Poetry and Posterity
My Journey to Becoming a Poet and What I Found Along the Way
Exploring Life and Literature
Dear friends,
I met
when we signed up for the Substack Writers at Work Cohort led by the wonderful . We connected through a love for the written word and its power to be a force for change in the world. Jody Collins is a poet, retired teacher, and author of three books, including Mining the Bright Birds: Poems of Longing for Home. I purchased a copy of this captivating poetry collection, which explores themes of spirituality, nature, and the quest for belonging. Jody masterfully intertwines reflections on prayer, writing, gardening, family, and birds, creating verses that resonated deeply with me. Her poems serve as signposts, offering comfort and insight as we navigate our own paths toward understanding and connection. This collection is a testament to the beauty found in everyday moments and the universal longing for a place to call home.Jody and her husband live in the Seattle area. When she isn’t writing poetry, she loves spending time with her children and grandchildren, marveling at the birds in her yard, and messing about in the garden. Although she is retired from a career in teaching, she still finds time to educate and assist other writers.
You can find more of her work online at her author website www.jodyleecollins.com and on Substack at Poetry & Made Things.
Please enjoy this wonderful guest essay from my friend, Jody.
My Grandkids Asked Me Complaints are afoot in certain close quarters that my poems don't rhyme, they're merely imposters. The grandchildren ask me, "Is that how you write one? I'm not really sure, Nana, your kind's the right one." "There're no matching endings, really no reasoning. It's like eating roast beef without any seasoning. Tasteless and boring and lacking in color, we honestly think that there's nothing duller." Well fine, I give up, I'll leave free verse behind, and because I'm your Nana, exceptionally kind, I've put pencil to paper, all right, I can show 'em read on my dear lovelies, for here is your poem. fr. Mining the Bright Birds: Poems of Longing for Home, 2023, Wipf & Stock/Resource
The first poems I ever remember saving are from Mrs. Appy’s 9th grade English class, in a folder labeled simply ‘Poetry.’ 50 years later I can’t for the life of me locate it but I can see its contents--the ditto ink is faded but still quite legible. There are selections by Richard Brautigan and e.e.cummings, of course and a poem about JFK’s assassination, “There would always be a November 23rd.”
I think about Mrs Appy often and wonder if she knew our future selves would want these poems for posterity. I’m sure I was much more focused on how I’d be working on my tan at the beach come the weekend.
I have kept a lot of poems and pieces of paper and letters and what-have-you over the years. Keeping what we love can be a way to share a legacy with those who come after us; they tell a story of our lives, revealing what’s important to us, what makes us tick. I have found that the things we keep also keep us.
I suppose I’ve always been drawn to words, enticed by the seeds of beautiful language planted long before 9th grade. There are vivid recollections of hiding in my bedroom with a book, away from the noise and chaos of a busy houseful of siblings. I was often left in charge of my four younger brothers and sisters, sometimes late into the evening while my less-than-present- parents were out drinking and dancing. Little Women, Freckles, Rose in Bloom…these are some of the classics that filled my heart with presence and beauty in the middle of challenging times. At least in books there were people who cared for and loved each other.
The seeds of writing began to grow there, too, long before 9th Grade. My dreams began to take shape first while tapping madly on the Smith-Corona typewriters in my High School typing class, then in earnest many years later as a young mother, pocketing away time at my husband’s desk. I eventually had several Letters to the Editor and essays published in our local paper—the Fresno Bee—one of which I was actually paid $75. Instructor Magazine and even People printed some of my musings, mostly my opinions, truth be told.
When I returned to school to pursue a teaching degree after my children were on their elementary school way, writing fell by the wayside and my words languished. I blinked and our children were grown and in college when someone mentioned blogging. It was 2012.
Did I mention I blinked?
Our family had relocated from California to Seattle by then and found ourselves in January of that year completely snowed in. For a week. My kids weren’t driving to school, and I certainly wasn’t slogging to my classroom anytime soon. So, I Googled “What’s a blog?” As one does.
I’d been sensing a nudge to get my thoughts out on paper again and had no way to do so, especially given my time constraints. But when the internet provided virtual parchment and built in online community, I dove into writing and never looked back.
My focus? “The intersection of faith and life” a broad-brush stroke of amorphous intent if there ever was one. The essays and reflections on my author site (still out there in the webosphere) ranged in content and random reflections as I waxed eloquent on any and everything through the lens of life as a Christian. I had thoughts. (See Letters to the Editor above.)
However, after a decade of writing online as well as being featured in various print publications, I began to reassess. When one is, ahem, a certain age one’s legacy to those who come behind looms large. If I’m going to devote my time to writing, what really mattered most? Where was I going to invest my finite amounts of time? It took a while to focus.
When I began writing online, I’d been welcomed into a community of online Christian writers by then-editor of The High Calling, L.L.Barkat. Laura’s influence in my life cannot be understated. Her idea positing the presence of a “Divine Librarian” in one’s life Who guides as we pull books off the various shelves we encounter, resonated deeply. I could track my growth spiritually, mentally and emotionally by the choices of books I “just-so-happened” to read. Her theory holds.
L.L. pivoted in 2013 and committed exclusively to poetry, founding Tweetspeak, an online community which has continued to flourish and grow. My own flourishing as a poet can be traced to L.L’s influence, encouragement and inspiration. If my time on earth was distilling itself, what if I distilled my writing as well? What would happen if I learned to say more with less, became focused on the sound of language and images? Who knew?
I began by reading the work of other contemporary Christian poets: Tania Runyan, Luci Shaw, Malcolm Guite, and others, then buying their books, going to workshops and attending panels and readings. Each one was beyond gracious and encouraging, putting up with my newbie naiveté. I was hooked.
I went all in on poetry in early 2018, reading, reading, reading. Well, and fangirling (see above). I continued to practice and post and eventually was privileged to find two “slender volumes of modern poetry” out in the world. (Malcolm Guite’s phrase).
I moved my writing from my website blog to Substack in late 2023—what a joy it has been! The connection and engagement have been good for my soul.
My grandkids still aren’t sure about the legacy I’ve left them.
“Your books are pretty, Nana, but your poems don’t rhyme.”
The five oldest grandkids range in age from 13-22. The youngest one is 5 ½ and has no opinion.
“What’s a poem?”
No matter. I pray that one or two of them will take a book of mine off their own shelves someday, leaf to a page and find the words shimmering, then share them with a friend.
“My Nana wrote this. May I read it to you?”
I pray that is so.
What My Grandkids Will Say About Me on Oprah When my grandkids talk to Oprah about their Nana, the famous writer, they will say words were my oxygen— to read, write and share and that I spent way too much money at thrift stores on books by dead authors— Emily Dickinson, George Herbert, L. M. Montgomery and Keats. They will also tell her I loved to sing— another form of breathing— and how I embarrassed them in public by belting out the “Tomorrow” song from Annie or grabbing their elbows in the mall while shouting “We’re off to see the Wizard!” They will announce to the world, in front of God and everybody, that my profession as a teacher was their greatest undoing; constantly coaching about penmanship, the correct formation of the letter “a,” pointing out misread syllables in a favorite text. They will oblige Ms. O’s prodding by adding the death knell— that I couldn’t help myself when it came to learning, revealing in hushed tones that I often resorted to using an encyclopedia as torture (the 1956 World Book edition). My grandchildren will remind her, however, (before the commercial break) my best qualities were the way I delighted in the world, showing them wonders in the garden, surprises in the grass, the avian miracles of chickadees and juncos in the branches, robins in the birdbath. Most of all, when my grandkids talk to Oprah, they will tell her my lungs longed for the breath of Heaven, the Word, and how its oxygen proved my greatest life support throughout my livelong days. Fr. “Hearts on Pilgrimage Poems & Prayers,” Newport Press, 2021
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Until next time,
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