Surfacing after a month of writing poetry

Hello readers. It’s good to be back.

“Back?” You say. “You were gone? Wait. Who are you again? I thought I clicked on a video of baby goats frolicking with miniature ponies. Where are the goats? Where are the ponies? Sigh. I’m so disappointed.”

I’m right there with you. 

Here’s a consolation prize:

Where were we?

I went on a little blogging hiatus last month to celebrate National Poetry Month. Instead of writing haphazard thoughts about the state of existence on this weird little planet, I wrote haphazard poetry with an amazing bunch of creative ladies as part of Poemaday- a month-long verse extravaganza in which participants each write and share a poem every day. 

The good news is, it looks as if the Internet survived without me adding my mental clutter. 

The better news is, my fellow Poemadayers agreed to let me share some of their work.

A quick word before we get to the poems. Whether or not you view yourself as a poet or a writer or a creative sort, you should write a poem every once and a while. Better yet, do it every day for a month. 

While I’m finally willing to call myself a writer, I wouldn’t call myself a poet. But I love writing poetry nonetheless.

I’ve come to look forward to this April tradition because it helps me be more mindful of my life day to day. The most basic things start to catch my eye when I’m searching for the day’s poem. The spring breeze. A sink full of dishes. The thing I fished out of the baby’s mouth. I’m more curious about the things around me and approach my days with a more open heart. 

I’m not churchy, but it felt appropriate that a portion of Poemaday fell during Lent – a period of reflection. And even more appropriate that it falls at a time of seasonal transition. I think each of us wrote poems celebrating spring in some way- the flowers, the birds, the sun. 

Poemaday is also a period of vulnerability. As I’m digging around for verse, I inevitably poke at tender- even festering- pieces of my heart. Things that I’ve shoved into the back of closets, allowed to wilt and ignored because I just didn’t have the time or inclination or desire to address them. I’m surprised at what comes out of me during Poemaday. Even more surprised that I share them with women I’ve come to think of as kindred spirits, but who I’m not necessarily close with. I’m not alone in this. The other Poemadayers share about the less … poetic… parts of life, too. Children who disappoint. Difficult relationships. Regrets. Shame. Feeling overwhelmed and that they have no time to write poetry. Often, those are some of my favorite pieces. 

Reading and writing poetry every day for a month is centering. It reminds me of the things that stir my soul and forces me to examine the things that ail my soul. Reading the words that arrive in my inbox each day reminds me I’m not alone. It’s the best sort of community.

OK, I’ll get off my Poemaday soap box. On to the better part. 

The poetry:

***

SK

TS

***

To be six
Is to choose between wearing
All rainbows,
All flowers,
Or all glitter.
Six is never walking.
It’s bounding,
Skipping,
Trudging,
Sliding across wood floors
In mismatched socks.
Six is making up
A song about wanting
A pink cupcake for Christmas
In April.
Six is holding hands with your best friend.
Six is always giggling about farts.
Six is singing the wrong words
to your favorite song
With the volume of 10 six year olds.
Six is missing your special blanket
While you are at school.
Six is wondering
Why your mother won’t let you wear makeup
What would happen if you didn’t have armpits
And when can we go swimming again
Six is bawling at goodbyes
Because of the uncertainty of hellos.
Six is in the next room
Plotting the dolls’ days
Or crafting with popsicle sticks
Or plonking piano keys.
Oh 
To be six.

***

I promised
I’d find work
So we could save
For all those practical things
Adults save for
College
Retirement
Home renovations
Vacations
So I look for work
In the minutes
Between
Caring for the baby
And chauffeuring the older two
And washing the dishes
And doing the laundry
And shopping for groceries
And cooking the dinner
And tidying the house
And tending to pets
And managing the paperwork
And scheduling all the things
I look for work
And I try to quash
The anxiety
The resentment
The sadness
The anger
The guilt
The feeling that I’ll never find work
That will justify
The time away from the people I love most
And the feeling that with each passing year
I’m becoming more obsolete
And the feeling that I’ve never worked harder
or longer
or with more dedication
Than I have since September 9, 2010
When I became a mother
And the feeling that it’s this way with all mothers
Whether they work at home or at work.
When it comes to mothers,
It feels as if everyone else has hit the mother lode.
While mothers bear the mother load.

***

“Arrival”
My sister hangs back
As she always does
Allowing her other sons and daughters
To surge over their brother
Swallowing him in hugs
Sweeping up the boy,
Who, gone for two years,
Is now a man
Shaking hands
And stifling emotions.
My sister hangs back
Until the current pulls her
Through the sea
Of her beloved children
To her beloved boy
And the chance to cup
his narrow face in her hand
And search his eyes
For recognition
And for unspoken pain
And to seek reassurance
And to say all the unsayable things
Mothers long to say to their children.
She hangs back
And then climbs into his long arms
Which wrap around her
like a blanket.

***

My dad seems to know
The strangest things
For instance,
You shouldn’t brush away
The ants that crawl
Across the peony buds.
They carry away the sap
That seals the sepal,
Allowing the petals to unfold.
And so I find another strange thing
To love about dad
And ants.