I grew up trying to scratch out semblances of poems on yellow notepads, trying to get out my rich feelings through the richness of the concise wording of poems. I did have one little poem published in my university student poetry journal once upon a time. But I’ve really never been any good.
I have friends who ARE really good at this.
They study meter and pacing and form and they write and edit and write and rework until they have what really are masterpieces. I am not that.
But once in awhile I’ll scratch out a new poem only when I can’t seem to write anything else.
This most recent one is more of a conversation with myself than anything else. Maybe you will like it too.
The moment you realized that everything
You ever needed was right here
And that you had to go through
In order to even begin that beautiful thing
That this year was all about: The kids are
Still at the dinner table and the
In the sink
But you don’t have another option. You must
Do this. You must come of age in your writing
At the same time your children are coming
Of age at all.
Make this work. It’s do or die time right now.
These days ours is not to reason why
But ours is to write. It is to do.
Say, “I can’t take
One more day
Of this.” But in the tears you realize that
One more day means one more chapter in a book,
One more day means one more string to be cut,
One more day
One more sad heart
But it also means one more accidental purposing of words.