I've always loved being by myself--maybe because I grew up in a full house, where solitude was hard to find--and because now as a homeschooling mom, I have very little time to be alone.
I've found that as much as I consider myself an extrovert and am energized after spending time with friends, I need in equal measure time to myself: to reflect, to write, to just be. I was talking the other night with a friend who really struggles with the idea of spending time alone, even though she knows she would benefit from doing so. This poem was inspired by that conversation.
Butterfly
She fears being alone
mistaking it for being lonely
and so she suspends herself
on razor-thin stained glass wings
hovering from one contact to another
mistaking connection
for communion
while the weight
of those exquisite wings
keeps her from heights
she was born to reach.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
NaPoWriMo #9: spring
Gray Time
In that hour before dawn
when the world has no colors
and you cannot tell a starling from a grackle
or a sparrow from a chickadee
unless you hear their song
you still know they are back
from their southern sojourn.
In that hour before spring
when the maples, elms and sycamores
wear only their rumpled, hoary husks
by the first light of day
you can still see the outline of new buds
bursting from the tips of lilac branches
and know the trees will follow soon.
In that hour before dawn
when the world has no colors
and you cannot tell a starling from a grackle
or a sparrow from a chickadee
unless you hear their song
you still know they are back
from their southern sojourn.
In that hour before spring
when the maples, elms and sycamores
wear only their rumpled, hoary husks
by the first light of day
you can still see the outline of new buds
bursting from the tips of lilac branches
and know the trees will follow soon.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
NaPoWriMo #8: why
Have you ever had a kid ask you a question, only to follow up the answer with "But, why?"
Yeah, me too.
The Hard Questions
They are the ones
who ask me the hard questions.
Not
“Where is the pain
on a scale of one to ten?”
(Between 7 and 8.)
Or
“What are your plans
for the baby’s remains?”
(I need to give that some thought.)
Or
even those questions
disguised as statements,
“We’ve got a narrow window here
to test for genetic abnormalities.”
(Like I told you before,
I’m not interested in testing.)
No
they are the ones
who ask me
“Mom, why did our baby die?”
(I don’t know, honey.)
“Which parts weren’t growing right?”
(The doctors couldn’t tell.)
“Will we have another baby?”
(We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see.)
They are the ones
who ask me the hard questions
questions that school me
with answers I don’t know
outcomes I can’t control.
(We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see.)
Yeah, me too.
The Hard Questions
They are the ones
who ask me the hard questions.
Not
“Where is the pain
on a scale of one to ten?”
(Between 7 and 8.)
Or
“What are your plans
for the baby’s remains?”
(I need to give that some thought.)
Or
even those questions
disguised as statements,
“We’ve got a narrow window here
to test for genetic abnormalities.”
(Like I told you before,
I’m not interested in testing.)
No
they are the ones
who ask me
“Mom, why did our baby die?”
(I don’t know, honey.)
“Which parts weren’t growing right?”
(The doctors couldn’t tell.)
“Will we have another baby?”
(We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see.)
They are the ones
who ask me the hard questions
questions that school me
with answers I don’t know
outcomes I can’t control.
(We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see.)
Thursday, April 07, 2011
NaPoWriMo #7: curriculum vitae
My friend Steve from my poetry group recently finished an excellent CV poem and challenged the rest of us to try it. I did one for NaPoWriMo last year, but recently I've been ruminating on a different direction to take on the concept--my CV as a mother.
How appropriate that pregnancy was the catalyst to get me writing this; at 3:30 this morning I woke up after a particularly bizarre dream and found myself with insomnia (both things that happen often when I'm expecting).
Written when and how this was , it is a very, very rough first draft. In fact, as I read it, I'm almost not wanting to post it because I realize it's an uneven mix of imagery and narrative--but that's the beauty of NaPoWriMo. I write a lot of fresh, raw stuff, and figure out what works, what doesn't and what has the potential to be developed further.
Resume of a Reluctant Mother
I was born the first of five children
to a good man and good woman
who were each lonely before marriage
and lonelier after.
My early childhood was a happy haze
of beaches, blackberries and books.
My father had an unnamed rage
used the belt on us
like an artist uses paint on canvas
but sang us to sleep at bedtime.
My mother had an unnamed sorrow
her children couldn't know or fix
gave us no boundaries
but sewed our clothes
and baked bread in yeast cans.
The last half of my childhood
I spent as a third parent
while my mother and father took turns
trying to run away
from discontent at home.
I was babysitter, cook
laundry washer and ironer
tyrannical big sister
and unwilling partaker
in my parents' disaffection.
When I was sixteen
my father and mother gave up the fight
of staying together for their children
and for a year or two
we were all happier.
At the end of my senior year
my parents remarried
within a month of each other.
We stayed with my mother and stepfather
got four new brothers and sisters
grieving a mother lost to cancer
just a year before.
I was still the oldest
and at eighteen, took my own turn
running away from home.
At twenty-five I married
terrified but hopeful
I would not repeat my parents' mistakes.
Instead, I made my own.
I waited too long to have children
traded stamina and immaturity
for patience and rigidity.
In the end it was a fair trade
for motherhood came hard to me.
I thought it would be different
with my own children
if I chose to have them
loved them because they were mine.
Instead, I found myself
living out my own unnamed sorrow
one that brought back the agony
of responsibilities I hadn't chosen or wanted
except this time, I had.
This time, I could only blame myself.
I could, and did
but now I'm done blaming.
I've decided this story will have a happy ending.
I've decided sorrow and joy can and do coexist.
I've decided I can be a mother
without that being who I am.
I've decided I can love my children
my husband and myself
all at the same time
because I have enough love to go around.
I've decided to let go of resentment
again and again
as many times as it takes.
I've decided to be grateful to my parents.
I've decided to make peace
with my mistakes and flaws
for they have shaped me but do not define me.
I've decided that while I didn't always know
I wanted to be a mother
I do now.
How appropriate that pregnancy was the catalyst to get me writing this; at 3:30 this morning I woke up after a particularly bizarre dream and found myself with insomnia (both things that happen often when I'm expecting).
Written when and how this was , it is a very, very rough first draft. In fact, as I read it, I'm almost not wanting to post it because I realize it's an uneven mix of imagery and narrative--but that's the beauty of NaPoWriMo. I write a lot of fresh, raw stuff, and figure out what works, what doesn't and what has the potential to be developed further.
Resume of a Reluctant Mother
I was born the first of five children
to a good man and good woman
who were each lonely before marriage
and lonelier after.
My early childhood was a happy haze
of beaches, blackberries and books.
My father had an unnamed rage
used the belt on us
like an artist uses paint on canvas
but sang us to sleep at bedtime.
My mother had an unnamed sorrow
her children couldn't know or fix
gave us no boundaries
but sewed our clothes
and baked bread in yeast cans.
The last half of my childhood
I spent as a third parent
while my mother and father took turns
trying to run away
from discontent at home.
I was babysitter, cook
laundry washer and ironer
tyrannical big sister
and unwilling partaker
in my parents' disaffection.
When I was sixteen
my father and mother gave up the fight
of staying together for their children
and for a year or two
we were all happier.
At the end of my senior year
my parents remarried
within a month of each other.
We stayed with my mother and stepfather
got four new brothers and sisters
grieving a mother lost to cancer
just a year before.
I was still the oldest
and at eighteen, took my own turn
running away from home.
At twenty-five I married
terrified but hopeful
I would not repeat my parents' mistakes.
Instead, I made my own.
I waited too long to have children
traded stamina and immaturity
for patience and rigidity.
In the end it was a fair trade
for motherhood came hard to me.
I thought it would be different
with my own children
if I chose to have them
loved them because they were mine.
Instead, I found myself
living out my own unnamed sorrow
one that brought back the agony
of responsibilities I hadn't chosen or wanted
except this time, I had.
This time, I could only blame myself.
I could, and did
but now I'm done blaming.
I've decided this story will have a happy ending.
I've decided sorrow and joy can and do coexist.
I've decided I can be a mother
without that being who I am.
I've decided I can love my children
my husband and myself
all at the same time
because I have enough love to go around.
I've decided to let go of resentment
again and again
as many times as it takes.
I've decided to be grateful to my parents.
I've decided to make peace
with my mistakes and flaws
for they have shaped me but do not define me.
I've decided that while I didn't always know
I wanted to be a mother
I do now.
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
NaPoWriMo #6: RIP
Now for something completely different.
I went to NaPoWriMo.net for a little inspiration, and really liked their prompt from a few days back: write a poem predicting your own death. I decided to have a bit of fun with it. So, it's goofy and not very good in terms of actual poetry, but so what? It features bacon, and you ought to know by now how I feel about bacon.
BLT RIP
She lived a long and happy life.
It ended unexpectedly
in the middle of a BLT
to which she had added avocado
for she liked the contrast
of flavor and texture
crunchy against smooth
smoky against mellow
accented by crisp greens
tangy tomato
and of course, the extra zip
of sourdough bread
that smooth avocado betrayed her
in the end
sliding a large bite of bacon
too soon down her throat
where it lodged
and refused to be loosed
a pity she lived alone
her husband gone just a year
no one to hear
her choking
no one to see
her lips turn blue
though it’s true
eating a BLT
would be
a good way to go.
I went to NaPoWriMo.net for a little inspiration, and really liked their prompt from a few days back: write a poem predicting your own death. I decided to have a bit of fun with it. So, it's goofy and not very good in terms of actual poetry, but so what? It features bacon, and you ought to know by now how I feel about bacon.
BLT RIP
She lived a long and happy life.
It ended unexpectedly
in the middle of a BLT
to which she had added avocado
for she liked the contrast
of flavor and texture
crunchy against smooth
smoky against mellow
accented by crisp greens
tangy tomato
and of course, the extra zip
of sourdough bread
that smooth avocado betrayed her
in the end
sliding a large bite of bacon
too soon down her throat
where it lodged
and refused to be loosed
a pity she lived alone
her husband gone just a year
no one to hear
her choking
no one to see
her lips turn blue
though it’s true
eating a BLT
would be
a good way to go.
NaPoWriMo #5: scraps
I liked the "scraps" prompt I used last year so much, I'm recycling it for this year. The scraps I used today are from a few lines I jotted down when I was in the hospital last June. My friend Erica, who had lost a little boy at 24 weeks just two years before I lost my baby boy, was with me.
She told me how after her own loss, she had felt like a field that had been plowed and planted, but with no harvest. Then, just a few days later, her milk came in. She was devastated, and in so much pain physically as well.
Erica's sharing her experience with me, and then being at my side through much of my own miscarriage, was a tremendous source of strength for me. So, this is a sad poem but hope comes after it.
Harvest
The field, planted
in fertile furrows
a rich corduroy of rows.
The seeds, sown
soak up rain
that smells of April.
We watch
we wait
for the first green shoots to appear.
And in the steady sun
of the growing season
they do.
Then, without warning
without reason
those fragile leaves
shrivel on their stalks
scatter in a gust of warm wind
and are gone.
They leave only empty arms
and one reminder
of the hoped-for harvest:
swollen, tender breasts
sagging under the weight
of unsuckled milk
that will
all too soon
dry up
and be gone.
She told me how after her own loss, she had felt like a field that had been plowed and planted, but with no harvest. Then, just a few days later, her milk came in. She was devastated, and in so much pain physically as well.
Erica's sharing her experience with me, and then being at my side through much of my own miscarriage, was a tremendous source of strength for me. So, this is a sad poem but hope comes after it.
Harvest
The field, planted
in fertile furrows
a rich corduroy of rows.
The seeds, sown
soak up rain
that smells of April.
We watch
we wait
for the first green shoots to appear.
And in the steady sun
of the growing season
they do.
Then, without warning
without reason
those fragile leaves
shrivel on their stalks
scatter in a gust of warm wind
and are gone.
They leave only empty arms
and one reminder
of the hoped-for harvest:
swollen, tender breasts
sagging under the weight
of unsuckled milk
that will
all too soon
dry up
and be gone.
Monday, April 04, 2011
NaPoWriMo #4: homesick
On a completely unrelated note (that is, completely unrelated to much of anything else I've been writing about lately), I've been finding myself homesick for the ocean. We went to Seattle a couple weeks ago to buy new clothes for Jimmy, who is in the midst of a long-overdue growth spurt. The weather wasn't great, so we didn't make it to the beach, and we never got close enough to Puget Sound for me to smell it.
Really, though, I'm missing the ocean. As in, the coast. Sadly, I think it's a trip that will have to wait a while. At least I can dream about last time I was there...
Landlocked
The woman who lives next door
has never seen the sea
she surveys this green valley
two hundred miles inland
carved out of shrub steppe
by a deceptively narrow, strong river
and is satisfied.
And I am satisfied, too
for this farm town is a fine place
to raise a family, to lie grounded
for a time
in the loamy bosom of all earth.
But it is not the place I was born
not the place circled by gulls
where I smelled sea in every breath
where I roamed rocky beaches
where stony earth embraces fluid ocean
where I will live again before I die.
NaPoWriMo #3: awad
For a few months now I've been subscribing to A Word A Day, which my friend Lizzie recommended to me. I've always been a word junkie, a voracious appropriator of new vocabulary, so I really enjoy AWAD because it features not only large words, but those that are unusual as well.
Back on February 24, the word for the day was "lacuna", which intrigued me--I really think it was the idea of an "empty space" that spoke to me--so I jotted the word down knowing I would come back to write about it.
Flash forward to this evening: here I am in need of a prompt, and voilà!
Lacuna
Here is a hole
a small space
as though I dropped a stitch
or two
in my neat row
of knit, purl, knit, purl
no one would ever know
unless I pointed it out.
Here is a hole
a narrow gap
as though I broke a teacup
or two
in my neat row
of plate, bowl, teacup, saucer
no one would ever know
unless I pointed it out.
Here is a hole
an empty place
as though I lost a child
or two
in my neat row
of boy, girl—
and that is all.
No one would ever know
unless I pointed it out.
Lacuna
Here is a hole
a small space
as though I dropped a stitch
or two
in my neat row
of knit, purl, knit, purl
no one would ever know
unless I pointed it out.
Here is a hole
a narrow gap
as though I broke a teacup
or two
in my neat row
of plate, bowl, teacup, saucer
no one would ever know
unless I pointed it out.
Here is a hole
an empty place
as though I lost a child
or two
in my neat row
of boy, girl—
and that is all.
No one would ever know
unless I pointed it out.
Eight (a week late)
A week ago today, Jimmy turned eight. Fortunately (since Audrey came down with stomach flu that very night) we planned his party for Saturday. Jimmy had asked for a volcano-themed party, so the kids erupted mini-volcanoes they made out of play-dough, yogurt cups, baking soda and vinegar.
Jim made the super-awesome volcano cake. Evil genius, I tell you.
Saturday, April 02, 2011
NaPoWriMo #2: opposition in all things
This started out as a tanka...
Don't fear pain; it is
the bones of joy--not only
a hard frame giving
shape, but marrow running soft
through the core of happiness.
...and then morphed to haiku as the details solidified.
Bittersweet
Pain is the pulse of
quiet marrow giving shape
to the bones of joy.
Don't fear pain; it is
the bones of joy--not only
a hard frame giving
shape, but marrow running soft
through the core of happiness.
...and then morphed to haiku as the details solidified.
Bittersweet
Pain is the pulse of
quiet marrow giving shape
to the bones of joy.
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