Bad poetry, aka where I'm at--the part-time, part-self
Neither this thing
Nor that
Clumsy
Start and stop
Once washing then rewashing
First thought, second thought, third thought
Gone
Only inferior
Interior fragments
Survive
Childish things around me
As I bend low to remake them
Into order
And fail
Brilliant literature
A distant galaxy of stars
The light filters
Low and late
But I'm looking down
Trapped by a shiny plastic immediacy
My mind grows mute, weary
And finally
Silent
Stunned into sudden wisdom
I am ridiculous
Selves thrown careless in every room
Under unmade beds
Not wholly mother
Nor writer after all
Insignificant and shamed
I trace smaller and smaller circles
No one will ever see
Nor that
Clumsy
Start and stop
Once washing then rewashing
First thought, second thought, third thought
Gone
Only inferior
Interior fragments
Survive
Childish things around me
As I bend low to remake them
Into order
And fail
Brilliant literature
A distant galaxy of stars
The light filters
Low and late
But I'm looking down
Trapped by a shiny plastic immediacy
My mind grows mute, weary
And finally
Silent
Stunned into sudden wisdom
I am ridiculous
Selves thrown careless in every room
Under unmade beds
Not wholly mother
Nor writer after all
Insignificant and shamed
I trace smaller and smaller circles
No one will ever see
Labels: writer-mother?
posted by Anonymous at 3:27 PM
7 Comments:
Beautiful...absolutely beautiful...hoping you continue to find these words to express how you are feeling. Stay in the struggle. I see you.
I loved this, as usual. I'm sorry you're not feeling like you're not able to commit fully to your writing. Be gentle with yourself, you are doing a wonderful job as a mother AND a writer.
Ooh I love that last line smaller and smaller circles.
XOXO
Its a very lucky few who haven't felt that way at times. A beautiful and painful poem to read. What it evoked for me are the times I have felt like I was disappearing or just felt so, so unseen. I think far too many of us women have painfully traced those circles feeling achingly invisible and insignificant. I wish all of us lived closer, on some sort of blogger commune smack in the middle of a great city like Portland, so whenever any of us were feeling terribly alone or alienated or just plain discouraged we'd all be closeby. Hang in there with yourself and this chapter in your life, and do keep writing and reaching out.
I have to agree with everyone - you're an amazing writer. You are both writer and mother. And we see you.
Although your poem captures your feelings with crystal clarity...there is one part that, having met you in person, I'm not sure is true:
"Not wholly mother
Nor writer after all"
From what I've seen, you are both. Fully. Completely. Give yourself a little credit. ;)
love you,
j.
I shake the dust from my shoes,
the desert has no boundries
and even this little hut
is the desert, rocks and sand
collected in corners near windows
made brilliant by the sun.
I scratch at my tired skin,
I miss my friends.
You said that civilization is sirens
and ads in Missed Connections,
here there is only silence
and I wonder what to make
of the small family of birds
I saw yesterday, what do they drink from?
Where do they go?
I can hear all the sounds of this house.
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