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.
Browse more poetry prompts
I have been a fan of Callie Feyen’s writing for quite some time but I finished this book in almost one sitting. If you have ever been in 8th grade, fallen in love, had a best friend, or loved reading, you will love this book. As the mother of an 8th grader, my other genuine hope is that my son will one day have a teacher as gifted as Callie.
—Celena Roldan
- 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
Megan Willome says
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
Callie Feyen says
I love that last word. Perhaps it is a send off to walk this unknown road looking for unhoped for joy.
Monica Sharman says
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.
Callie Feyen says
“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.
Katie says
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.
Callie Feyen says
I can feel and hear this walk. I love it.
Katie says
Thanks, Callie. Was a fun time and is a sweet memory:)