Oh My Hair

Image by graphic artist Annalise Batista

First Mentor Poem

Smoke in Our Hair
OFELIA ZEPEDA
 
The scent of burning wood holds
the strongest memory.
Mesquite, cedar, piñon, juniper,
all are distinct.
Mesquite is dry desert air and mild winter.
Cedar and piñon are colder places.
Winter air in our hair is pulled away,
and scent of smoke settles in its place.
We walk around the rest of the day
with the aroma resting on our shoulders.
The sweet smell holds the strongest memory.
We stand around the fire.
The sound of the crackle of wood and spark
is ephemeral.
Smoke, like memories, permeates our hair,
our clothing, our layers of skin.
The smoke travels deep
to the seat of memory.
We walk away from the fire;
no matter how far we walk,
we carry this scent with us.
New York City, France, Germany--
we catch the scent of burning wood;
we are brought home.

​Source: poetryfoundation.org

Poem Prompt #1

Write about a smell that lingers in your (or someone’s) hair.
Write about the three most memory-inducing smells in your life.

Second Mentor Poem

​Hair Poem
DANA NAONE
 
One morning a woman woke up,
but couldn’t get out of bed.
During the night her hair
had grown through the floor
Her husband tried cutting
the strands loose
only to find that the more he cut,
the more it grew.
He dug a hole beneath their house.
There was a man in an underground cave
playing a musical instrument
strung with hair.
Every  song made the hair grow longer.
The husband poured water
on the man’s head
three times from a chalice
engraved with a bird flying upside  down.
The strings of the harp turned white.
The man closed his eyes.

Source: The Remembered Earth: An Anthology of Contemporary Native American Literature.  University of New Mexico Press (April 1, 1981)

Poem Prompt #2

Write a fantastical poem about hair. Write for 10 minutes
 
OR take a cue form these poem titles: cutting hair, hair on television, my hair, red haired mask, black hair, white haired lover, white hair does not weight more than black hair, angel hair, bad hair day, hairbrush, his mothers hair, braiding your hair, hairless.

For Discussion

Hairless
JO SHAPCOTT
 
Can the bald lie? The nature of the skin says not:
it's newborn-pale, erection-tender stuff,
every thought visible,—pure knowledge,
mind in action—shining through the skull.
I saw one, a woman, hairless absolute, cleaning.
She mopped the green floor, dusted bookshelves,
all cloth and concentration, Queen of the moon.
You can tell, with the bald, that the air
speaks to them differently, touches their heads
with exquisite expression. As she danced
her laundry dance with the motes, everything
she ever knew skittered under her scalp.
It was clear just from the texture of her head,
she was about to raise her arms to the sky;
I covered my ears as she prepared to sing, roar,
to let the big win resonate in the little room.

​Source: poetryfoundation.org