April 23, 2025 Happy Shakespeare’s Birthday! Context for Poem “Water Lilies: Monet’s Paintings and Ophelia” & and Photographs by Karla Schultz

Today, I was not inspired by the few terms offered by Rosendahl for the letter “W”, and so I began to think about plants whose name begin with that letter: weeping willow, walnut (done that!) wisteria, white cedar, white birch, white spruce, white pine, wax begonia, wild ginger (some in our garden soon), wallflower, watermelon, wood anemone, wych elm, wisteria & wood lily/trillium (I have already written poems inspired by these plants in past years), witch hazel, and…water lily, a plant I have admired for years and have been able to get to know better thanks to the kayaking skills of our friend, Tricia Smith, whose home is mere steps from a quiet protected lake that fills with these flowers as the summer advances.

Willows and water lilies. And Shakespeare’s birthday. These thoughts made me think of his character, Ophelia, in Hamlet, specifically the words spoken by Queen Gertrude to convey the pathos of her death off-stage.

There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them:
There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.

These musings and this literary antecedent, along with memories of visiting some of Monet’s Water Lily paintings at Musée de l’Orangerie when I was a teenager like Ophelia, inspired my Shakespearean sonnet today. And I am grateful to my sister, Karla, for allowing me to use her spectacular images of water lilies to illustrate this post. May their shining beauty, and Shakespeare’s immortal lines, distract you from the flaws of my own hasty effort!

In the course of looking up water lilies, I chanced upon an educational video aiming to debunk or corroborate the widely held belief that the tubers of water lilies can serve as a source for food. This 15-minute summary of several controlled experiments–and definitions of such terms as “edible” and “palatable”–convinced me not to depend on supplementing my food stores with water lilies should I be lingering in the wilderness. (Lotus, apparently, is a different story, botanically and culinarily, than is our native North American cousin.)

The Wooded Beardsmen

Wishing you a day of happy discoveries and no little art, science, and natural beauty! LESLIE

Pussy willow bloom in our garden, April 2025

April 13, 2025 Context for Poem “One of a Kind”

Photo: Karla Schultz

The botanical term that inspired this poem, “monotype,” does not appear in the poem. Exploring its meaning, however, made me think of how we are able to see the uniqueness of those people (and situations and locations and objects, too) that are important to us. It especially takes time and attention to perceive the deep individuality that marks each person. And then, despite a consistent core, he or she keeps growing and changing!

Today’s poem is dedicated to my sister, Karla. Today is her birthday. Her life is a gift to everyone who knows her. Among her many virtues, as some of you long-time readers know, she is an exceptional photographer of the natural world. (To see past posts that feature her photography, you can search on “Karla Schultz WinonaMedia”.) The photographs in this post are all from her. I want to thank her for allowing me to share her artistic gifts with you.

LESLIE

Photo: Karla Schultz
Photo: Karla Schultz
Photo: Karla Schultz
Photo: Karla Schultz

April 13, 2024 A Birthday Bouquet from Karla!

(Photo by Karla Schultz)
(Photo by Karla Schultz)
(Photo by Karla Schultz)
(Photo by Karla Schultz)
(Photo by Karla Schultz)

Everyday, I am inspired by the art of my sister, Karla. This year, she agreed to select, from her thousands of flower images, some of her own favorites to share with us today, on her birthday. Thank you, Karla!

Wishing you long life and joy every day!

The Freshest Flowers


are those strongly rooted,
alive to sun and dew,
each one distinct
as a crystal of snow.

Look closely. Lean in.
Wonder at varied hues,
at pattern with infinite--
but not-quite--repetition.

Call this Nature 
or call this Art:
a flower captures
the human heart.


Leslie Schultz
Daffodils and Scilla in Our Garden This Morning (Photo by Leslie Schultz)

April 6, 2024 Writing Poems for Fictional Characters, Part One

Part of the fun of working on a novel is trying to enter the mind and experience of someone Not-You. Someone else. In the novel that Tim and I are making, we have set the story in 1979, in a small town in Northern California. Two of the characters are poets. One of the poets is a college student, born in 1960. The other was born in 1927 and serves as a host and mentor for the younger poet.

One way that I have tried to get into the minds of these two characters is to write poems for them. What would interest them, catch their attention? How would they convey this in a poem? So far, for each character, I have written five or six poems. Only two or three might appear in the novel itself, but…what can I say? It is fun to fashion new poems.

Recently, I became curious about other novels that have protagonists who are fictional poets. I could not recall very many. There are many delightful novels that depict actual poets and one, Baron Wormser’s The Poetry Life, depicts the effects of poetry (by actual poets) on the lives of fictional characters.

But when it comes to main characters who are poets, with no lives outside of fiction, I could only think of Swann, by Carol Shields, and the trio of young adult books featuring Emily Starr of New Moon Farm by L. M. Montgomery. (If you know of any others, please let me know!)

In the couple of years since I served as a poetic scribe for our two characters, I have wondered if their voices would be clearly discernable to anyone else. Or, perhaps, do all the poems simply sound like me? It is an interesting thought exercise, but not one I can wrestle to the ground on my own, so I thought I would ask you.

What do you think? Below are six poems. In a future post, I will reveal which poem was written by/for each character, and also (should you like to weigh in) how many correct guesses each poem received. You can weigh in (“Older Poet” or “Younger Poet”) for any or all titles either in the Comments Section below or by emailing me at winonapoet@gmail.com. Thanks, in advance, for your thoughts!

LESLIE

Study of Cloud Rapture from the Shore

            for Miles

Horizon line silver grey

tumbling, shot with plum

aquamarine, emerald

A moment imperiled

imploding and dumb

yet yearning to say

We are all rolling waves

our power about to break

on the rock-hard shore

We are all mountains of cloud

majestic with sunset ache

determined to soar

Jenny Stubtoe

Curled against leather cushions

under warm lamplight,

compact as an ammonite,

you open one eye, peer

greenly into the twilight,

twitch a single whisker,

then sink back into nine

oceans of sleep, each one

deep as a well-lived life.

Candlelight at Point Reyes

This narrow track is supposed to lead up

but I can barely see the ground beneath

my feet. Fog beads these yellowing grasses.

Fog abrades my eyes with stinging salt sprays

and muffles my ears. I came to Point Reyes

like a wounded tule elk, filled with guesses

about direction, survival, what I might bequeath

a world hidden from my sight. Now the trap

of caring is fully sprung. All I find

on this dark headland is how I am lost.

I want to lie down here. I want to be

done with striving, cease this yearning to see

ahead. This cold candle? Better to cast

it from my chilled hand, my dark mind.

My First Shasta Soda

He stands in shadows.

“Here,” he says,

“Drink this,”

hands me a dark,

foaming brew.

Like Alice, I just do.

Who am I now?

Do I grow

or shrink

into this sensation?

So maybe this is love?

Sticky and sweet,

leaving me giddy,

messy, refreshed, and

all shook up?

Avocado-Coconut Ice Cream at the Duluth Grill

The Geode

There is just no telling until

one is opened.

All days appear rough,

dusty, grey, and vague

in heft and circularity,

that weight in your hand.

You have to take that

chance, have to lay down

your stone heart

daily on an altar of stone,

lift up a hammer, and allow

its swing to cleave open

your glinting center, let

this sun’s light dance

over you, permit someone

else to see your spiky radiance.

White Egret, Green Field

Balancing on one stilt,

slender, pure as salt,

you stab into rice stalks.

Minnows, golden,

glinting, circle your leg

with their swimming.

Giving a cry—

Grief? Exhilaration?—

you achieve the sky.

Water bird, white

as bone, you soar

over these green fields,

visionary,

yet alone. Always

alone.

(Photo by Karla Schultz)

April 25, 2022: Spotlight on Poem #260 by Emily Dickinson; Background for My Poem “The Quest”

I’m Nobody! Who are you? (260)

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know

How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

(Photo Collage by Karla Schultz; Used by Permission)

After I wrote today’s poem, “The Quest,” about names, I realized that there was only one poem to spotlight today–this classic by Dickinson. It is one that I have memorized, that I repeat aloud irritatingly often, and in which I was see and hear something new each time.

Background for My Poem “The Quest”:

This week, I talked with a friend who needed to adjust her middle name legally on some documents, so that got me thinking about names and name changes. Then, this morning, I was reading Chapter Ten: “Our Real Names” from one of my go-to books on the craft of poetry (Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life with Words by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge) and a memory from childhood resurfaced.

I rather think I might eventually write a series of poems about dream names, pen names, nick names, secret names, unspoken names, the names of characters, children, and pets, and place names.

Naming is such a rich topic. Perhaps the naming instinct is what gave rise to language itself? Is a name something we are given or something we make?

Happy Reading! Happy Writing! Happy Leaping! LESLIE