 5% off your next purchase of $350 or more.”

I think Queen Margaret’s line is supposed to be sad, but this morning when I first read it, I thought, what a lovely thing to have a full heart of joy that was not hoped for. I’ve been wondering if we’ve all been hesitant to hope — or even to anticipate — joy. I wonder if we’ve taken joy for granted, as if it’s dependent on hope, as if it can be stopped by whether or not we plan to experience it, on how good or bad or right or wrong we are. As if joy knows these boundaries.

I walk into the kitchen and lean against the counter next to Jesse, who’s stirring oatmeal on the stove and holding his favorite mug of freshly filled tea. He will take the oatmeal and the tea downstairs with him and eat and drink while he works.

“Lots of meetings today?” I ask, clipping my gloves together. This pair came with clips sewn into them, a selling point for Jesse because the girls and I are always looking for a lost glove.

He nods once and knocks the metal spoon he’s using to stir his oatmeal on the rim of the pot to get the excess off.

I hand him a bag of flax seeds and the jar of cinnamon. “Brown sugar too?” I ask, and he nods again.

What I like about reading Shakespeare is that since I put no pressure on myself to understand the plot, I instead focus on enjoying the language. I know enough about Queen Margaret to know she makes Lady Macbeth look like Mother Teresa’s wild and irreverent cousin, so I’m sure her words I’m contemplating have a conniving tone.

This morning, standing alone in my kitchen and realizing my husband is experiencing pandemic fatigue but is doing his best to care for his family, work for the public good, and build and maintain friendships, I’m taking the Queen’s words and using them as a manifesto: “fill my heart with unhoped joys.”

Try It

This week write a poem about unhoped joy. When have you experienced joy this week without having to hope for it?

Featured Poem

Thank you to everyone who participated in last week’s Poetry Prompt. Here’s one from Rick Maxson we enjoyed:

I am

blue thread frayed
out of backyard games
from bows of Christmas boxes
a ribbon broken
by bindings breaking
a string that leads away
a streamer in the wind
at dusk in woods
of moonlit moss
swaying to whippoorwills
distant and lamenting
calling echoes
rings on dainty chains or
angora wrapped and brushed
off as love attends and goes
the unraveling of years
bicycles into cars
red lisle of tail lights wrapping
city stars rising in the night sky
fire fibers followed
from days end dissolving
at the edge of mountains
or imagined hissing of the sea
in the airs of hours’ end
the wrappings there
for the body of was

 

Photo by carlos andres reyes Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Callie Feyen.

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—Celena Roldan

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Callie Feyen
Callie Feyen
Callie Feyen likes Converse tennis shoes and colorful high heels, reading the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins, and the Twilight series. Her favorite outfit has always been a well-worn pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, but she wants hoop skirts with loads of tulle to come back into style. Her favorite line from literature comes from Sharon Creech’s Absolutely Normal Chaos: “I don’t know who I am yet. I’m still waiting to find out.” Feyen has served as the At-Risk Literacy Specialist in the Ypsilanti Public Schools and is the author of Twirl: my life with stories, writing & clothes and The Teacher Diaries: Romeo and Juliet.
Callie Feyen
Latest posts by Callie Feyen (see all)
  • Poetry Prompt: Courage to Follow - July 24, 2023
  • Poetry Prompt: Being a Pilgrim and a Martha Stewart Homemaker - July 10, 2023
  • Poetry Prompt: Monarch Butterfly’s Wildflower - June 19, 2023

Filed Under: Blog, poetry, poetry prompt, poetry teaching resources, Shakespeare, william shakespeare, writer's group resources, writing prompt, writing prompts

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About Callie Feyen

Callie Feyen likes Converse tennis shoes and colorful high heels, reading the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins, and the Twilight series. Her favorite outfit has always been a well-worn pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, but she wants hoop skirts with loads of tulle to come back into style. Her favorite line from literature comes from Sharon Creech’s Absolutely Normal Chaos: “I don’t know who I am yet. I’m still waiting to find out.” Feyen has served as the At-Risk Literacy Specialist in the Ypsilanti Public Schools and is the author of Twirl: my life with stories, writing & clothes and The Teacher Diaries: Romeo and Juliet.

Comments

  1. Megan Willome says

    February 8, 2021 at 10:04 am

    after the fall
    (no use denying the obvious)
    you leave your questions to the bed covers
    step into the cool morning
    and its lamentable doves
    keep stepping until
    the sun withdraws its arms
    then slip beneath the fin of the sheet
    not victim—Pilgrim

    Reply
    • Callie Feyen says

      February 16, 2021 at 7:29 pm

      I love that last word. Perhaps it is a send off to walk this unknown road looking for unhoped for joy.

      Reply
  2. Monica Sharman says

    February 9, 2021 at 1:40 pm

    Photo of an Archer

    Arm extended, aim held steady.
    Hand suspended, drawn and ready.
    Stretch and strain of muscles caught
    on photo film, the bowstring taut

    but never sending. No release.
    Pull and tension never cease,
    the way relentless yearnings find
    a soul, eternal yet confined

    to earth and time and lifelong wait.
    The pull of longing won’t abate
    ’til target’s sighted. Hope defies.
    Fingers open. Arrow flies.

    Reply
    • Callie Feyen says

      February 16, 2021 at 7:30 pm

      “relentless yearnings find/a soul, eternal yet confined” is a haunting and wonderful set of lines that I have been considering since I first read it a a couple of weeks ago.

      Reply
  3. Katie says

    February 9, 2021 at 4:42 pm

    Bundled up
    we walk in tire tracks
    marvel at frosted evergreens
    snap images on our phones

    Falling snow comes fast
    faster, fuller
    flakes clumped together
    we catch on our tongues

    Cheeks red
    we round the bend
    hill dips down to gully
    then back up toward home.

    Reply
    • Callie Feyen says

      February 16, 2021 at 7:31 pm

      I can feel and hear this walk. I love it.

      Reply
      • Katie says

        February 17, 2021 at 7:47 am

        Thanks, Callie. Was a fun time and is a sweet memory:)

        Reply

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