A little rant on editing one’s poetry…

It can be a hard thing to be a poet. To be every day pouring your soul out through your words, every day spinning them into magic like the tireless spider, each day hoping your silver net will catch a ray of sunshine in a dewdrop, and it that tiny microcosm, encapsulate a piece of your world.

And that is the fun part, the inspiration, the communing with the spirit that guides you…but after that, comes panning your river of words for gold among the rocks, the shaking of your pebbled poems, the cracking of them to see if they sparkle inside, the shaking off the dust and dirt that obscures them.

And this quiet work of refining can take years. Long enough for you to almost forget that you wrote the poems, that you spoke them into being with your sufferings and joys…and to wonder, now that you’ve squeezed out your soul, if anyone cares…or if everything you’ve said is outdated and unimportant.

And yet you yearn to hold this ethereal creation of yours in your hot little hands. To show it, to share it, to hold it up and say, “See? I have triumphed!” To celebrate it’s birth with the giddiness of a new mother and the delight of a child. And whether or not people buy this treasure of your soul (for less than the price of going out for lunch even) is …important, yes, but not essential…

No matter what happens to your book, now flown the coop of your computer, it has been created, and it is a victory. The bodiless angels themselves are marvelling at the human ability to tap their fleshy fingers, rumble air through their delicate throats and pour out song.

With these thoughts I comfort myself as the poetry project I’ve been working on for almost nine years comes to a close, and as the tenth anniversary of the loss of my daughter Josephine approaches, for whom I wrote my first poetry book, and for whose little siblings I’ve written this next one.

May my new book come into the light and fly away, so my hands will be free to write the next one, which is already printed on my heart.

Let Businessmen Wear Black

Let businessmen wear black 

and straight-laced grey faces,

but let poets punctuate 

their wardrobes with patterns 

that leave lingering traces… 

Let bards wear bright flowers 

and nice funky hats, 

red shoes or loud boots

and snazzy jackets that shout:

“Oh, yeah, that’s right,

     you know it—

          you guessed it:

               I’m a poet!

I’m a walking, talking metaphor—

a symbol in motion and what’s more,

a barrel of books, ready to pour 

the golden brew of language

upon your heart’s door.”

Gas Station Saunter

See the woman walking

light as air–

her wings filling up with the wind,

canvas shopping-bag sails dancing in the sun.

An easy, breezy escape

for 10 minutes,

popping over to the corner gas station

–alone!–

to pick up lemonade ice-tea

for her temporarily bed-bound husband

who had this special request.

She walks along in the sun

smelling the city scent of spice and cement,

free enough to notice such things

without the usual tangled parade of double stroller,

the baby in snuggly

and other kids marching two by two.

She wonders what the chances are

that she’ll get to capture

the poetry of this ordinary moment

when she arrives home

to 80,000 questions

like “Why is blood red?

What is the sun made of?

What do we do before we are born?”

and “Can I have a ‘peeburrer samich’ nooooooow?”

An obnoxious car cuts her off to turn through the crosswalk on her light

–keeping it real–

lest in her pondering she float off into the brilliant blue sky

to alight on the snow-covered mountain tops that beckon in the distance

to this winged creature:

a woman alone for a walk.

What happens when Mummy declutters upstairs…


                                  ….Sigh….

               Creative kids are a gift, right?



Unworthy

There are times I feel unworthy of poetry
incapable of receiving inspiration
cause I’m overly immersed in soap suds and laundry
combing out tangles in hair
and sibling relationships
putting out constant fires
–flashes of jealousy and
fits of frustration so loud
it’s hard to hear the quiet whisper
of a newborn poem
wanting to meet the world

But I need to dismiss these unromantic doubts
because it’s not really about me
Is a candle worthy to illuminate the night?
Yet it is in it’s very disappearing–
that it gives burning light

Your love for me doesn’t depend on my greatness
but is rather a sign of Yours
Fill the empty cup of my heart
to overflowing
Help me exude Your warmth
and be with me
in my noise and chaos

Help me find the whisper of your presence
like flashes of gold in a mountain stream
and amidst all the pebbles
help me find poems

20170413-233806.jpg

The Persistant Insomniac

Late at night

her eyes are wide open

as two full moons

beaming out in the dark.

Inside fires burn

flames flicker and refuse

the stillness of sleep.

 

She gets up

grabs her book

a sweater

a snack

and keeps a late night kitchen vigil

with insomnia…

–this date with quiet–

delicious silent solitude.

 

She feeds her soul

with bread and words,

then rubs her fingers together,

lights the surrounding gloom with sparks

and writes fire!

Alluring Emptiness

The alluring emptiness of a white page 

free from clutter and electronic distraction,

the peacefulness of a smooth sheet

waiting for my words to gently rest on it…

Oh, how it calls me

in the midst of noise and business!

There, in the silent gaze of the white page,

my soul is free to unfurl its wings

and write with feathered quills

the thoughts that have distilled inside it. 

Oh blessed quiet 

in which to hear the silent whispers of my heart,

to set free the poems

that have been clinging to my fingertips

like small birds awaiting flight.

When you’re a busy mom of seven,

a quiet moment at the bus-stop 

with no wifi 

and only the baby 

becomes rather more entrancing than it used to be…

Hey, I’ll take what I can get! 

  

Small, brilliant humans…

   
 

Today I watched  Do schools kill creativity? It’s a great Ted talk by educator Sir Ken Robinson about the nature of education…or even more so about the nature of children. Robinson believes that all children are naturally creative and original, and that the exceptionally bright children wouldn’t be so exceptional if we didn’t spend so much time drilling the creativity our of all the others. Three ways we do this are:

  1. expecting them all to behave the same way in the class room, and almost always diagnosing difference as a condition to be medicated and ‘normalized’. 
  2. instilling a huge fear of making mistakes, which makes creative originality almost impossible, because one has to be willing to risk being wrong in order to do something new. 
  3. focussing so heavily on the academic areas of math and literacy to the exclusion of other areas like dance, drama, music, etc. 

He told an anecdote of a little girl in the thirties who couldn’t sit still in class. She was always fidgeting. Her mother was called in to discuss her trouble at school. After speaking with her and her mother, the teacher, or perhaps it was the principle, asked the mother to step out of the room for a moment with him. Before leaving he switched on the radio. They looked at the little girl through the glass window in the wall. She immediately was on her feet and moving to the beat. 

Your little girl isn’t learning impared. She’s a dancer. Please take her to a dance school.

That was the best advice the mother ever had. Her daughter flourished at the Royal Academy of Ballet, and went on to make millions producing shows like “Cats” and “Phantom of the Opera.” 

And yet we tell kids…don’t bother with music or dance…you can’t make a living at that. Instead we have said for so long, “Be smart and get a degree. Then you’ll be guaranteed a job.” Sir Robinson says we have created a kind of academic inflation, where degrees have become so common that they mean almost nothing, and now a PHD is required for jobs that used to only need a bachelor’s degree. He joked that much as he likes university professors, having previously been one himself, he doesn’t think we are all meant to be professors!

I won’t give away the whole talk…about educating the whole person and not just the head…but you should really watch it because besides being interesting, it is also funny. Being British, Sir Robinson has that fantastic dry sense of humour, and I kept laughing so hard I woke up the baby sleeping on my lap! 

The whole talk made me feel that we need to consciously redefine our view of educating children…that ideas like the blank slate to be filled with ideas, or the small uncultured creature to be civilized are so far off. Perhaps a better definition of kids would be small, brilliant humans, who are unafraid to share their brilliance with others, and with the world. Let’s encourage our kids to keep burning brightly with all their wild and crazy ideas and funny inventions so they that don’t fall into becoming typical adults: large dim humans who are so afraid of making a mistake or displeasing others that they won’t try anything different or new, cause better safe than sorry!

  

Little Artist

  
How beautiful to see all the colours that emerge from the hearts and minds of our children—the blurs and smudges that are embraced as expressions of creativity rather than mistakes. If we could paint with the eager brush of children, how much more joyful and alive we would be!