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It hardly seems possible that today is the solstice already -- yet here we are, on the darkest day of the year. I wasn't able to do much beyond lighting a candle tonight. But all day I've been thinking about darkness and the symbolism inherent in the day, and all day I've been wishing I could do more to notice the turning of the wheel of the year. (Well, not all day. In truth, most of the hours were full of the quotidian realities of caring for the kids, the necessary distractions of being a mom. Which is probably a good thing, given my typical thoughts on the first day of winter.)
Among other musings, I found myself thinking about poems and poetry. Several times today, I could almost feel that that faint, once-familiar itch, just out of reach -- the subconscious sensation that once upon a time would have meant a poem was near. The stillness that would allow me to hear the whisper of the beginning of a poem is not, at present, part of my life. It's been a long time since it was.
The fact that motherhood does not, for me, for now, inspire poetry is a painful thing to acknowledge. Yet there it is, and that's how it's been for years. Nearly five of them. I anticipated that I would write less once the kids were born, especially during their younger years. Of course I did. Granted, I didn't fully understand how radically my life would change when I became a mother (among other things, as the ninth month of pregnancy with BJ approached I found myself thinking things like, "Gosh, I can't wait for this baby to be born so I can get comfortable in bed again and finally get some sleep!" HA!!!) but I wasn't so naive as to think I'd be able to court the muse on a regular basis. At least not while there were newborn babies in the house.
But I didn't expect that poetry would all but cease to be part of my life once my children were born. While I was pregnant, I'd think about poets who wrote achingly beautiful poems about their children, about babies, about motherhood, and I'd tell myself, It's OK. It's possible. Motherhood and poetry can mix. (Then again, if pressed for an example, more often than not I'd cite Sylvia Plath's Morning Song. Not the best model there, in the larger picture of things, even though the poem itself is beyond lovely.) So it was a surprise, and a sad one, to realize that my muse had gone almost entirely silent when my babies arrived.
I trust that, someday, the poems will come again. I have to trust that much. Because here, now, if I didn't believe in their return then this would be a dark, dark day indeed. Sometimes it is an acute sense of absence, a longing for quiet and focus. More often, it is a lingering feeling of loss -- but more and more I find myself missing it, the harmony that is living alongside the song of the muse.
I still consider myself a poet. Among other things, I maintain a poet's awareness of detail and a poet's fascination with musical language. I've played with rhyme and meter in the drafts I've written as I explore ideas for children's books, and that's done something to keep myself from despairing that I'll ever write poems again, but it doesn't feel at all the same as trying to hear the quiet melody of my own muse singing. Mostly, I've dealt with the absence of poetry in my life by keeping my hands busy (with making jewelry, doing beadwork, knitting, and other crafty pursuits -- not to mention the less exalted busy work of being a mom and keeping the household running somewhat smoothly). I've also dealt with it by blogging. Blogging helps. Helps quite a bit, actually. Much more than I'd thought it would. But it ain't writing poems.
Among other musings, I found myself thinking about poems and poetry. Several times today, I could almost feel that that faint, once-familiar itch, just out of reach -- the subconscious sensation that once upon a time would have meant a poem was near. The stillness that would allow me to hear the whisper of the beginning of a poem is not, at present, part of my life. It's been a long time since it was.
The fact that motherhood does not, for me, for now, inspire poetry is a painful thing to acknowledge. Yet there it is, and that's how it's been for years. Nearly five of them. I anticipated that I would write less once the kids were born, especially during their younger years. Of course I did. Granted, I didn't fully understand how radically my life would change when I became a mother (among other things, as the ninth month of pregnancy with BJ approached I found myself thinking things like, "Gosh, I can't wait for this baby to be born so I can get comfortable in bed again and finally get some sleep!" HA!!!) but I wasn't so naive as to think I'd be able to court the muse on a regular basis. At least not while there were newborn babies in the house.
But I didn't expect that poetry would all but cease to be part of my life once my children were born. While I was pregnant, I'd think about poets who wrote achingly beautiful poems about their children, about babies, about motherhood, and I'd tell myself, It's OK. It's possible. Motherhood and poetry can mix. (Then again, if pressed for an example, more often than not I'd cite Sylvia Plath's Morning Song. Not the best model there, in the larger picture of things, even though the poem itself is beyond lovely.) So it was a surprise, and a sad one, to realize that my muse had gone almost entirely silent when my babies arrived.
I trust that, someday, the poems will come again. I have to trust that much. Because here, now, if I didn't believe in their return then this would be a dark, dark day indeed. Sometimes it is an acute sense of absence, a longing for quiet and focus. More often, it is a lingering feeling of loss -- but more and more I find myself missing it, the harmony that is living alongside the song of the muse.
I still consider myself a poet. Among other things, I maintain a poet's awareness of detail and a poet's fascination with musical language. I've played with rhyme and meter in the drafts I've written as I explore ideas for children's books, and that's done something to keep myself from despairing that I'll ever write poems again, but it doesn't feel at all the same as trying to hear the quiet melody of my own muse singing. Mostly, I've dealt with the absence of poetry in my life by keeping my hands busy (with making jewelry, doing beadwork, knitting, and other crafty pursuits -- not to mention the less exalted busy work of being a mom and keeping the household running somewhat smoothly). I've also dealt with it by blogging. Blogging helps. Helps quite a bit, actually. Much more than I'd thought it would. But it ain't writing poems.
Much as I enjoy dashing off nearly daily entries, and glad as I am that I'm keeping this family record, it just isn't the same.When I found myself itching to jot down lines today, I almost didn't recognize what was happening. At first, I just felt irritable. (Granted, the stir-crazy, cabin-fevered kids, stuck inside thanks to the pouring rain, were doing their part to contribute to the general aura of annoyance.) But then, as the kids were momentarily engrossed in their own little play projects, I had a small space of focus to pay attention to what I was feeling. And I realized it was the itch to jot down lines, to play with words, to net an image in the weave of words. And almost as soon as I'd identified the urge, the kids demanded my attention again, and the moment was gone.
It feels both alarming and exciting to sense that perhaps the poems are nearer than I'd imagined. When I sat down tonight at the computer, I thought at first that I might be able to recapture the afternoon's impulse towards poetry. But nothing doing. Instead, I found myself writing up this post and browsing back through old files, reminding myself that once upon a time I was a poet who actually wrote poems.
Few things are as fundamentally true for me as the cyclical nature of existence. The wheel of the year is a comforting image, both in its specific symbolism for the passage of time and in its reminders that change is constant, that pattern and balance continue -- dark and light, death and life, destruction and creation. All those familiar dualities, always shifting. On this darkest day, I'm remembering that tomorrow marks the return towards the light. It might also, it seems, mark the return of poetry. In honor of that, I thought I'd close with an old favorite that I found in the files tonight. Happy Solstice.
THE SEASON OF LOVE
It need not be exotic
as a pomegranate
or permanent as death.
It need not drag you down
against your will into the dark,
into the depths of Hell.
Yet it can begin with nothing
more than the small, hard seeds
of sorrow, deliberately swallowed.
You have been lonely for a long time,
so long the orchard of your body
chokes with weeds. You have considered
poison. You stand at the kitchen sink,
knife in hand, eating a smiling slice
of what seems like an ordinary apple.
Devour the fruit, seeds and all.
The cyanide in an apple
is found in the seed, not the flesh.
Then, wait.
Even the bitterest pit
can germinate. Rooting within you,
it will branch throughout your body,
until the fall, when your heart hangs
as heavy as ripening fruit,
bearing more on the bough
than you ever thought possible.
Do not hoard the unexpected yield
against the emptiness of winter.
It will blossom again.
And again. In snow.
In summer’s drought. In spring’s wet embrace.
This is Persephone’s hard lesson:
if you’ve eaten the heart’s own harvest,
the season of love can last all year.
After the first descent into darkness,
you know to wait for what will grow.
You learn to find love where there is no light.
-- Jennifer Johnson, 2003
Few things are as fundamentally true for me as the cyclical nature of existence. The wheel of the year is a comforting image, both in its specific symbolism for the passage of time and in its reminders that change is constant, that pattern and balance continue -- dark and light, death and life, destruction and creation. All those familiar dualities, always shifting. On this darkest day, I'm remembering that tomorrow marks the return towards the light. It might also, it seems, mark the return of poetry. In honor of that, I thought I'd close with an old favorite that I found in the files tonight. Happy Solstice.
THE SEASON OF LOVE
It need not be exotic
as a pomegranate
or permanent as death.
It need not drag you down
against your will into the dark,
into the depths of Hell.
Yet it can begin with nothing
more than the small, hard seeds
of sorrow, deliberately swallowed.
You have been lonely for a long time,
so long the orchard of your body
chokes with weeds. You have considered
poison. You stand at the kitchen sink,
knife in hand, eating a smiling slice
of what seems like an ordinary apple.
Devour the fruit, seeds and all.
The cyanide in an apple
is found in the seed, not the flesh.
Then, wait.
Even the bitterest pit
can germinate. Rooting within you,
it will branch throughout your body,
until the fall, when your heart hangs
as heavy as ripening fruit,
bearing more on the bough
than you ever thought possible.
Do not hoard the unexpected yield
against the emptiness of winter.
It will blossom again.
And again. In snow.
In summer’s drought. In spring’s wet embrace.
This is Persephone’s hard lesson:
if you’ve eaten the heart’s own harvest,
the season of love can last all year.
After the first descent into darkness,
you know to wait for what will grow.
You learn to find love where there is no light.
-- Jennifer Johnson, 2003
2 comments:
that is a lovely poem.
the space and feelings of poetry will return, i promise. in those early years of your children's lives, it is sparse, but you still pay attention, and that is the first mark of a poet.
after my boys had grown past toddlerhood, i found myself writing tons of mothering poems and they seem to flow like a fountain once i was finally able to sleep well again and they didn't need my every attention. i am at the dirth again with c, but i feel those first itches coming again, too.
Thank you so much, Cathy -- such reassurances mean more than I can say. Amazing how important sleep is, for EVERYTHING! Here's looking forward to the time when we can both enjoy that fountain flowing and overflowing. May it be sooner rather than later!
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