• Home
  • Blog
  • Newsletter
  • Archives
  • Portfolio
  • Contact
Menu

Crystal Rowe

Street Address
Beverly, MA 01915
Phone Number

Your Custom Text Here

Crystal Rowe

  • Home
  • Blog
  • Newsletter
  • Archives
  • Portfolio
  • Contact

Discovering the Joy of Poetry

April 10, 2022 Crystal Rowe

Did you know April is National Poetry Month? This post is the first in a three-part series on poetry. Don’t forget to read Part Two: Five Books of Poetry for Beginners and Part Three: How to Read (And Enjoy) Poetry.

I have a book of poems I wrote in my teen years—none of which feel particularly “good” nowadays—but writing poetry as a teen wasn’t about form or style. My teenage poetry took the form of a lot of questions. There weren’t many metaphors; not a lot of figurative language. It wasn’t poetry that would get any literary awards.

I never thought about being published. I wrote poetry as a way to process my emotions when I was going through hard times. Inspired by the psalms, my poems were prayers. Cries out to God to change my circumstances, or to give me strength to carry on. My teenage poetry was mostly sad. It was emotional. It was poetry that no one could write but me.

Ironically, though I wrote poetry in my high school years, I didn’t like to read poetry. Scarred by my high school English teacher’s questions: “What did the poet mean?” “What was he trying to say?” Reading poetry felt too hard; too scholarly. I didn’t want to think about the meaning behind the poem. I wanted to talk about what the poet was going through. I wanted to know her story. I had no interest in understanding metaphor or personification. I wanted to read something that made me know other people felt emotions deeply too.

I didn’t show anyone the poems I wrote. I kept them hidden in a box under my bed. When I graduated high school and went off to college, I left it at home. It was seven years later, cleaning out a closet at my Mom’s house, when I discovered my forgotten notebook, stuffed to the brim with favorite quotes and original poems.

Last year, I took a poetry course, in an attempt to rediscover the poet I once was. The first assignment was to create a poetry notebook. I groaned at first. Was this going to be another exercise in trying to figure out what the poet meant? But the instructions were different than I expected.

Choose any poem you’d like and copy it in your notebook. Underline words or phrases that stick out to you. Write about the senses: What does the poem make you see? Hear? Smell? Taste? What does it make you feel? Does it remind you of anything? What do you wonder?

These are all questions I’ve used when doing nature study with my kids, but I never thought to apply them to a poem. I soon learned reading poetry isn’t as much about understanding as it is about feeling. In a few short weeks, poetry became fun again. Poetry became a new way to play.

Each term, my kids and I choose a poet to study as part of our Beauty Loop. Study is really a misnomer; it’s more like a Poet Focus than a study. We don’t do much except read a short biography of the poet at the start of a term and one poem each week. Before I began my poetry notebook, I’d read a poem out loud and cross it off our list. But once I began enjoying poetry on my own, I wondered if there was more we could do to enjoy poetry together. We occasionally had poetry tea times—although not as often as I would like—but I wanted to bring my children into this new way to experience poetry. 

I wanted them to feel.

One day last fall, we sat on the homeschool room couch, cuddled together like three peas in a pod. Shakespeare was our poet and his poetry feels so hard. It seemed like a good time to experiment and have a little fun.

“Let’s try something new,” I said, grabbing my Teacher’s Guide off the table. “I want you to close your eyes as I read the poem.” My girls nodded their heads in agreement. Sometimes I ask them to close their eyes when we listen to a piece of music, so this request didn’t feel too odd.

“As I read, I want you to think about what images come to mind. What do you see? What do you hear or smell? What do you imagine in your mind?”

They closed their eyes and waited for me to begin. I read the poem out loud, being careful of the meter and rhyme. I discovered meter and rhyme in my poetry course, and I know what fun can be found in a sonnet. It almost makes you want to stand up and march.

“I like that beat,” Autumn said when I finished the final syllable. “It was almost like music.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” I agreed. They smiled and asked if I would read it again.

“I will, but first tell me what you imagined.” In rapid fire they began sharing what came to mind. 

“It seemed like he was sad,” Autumn said. 

“I saw a big mountain, with a grassy field and flowers,” Eden chimed in. 

After they told me all that was on their mind, I told them to stand up. I read it again. This time I saw their bodies begin to sway, moving along to the beat of stressed and unstressed syllables. I stood up and began to clap my hands to the beat as I read the poem a third and final time.

I finally understood the masterpiece of the Shakespearean sonnet. All it took was a little imagination and a little reading out loud.


Like what you see here? Sign up for My Favorite Things. Each month I compile all my favorite things—articles, recipes, links to read, and sometimes even a playlist—and send them straight to your inbox. This month’s newsletter will be all about PLAY, and you won’t want to miss it!

In Poetry, Homeschool, Writing
Comment

Love is An Exercise Ball

February 18, 2022 Crystal Rowe

This poem is dedicated to all you mamas out there with babies that won’t sleep. Ever. Unless they are on top of you in some way.

Solidarity, Mama. You are the embodiment of love.

Like a silent metronome I bounce
up and down
up and down
monotonous movement a lullaby

She naps on my chest
breathing in
breathing out
my heart the beat of a drum

Fluctuation brings a finale
to solitude and silence
a screeching wail
a cymbal crash

In the quiet afternoon
with every bob
every breath
my soul swells with tenderness

Love is an exercise ball

Written as part of Like Langston & Emily: A Poetry Workshop with Callie Feyen and Exhale Creativity.


This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Love Looks Like”.

Like what you see here? Sign up for my Monthly Newsletter. Each month I collect all my favorite things from the month and send them straight to your inbox. This month’s newsletter will hit your inbox sometime next week.

In Editor's Picks, Motherhood, Poetry, Parenting
1 Comment

There's So Much Work to Do

September 7, 2021 Crystal Rowe
zoltan-tasi-YHgEDpVMuts-unsplash (1).jpg

A boat rocks like a cradle rocking a baby to sleep. Twelve men

stand around the One who calls—

“Come away with me,” He says.

Tired and weary, they climb

into the boat. He takes them to a wild place.

A place of loneliness.

A place of healing and of rest.

The boat approaches the untamed land;

a crowd of people appears.

He longs to return to the boundless waves;

out of compassion, they take deep breaths

and step out of the boat. A brief moment of rest.

Now there’s work to do.

Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

In Faith, Poetry
Comment

Gather the Broken

August 15, 2021 Crystal Rowe
beth-macdonald-KCuje9mECbU-unsplash.jpg

Gather the broken 
pieces
unidentifiable and seemingly worthless
deserted and left to rot

Gather the leftovers 
thrown away 
by the ones who have stuffed 
themselves full

Gather the trash 
on the ground 
abandoned by those in a hurry
for something else

Gather the scraps
in the bowl
usually tossed 
to the earth for compost

Gather the broken-hearted 
the injured
the lonely
tired and worn

Gather the fragmented pieces
so that nothing
may be lost.


Inspired by John 6:1-13.

Like what you see here? Sign up for my Monthly Newsletter. At the end of each month, I collect all my favorite things from the month and send them straight to your inbox.

Photo by Beth Macdonald on Unsplash.

In Poetry, Faith, Community, Editor's Picks, Social Justice
Comment

The Towering Asparagus

August 6, 2021 Crystal Rowe

We planted asparagus last year as a feeble experiment
in designing an edible perennial garden. 

You should wait to harvest the first asparagus 
for at least three years after planting;

it needs all its energy as an infant
to become a sustainable living thing.

But I couldn’t resist the temptation 
and cut three stalks when they first appeared; 

I ate them raw right out of the ground;
their crunch lingering on my tongue, sweeter than candy.

When the next stalks started to grow, we caged them
with old tomato cages lying in the yard and left it alone. 

I gave up on tomatoes this year—
on all gardening really;

we don’t get enough sun 
and I don’t have much patience or discipline

 Yet the abandoned asparagus towers above the grass, 
with its fluttering fronds and ruby red balls 

like ornaments on a Christmas tree,
promising gifts to come.

In Food, Poetry, Summer
Comment

A Note About Where I'm From

July 29, 2021 Crystal Rowe
pexels-prateek-nuti-5392139.jpg

“I'd like for you to write your own version of the poem Where I’m From by George Ella Lyon,” my writing mentor said. It was the first week of our Poetry Critique Group. I was expecting to be challenged, but I was not expecting the first assignment to make me dig so deep and feel so emotional. My writing has been focusing on themes of family and home for months now, but something about this assignment felt different. This time someone was asking me for my story. I wasn’t writing it out of my own desire to write. It felt exciting to have a prompt line up with things I already want to write about. And also terrifying. But I suppose the best assignments always do.

For days I scribbled notes in my journal. Memories from my childhood home, food that felt significant (and is incredibly hard to find here in New England), and family heritage (the good and the bad). As I compiled all of my notes I realized just how much those memories, foods, and family have made me who I am today. And I am so very grateful.

Two weeks later my friend Kelli was over for dinner. She was telling me about her latest assignment in a class she’s taking for her social work degree. “It’s something I think you’d like,” she said. “We read this poem about childhood memories and had to write our own. It was hard, but it was really fun.” I stopped chopping the carrots for our soup that evening and said “Was it Where I’m From by George Ella Lyon?” “Yes,” she replied, “how did you know?!”

I’m now convinced this is an exercise everyone should do. It is hard. But it is also fun. There is something quite rewarding about writing down the things that feel significant in our lives. The stuff that helps make us who we are.

This month, take some time to scribble your own memories and see what you come up with. And if you feel comfortable, come back here and share it in the comments. I’d love to know a bit more about where you’re from!

Copy of I’m from Georgia red clay; kudzu creeping over the barren land. Where towering magnolias overwhelm the air with their perfume. I am from catfish in the backyard pond. (But please don’t make me touch the worms.png

Photo by Prateek Nuti from Pexels.

In Family, Poetry
2 Comments

When Christ Comes Near

May 18, 2021 Crystal Rowe
IMG_5259 (1).jpg

Four little outstretched hands
wait patiently in the church pew
as the body of Christ comes near.

For the first time in over a year
voices of people
unite together in prayer.

Christ has died.
Christ is risen.
Christ will come again.

We are given
God’s grace and love in a bland wafer
that tastes like hope;
manna straight from heaven.

Our once empty souls now filled,
we are sent out into the world
to love as extravagantly as we have been loved.

In Faith, Poetry Tags Pandemic living, Faith during a pandemic
Comment

Ode to the Fisherman’s Wife

May 3, 2021 Crystal Rowe
Photo by Autumn Rowe

Photo by Autumn Rowe

Ode to the Fisherman’s Wife

The salty air sprays my tired face 
as I slowly trudge to the harbor.
The boat was due back yesterday;
yet there’s still no sign of its arrival.

The icy wind whips my hair, 
blowing my dress between my legs
and tearing my heart into shards.
My son holds my hand tightly;
cars whizz behind me; I am completely unaware.

Fog so dense the lighthouse beacon barely glows;
Uncertainty grabs at my soul like a lion in a cage.
The baby I carry on my hip was a chick just hatched 
when his boat left the shore;
the child at my side a young fledgling.
Worry paints new wrinkles on my face.

Angry waves foam against the rocks;
Seagulls sing an elegy;
Ferocious clouds above threaten another squall.
The smell of tulips fill the air;
I long for the smell of rotten fish.

My legs buckle—Will I have to face this life alone?
I stand firm—I must be strong for these children of mine.
I want to fall and weep here on the cobblestone.
Instead I stand tall, looking out, my hope a beacon;
praying for his safe arrival.

IMG_4924.jpg

We had just moved to the North Shore of Massachusetts when we first visited Half Moon Beach. We were driving home through Gloucester in search of the Fisherman’s Statue when we passed a statue of a woman with two children watching over the ocean. I knew very little about the history of Gloucester, but there was something about this statue that made me want to know more.

I instantly knew it would become a favorite place of mine and went home that day to research her. Erected in 2001, the Gloucester Fishermen’s Wives Memorial is just a few blocks away from Man at the Wheel—a statue erected in 1923 in honor of the Gloucester fishermen. At its base, it reads:

“The wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters of Gloucester fishermen honor the wives and families of fishermen and mariners everywhere for their faith, diligence and fortitude.”

When I received an assignment to write an ekphrastic poem in my recent poetry class, I immediately thought of this statue. I thought it could be a good excuse to sit by the ocean for an hour or two, but the weather for the week didn’t look promising. When I woke Friday morning to sunlight streaming through my window, I seized the opportunity.

I called the girls upstairs and told them my plan. I was going thrifting, then to sit by the fisherman’s wife—did anyone want to go with me? They responded with a resounding “YES!” I reminded them I needed to sit there a while and write, so they needed to pack their own activities. They happily agreed, excited for the adventure. We all love going to Gloucester, and it had been far too long since we had taken a day to sit by this favorite statue of ours.

We went to the local thrift store and then out to brunch like I had promised. I thought if I had filled their bellies, they’d be more likely to let me sit for a while. Grateful to find a parking spot in a space with a 1-hour limit instead of 30-minutes, we parked and gathered our things. With backpacks on, the girls raced towards the tulips in bloom. I grabbed my bag and strolled along The Broadway, soaking in the smell of the sea. We stopped to smell the tulips and take some pictures before arriving at our final destination—The Fisherman’s Wife.

We walked around her slowly, taking pictures and noticing details. My kids are great at observing works of art; they love pointing out things they notice and I love hearing their perspectives. After a few minutes of this ad hoc Artist Study, I found a spot on the bench and took out my notebook and pen. Autumn continued taking pictures and Eden sat down beside me to play with the toy dog she packed in her bag.

Just as I found my flow of writing sights, smells, and sounds around me, the littlest quietly said, “Mama, I think I drank too much at lunch. I have to go potty again.” I gathered all of our things and headed to the porta-potty at the end of the street, checking my watch to see how long we had been parked. At that same moment, I got a text from David telling me he needed the van to pick up a couch we bought at the thrift store that morning.

I took a deep breath, gave a final glance of longing toward the fisherman’s wife, and loaded everyone in the car to go home.

Later that weekend I pulled out my notes and tried to recreate the scene in my mind. It wasn’t quite as magical as writing a poem while sitting at the feet of the fisherman’s wife; but as I wrote the words from the safety of my home, I felt a deep connection with this wife and her longing.

IMG_4919.jpg

In 1991, a commercial fishing vessel and her 6-man crew were lost at sea. If you’ve seen the movie A Perfect Storm, you know the story. I highly recommend the book. It’s an incredible nonfiction account of the storm and the people involved. It reads like a thrilling novel. I had a hard time putting it down.

In Poetry, Motherhood, Writing, Editor's Picks
3 Comments

Prioritizing Poetry

April 14, 2021 Crystal Rowe
IMG_6436.jpg

The table was set with our favorite teapot and mismatched teacups with saucers picked up in our latest thrifting adventure. Poetry books were scattered around the table, waiting to be opened and a favorite poem read. I called my children to the table for our first "Poetry Tea" and they ran through the house as though it were the best day of the year. After pouring tea in everyone's cup, and passing around store-bought cookies I grabbed the night before, I invited them to pick up a book and choose a poem to read out loud. To break the ice, I went first, reading a poem they had learned to recite a year ago—one we all knew and loved:

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul –
~Emily Dickinson

Once I had gone first, they were eager to read the poems they had selected, and we spent an hour and a half reading poetry to each other on that rainy afternoon. We read poems from Emily Dickinson, Robert Louis Stevenson, Sara Teasdale, and Maya Angelou. C. S. Lewis, Shel Silverstein, Christina Rossetti, and Langston Hughes. We read poems that made us laugh, we read poems that made us sad, poems we didn’t understand, and ones that made us mad.

I hadn't read poetry in years. My high school English teacher's question of But what does it mean? still rings loud in my ears, but this time with my children has made me start to see that poetry is not about meaning; poetry is about emotion. Prioritizing poetry for my children has become my own gateway to loving poetry. The more poetry I read to them, the more I want to read poetry for myself.

A few weeks ago, I started a poetry journal and am learning to write my own poetry. There's something so freeing about being able to write all my emotions without worrying about whether or not it's appropriate. As I dig deeper into writing the hard stuff in my head, I’m finding poetry to be a refreshing change of pace. When I stopped trying to understand what the poet meant and stepped back to look at how the poetry made me feel, I realized that poetry is like a great piece of art. It holds the meaning of the artist, yes; but it also holds so much more. It holds the feelings and emotions of anyone—everyone—who reads it, and it just may have a different meaning every single time.

Poetry is the heartbeat of humanity, I'd like to think.

P.S. April is National Poetry Month, and to celebrate I am participating in 30 Days of Haiku. You can find my poems over on Instagram if you’re into that kind of thing.

In Writing, Homeschool, Poetry
Comment

Anatomy of Motherhood

February 22, 2021 Crystal Rowe
IMG_3251.jpeg

Her brain is the visionary. The place where
dreams are stored, challenges acknowledged,
strategic plans are made.

Her heart the foundation of them all.

Her lungs give breath to their dreams.
Deep, intentional breaths
allowing them to soar.

Her shoulders hold anxieties.
Fear of uncertainty,
of the unknown.

Her arms, her hands, her fingers and toes
They are the worker bees.
The ones that feed, clothe, bathe, prepare.
Without them, no dream will ever thrive.

Her stomach holds their memories.
It knows how to stretch and morph.
It is elastic. It is their flexibility.

Her lips kiss all the hurts away.

Her back carries all the weight.
Not only figuratively, but
sometimes quite literally too.

Her pubic area aches, carrying scars
from surgeries that gave birth so long ago.
Birth to children, birth to dreams,
birth to possibilities.

Her legs and feet contain the muscles
that keep them all moving forward.
One small step at a time.

Inspired by Motherload, by Kate Baer, from What Kind of Woman.

In Motherhood, Poetry, Family, Editor's Picks
Comment
← Newer Posts

Questions? Say hi.