A Little Poetry Tuesday In Honor of Me, Myself and I

Today is my thirty-third birthday.  

I am fourteen-year-old me plus nineteen-year-old me.  I am the girl who met Jeffrey at a church dance.  I am the the very young girl who, after the wounding of teenage dating years, felt sooo old and chose to marry Jeffrey, the man whose arms felt to her like rest, like coming home.  I am six-year-old me plus twenty-seven-year-old me.  I am the girl who watched Grandpa Murray collapse in her back yard in shimmering summer and the woman who gave birth to a gorgeous baby boy in the warmth of her bedroom on a frozen new year's eve.

I am every girl and every woman I have ever been in these three decades plus three years and I am whole.

For the first time in a very long time I feel whole, authentic.  This has been the work of my thirty-third year.  Throughout this year, I have flung the doors and windows wide to welcome every regret, every mistake, every heartache, every misplaced step or hasty word of my life.  I have found it in myself to love myself, whole.  This has not been a simple forgiveness or an asking for forgiveness.  It has been a fierce and fearless, whole-hearted embrace of every element of myself in joy, with an understanding that it is the good with the bad that makes me who I am, that drives me closer to who I need to be within this world and the work that I must do to make the world better.

Six years ago, someone challenged me to learn to be my wild and authentic self.  I am only now beginning to understand what that means for me.  It feels good.

My goal for my thirty-fourth year is to do more and to do less:

• Say yes more.  Yes to friendship, love, nature, everything that feeds and fills me.  Yes, to new experiences of every kind (even the ones that may hurt).
• Love more.  Be more present. Connect more deeply and often with the people around me.
• Express myself more--my love, my passion, my feelings.  Write more. Speak more. Give more.
• More honesty, unabashed honesty with myself and others.

• Worry less.  Worry less about what others think of me.  It doesn't matter.  Worry less about money or the future.  It will all come.  All I have right now is right now.
• Buy less.  Own less.  Release what does not bring joy or light into my life.  Make room for those things that do.
• Including doing less of what is not authentic, what is not important, what is not a part of my value system and my life purpose. Those things I do not feel deeply called to do, I will not do.

Those things that must be done: the laundry, the dishes, the feeding, the endless wiping of pee and poo and boogers and tears and dirt that comes with motherhood--they will be done with more love, more presence, more understanding of WHY they are essential.

When they are the less essential things, they will be done less, thrown by the wayside without guilt or apology because something more important is calling to me.

I heard a marvelous poem yesterday for the very first time.  It encompasses my recent feelings, the advice I might give to myself if I were to be honest and authentic right now.

I'll use it to close this post with a happy birthday to me and a joyous day to you.

Advice to Myself

by Louise Erdrich

Leave the dishes.

Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator

and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.

Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.

Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.

Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.

Don't even sew on a button.

Let the wind have its way, then the earth

that invades as dust and then the dead

foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.

Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.

Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles

or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry

who uses whose toothbrush or if anything

matches, at all.

Except one word to another. Or a thought.

Pursue the authentic-decide first

what is authentic,

then go after it with all your heart.

Your heart, that place

you don't even think of cleaning out.

That closet stuffed with savage mementos.

Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth

or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner

again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,

or weep over anything at all that breaks.

Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons

in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life

and talk to the dead

who drift in through the screened windows, who collect

patiently on the tops of food jars and books.

Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything

except what destroys

the insulation between yourself and your experience

or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters

this ruse you call necessity.

Poetry Tuesday Returns In Honor Of Mother's Day

So, I haven't posted any poems for a long time. I'm feeling the need to start again. And why not start for Mother's Day?

These are two poems from Carol Lynn Pearson's book "Beginnings." (You may be getting the feeling that I like Carol Lynn Pearson. Um, I really do. I love the work of many other poets too, but Carol always seems to sing the same song my heart sings.)

The first poem "Investment" is dedicated to my younger sister who will soon be giving birth to her first child. I'm so thrilled for her I could burst.

The second poem "The Unwritten Poem" is dedicated to my mother, who has given so much to her children. She loves to write and has always told me she'd love to write more. I think she should! Until then, she just keeps on encouraging and loving me and everyone else in her family. She has given me so many poems.

Investment

How enviously

I watched

The rose bush

Bear her bud --

Such an easy,

Lovely birth.

And

At that moment

I wished

The sweet myth

Were true --

That I could

Pluck you,

My child,

From some

Green vine.

But now

As you breathe,

Through flesh

That was mine

(Gently in the

Small circle

Of my arms),

I see

The wisdom

Of investment.

The easy gift

Is easy to forget.

But what is bought

With coin of pain --

Is dearly kept.

The Unwritten Poem

Sometimes --

In a sitting down moment

On a day

Of stove-heating the sad-irons

And layering newspaper between

Quilts to keep us warmer --

I heard my mother say,

"I wish I had time

To write a poem."

And then she would start

The potatoes.

When I was twelve

A thing happened that

Broke my heart --

A school thing I've forgotten now.

For hours I cried my humiliation

Into a handkerchief.

Next day my mother

Brought in in from ironing --

That handkerchief --

And gave it to me special.

"Here," she laid it in my lap.

"You've had it in happy times

And in sad.

There'll be more of both.

Keep it, and it will remind you

The better follows the bad."

She went back to ironing,

And my fingers traced

The little flowers of fading blue.

I can remember other poems

She left me, too.

One Morning In December

Some December mornings feel like this for me.

One Morning in December
by Heather Duncan

Just now I’ve slipped
from the softness of sheets on skin
to savor the silky silence
of morning before dawn.

Rusty, our golden retriever,
nudges me and I slide
the back door open.
She runs headlong into icy air.

I start the teakettle toward her singing
then sit to scribble this note to you.

Do you ever feel this breathless audacity?
This disbelief that moments such as these
save a space for you?

Now That I Am Forever With Child by Audre Lorde

I would like to write a poem in response to this about the feeling of having threads upon threads flowing from my heart through space and time. What a feeling it is to be the mother of many and for my love to have grown so big and to extend to so mnay that I hardly feel like I can contain it sometimes. I am such a miraculously blessed woman.
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Now That I Am Forever with Child
by Audre Lorde

How the days went
while you were blooming within me
I remember____each upon each
the swelling changed planes of my body

and how you first fluttered____then jumped
and I thought it was my heart.

How the days wound down
and the turning of winter
I recall____you
growing heavy
against the wind.
I thought____now her hands
are formed____her hair
has started to curl
now her teeth are done
now she sneezes.

Then the seed opened.
I bore you one morning
just before spring
my head rang like a fiery piston
my legs were towers between which
a new world was passing.

Since then
I can only distinguish
one thread within running hours
you____flowing through selves
toward You.

Poems From Beginnings by Carol Lynn Pearson

Carol Lynn Pearson is one of my very favorite poets. I picked up her book, Beginnings, from D.I. last week and have been devouring it ever since. I tried to pick a poem to share with you, but I could only narrow it down to four. I hope you enjoy them as much as I have.
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My Season
by Carol Lynn Pearson

Seeing the tree
Beneath a baptism of snow,
You may call her barren.
But is it so?
And for all your watchings
On a March night
When the twigs seem dark
And the bark
Feels cold to your hand --
Can you call her fruitless
And so leave?

She smiles,
Calm in the station
Of seasons
And in the ordination
Of sun, and sap, and spring.

As for me?
You turn away,
Impatient with the promises you've seen.
But -- inside I fill
And pulse and flow
With the urgency of green.

I've a season,
Like the tree.
And all your
Faithless doubts
Will not destroy
The rising spring
In me.

The Woman
by Carol Lynn Pearson

God fashioned me
For feeding;
And set me in
A hungry land.

I give --
To satisfy
The unconscious appetite
Of the unborn,
And the child's
First thirsting need.

I give --
To be
Sweet sustenance
To aching man,
And then
Quiet comfort
To a weary, wanting
World.

There is much
Hunger here.

Oh,
Father -- fill me,
That I may nourish
Generously.

Mother To Child
by Carol Lynn Pearson

Look --
Your little fist
Fits mine
Like the pit
In a plum.

One day
And one size,
These two hands will
Clasp companionably.

Help me, child
Forgive me
When I fail you.
I'm your mother,
True,
But in the end
Merely an older equal
Doing her faltering best
For a dear
Small friend.

The Weaning
by Carol Lynn Pearson

There is cloth now
Between you
And my breast --
Cloth
And a little pain.

This is the
Beginning.
I take your face
In my hands
and guide your gaze
Away, out there --
To the fruit trees,
To the stars.

My arms,
Though empty,
Fold comfort
To a mother-heart
That yearns for nursing,
Yet knows that weaning
Is the bigger part.

The Wow's In the Book by Kaitybean

So, for this postdated poetry Tuesday, I'm going to post a poem my Kaitybean wrote for her school's reflections contest. She won first place! Yay, Kaitybean!

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The Wow's In The Book
by Kaitybean

When you take a good look in a book,
marvelous wonders behold!
A stroll with the cat, the bear, or the crook,
there’s no end to chance, when you’re in a book!

You can soar through the sky, to the moon,
romp where the elephants roam!
You’re swinging with monkeys, and soon,
you’ll have a big show with baboons!

Just open right up and look inside,
you’ll never want to go back!
Through many adventures you travel wide
on phrases of fun -- a wonderous ride!

Your choices are never ending:
fantasy, nonfiction, or mysteries!
Through your mind questions are racing!
Your “wow’s” are only beginning!

Girl In the Doorway by Dorianne Laux

If I could write a poem that describes perfectly how I feel about Kaitybean right now, this would be it. She's not exactly at this stage yet, but oh I feel it starting.
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Girl In the Doorway

She is twelve now, the door to her room
closed, telephone cord trailing the hallway
in tight curls. I stand at the dryer, listening
through the thin wall between us, her voice
rising and falling as she describes her new life.
Static flies in brief blue stars from her socks,
her hairbrush in the morning. Her silver braces
shine inside the velvet case of her mouth.
Her grades rise and fall, her friends call
or they don't, her dog chews her new shoes
to a canvas pulp. Some days she opens her door
and musk rises from the long crease in her bed,
fills the dim hall. She grabs a denim coat
and drags the floor. Dust swirls in gold eddies
behind her. She walks through the house, a goddess,
each window pulsing with summer. Outside,
the boys wait for her teeth to straighten.
They have a vibrant patience.
When she steps onto the front porch, sun shimmies
through the tips of her hair, the V of her legs,
fans out like wings under her arms
as she raises them and waves. Goodbye, Goodbye.
Then she turns to go, folds up
all that light in her arms like a blanket
and takes it with her.

Some Children's Poetry

GO VOTE!

There, I've said it.

Now on to poetry Tuesday.

Last week a purchased a delightful book: "The Bill Martin Jr. Big Book of Poetry." I have been enjoying it thoroughly and may even start reading some of it to my kids now. :)

So, on this cold, windy election morning. I thought I'd post a couple of light, fun children's poems. Enjoy!
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WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND
by Christina G. Rossetti

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you;
But when the leaves hang trembling
The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I;
But when the trees bow down their heads
The wind is passing by.

IF I WERE IN CHARGE OF THE WORLD
by Judith Viorst

If I were in charge of the world
I'd cancel oatmeal,
Monday mornings,
Allergy shots, and also
Sara Steinberg.

If I were in charge of the world
There'd be brighter night lights,
Healthier hamsters, and
Basketball baskets forty eight inches lower.

If I were in charge of the world
You wouldn't have lonely.
You wouldn't have clean.
You wouldn't have bedtimes.
Or "Don't punch your sister."
You wouldn't even have sisters.

If I were in charge of the world
A chocolate sundae with whipped cream and nuts
would be a vegetable
All 007 movies would be G.
And a person who sometimes forgot to brush,
And sometimes forgot to flush,
Would still be allowed to be
In charge of the world.

Double Feature -- Uncle Walt and William Carlos Williams

Since I missed poetry Tuesday last week, I'm posting two poems today. No particular theme or rhyme or reason to them. Just a couple of quick ones from two of my favorite poets: Walt Whitman and William Carlos Williams. Enjoy!
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WALT WHITMAN
I Hear America Singing

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on
the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he
stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon
intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl
sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day -- at night the party of young fellows, robust,
friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.


WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
This is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Autumn Poems

Those of you who know me well or have been around here a while probably know that I have a thing for autumn. This is, hands down, my favorite time of year.

So poetry Tuesday today is a collection of fall and autumn poems.
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The winds will blow their own freshness into you,
and the storms their energy,
while cares will drop away from you
like the leaves of Autumn.

-John Muir, Fall Poem

Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

-John Keats, To Autumn

No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
as I have seen in one autumnal face

-John Donne

Eight Loaves by Karen Keith Gibson

This Poetry Tuesday I am thinking about my mother-in-law. She has been visiting from Germany for the last two weeks and I have thoroughly enjoyed having her around. We have had our ups and downs as many mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law do. But, I am so grateful for the good woman she is, for the nurturing and love and work she put into her seven delicious children. They are some of the best people I know. And now, having been a mother for a number of years, I am understanding a little bit of the huge task it is to raise good children. I am endlessly grateful for her.
We were talking at our women's retreat about how she used to make bread and feed it to her children after school as they came home. She said they went through at least two loaves each day.
I immediately thought of a poem written by one of my friends and favorite poets, Karen Keith Gibson. This comes from a book called "Bread and Milk and Music: Three Sisters' Voices" which was written by Karen and her two sisters, Helen Keith Beaman and Mary Keith Boyack. It is an absolutely sublime book. If you'd like to buy a copy, let me know and I can get one for you.
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Eight Loaves

I imagine I can smell it when I reach
the vacant lot, float on the aroma
down the path, past Strong's,
through the back door, into the kitchen.
Mother cuts the coveted heel,
spreads it Grandma Knighton style:
scrape off more than you put on.
Then, ceremoniously, she places
the prize in my hands.

No one can duplicate the bread.
I know why. One morning as the ritual began,
I meticulously took notes,
watched every move, counted the stirs,
clicked a mental picture to pattern.
Depression-conscious,
she added leftover mush,
mixed it with the other ingredients
as though it belonged.

She kneaded like a champion boxer
taking on his punching bag
with perfect rhythm, well-trained arms.
Baking was the clincher:
coal stove, blackened pans.

I miss the bread.
I miss the constancy of it,
its goodness, its healing power.

How could she have known as she
went about her mundane chore
what it would mean to us,
her eight loaves of delicious children,
stirred, kneaded and baked, who
live the legacy of Mama's bread.

Karen Keith Gibson
from Bread and Milk and Music: Three Sisters' Voices
©2007

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

from Dream Work by Mary Oliver
published by Atlantic Monthly Press
© Mary Oliver

The Sound of Trees by Robert Frost

One of my favorite poems. The trees are stirring in the breeze today and, oh, it makes me restless.
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The Sound of Trees

I wonder about the trees.

Why do we wish to bear

Forever the noise of these

More than another noise

So close to our dwelling place?

We suffer them by the day

Till we lose all measure of pace,

And fixity in our joys,

And acquire a listening air.

They are that that talks of going

But never gets away;

And that talks no less for knowing,

As it grows wiser and older,

That now it means to stay.

My feet tug at the floor

And my head sways to my shoulder

Sometimes when I watch trees sway,

From the window or the door.

I shall set forth for somewhere,

I shall make the reckless choice

Some day when they are in voice

And tossing so as to scare

The white clouds over them on.

I shall have less to say,

But I shall be gone.



Robert Frost