I’ve been a poet since I was a little kid. I think children are kind of born poets, what with the way they live moment to moment, and play with words. Case in point, the other day, Annie and I were in Target and she told me that after she checked out the toy section, I could walk around and check out my “curiosities.” As I am to understand it, checking out my curiosities described the way I wander Target and pick up objects that interest, delight and/or confuse me, then inevitably set back on the shelf. The word gave purpose, even whimsy to my haphazard browsing and I had this moment of delight in her and of our time together in this black hole of consumerism.
Anyway, it occurred to me recently that even though I’ve been a poet for decades, I rarely share my poetry. The reasons for this are many and wide-ranging: What if it’s bad? What if I’m being too pretentious? What if nobody understands it? What if I overshare? But really, what if it’s so bad that people are embarrassed on my behalf and are forced to avoid eye contact with me at gatherings out of fear that I will ask them what they thought of the last poem I posted?
And really, all those reasons are one reason: fear. And also, I know myself well enough to know I would rather be forced to wear only the wonkiest items from the Target clearance section for a year then ask anyone what they thought of something I’d written. That’s some straight horror shit I’m not here for.
So, here I go. Facing the fear. Letting loose the words that bring me joy and comfort so that they might float out into the ether like little dandelion seeds.
Here’s one I wrote during poetry month this year but feels right for this moment in our country. I’ll share more as the mood strikes.
“Boundaries”
As I agonize over all the
crises (personal, familial, societal)
I have failed to glue back together
and gild in gold the therapist
suggests that next week we discuss
boundaries. And like, of course,
I’m a professional adult who is well
read in all the literature about healthy
relationships. Intellectualizing over boundaries
would be an enriching way to spend the hour.
Bring the tea, and I’ll bring cookies.
This is textbook. Except that I’m an Okapi,
I can’t quite figure out what I want
to be so I pace the borderline between
beings. Because, think about it,
the chickweed in my neighbor’s yard
sneaks between the boards we erected,
anyway. And if you look at it another way, the little flowers
are quite pretty and when boiled and brewed
are said to fight inflammation.
And air, sand, and wind can worry a hole
through a mountain given enough time,
So what’s the point of all these barriers?
Like, why do we cheer when the Berlin Wall
falls but say good fences make good neighbors?
The therapist doesn’t yet know that this will be
an endless reconstruction project because
sometimes I can’t tell the difference between me
and everybody else. How the hurt and the love
transfers through cell membranes. We’re all porous
for a reason, I think. Sure, I’ll say “no,” but still
delight when my student takes ahold
of my miniature book earrings and
discovers, before I do, they contain actual pages.
I’m aware it’s ridiculous, but then so is humanity
and I’ll fight for mine every day wondering if
the best offense is really a good de-fence.
your poetry is entering my commonplace books to be saved and savored.
i feel things when i read your words. they prompt a necessary release of tension through tears.
i look forward to the next time your mood strikes.