The poem wants to be written.

25% off poetry, and words words words.

Before I say anything else, let me say we’re overdue for a sale. So a sale I am offering!

SALE DETAILS:

Take 25% off poetry prints and my limited edition poetry chapbook (this is no longer in print and I have very few copies left - once it’s gone, it’s gone!). The discount is good through June 8, and will automatically apply at checkout. Happy poeming!

And now, to some writing.

The view from the trail at Whitfield Park. Nashville, TN.

The poem wants to be written.

A couple weeks ago, I sat at a glossy, sticky table in a glossy, sticky coffee shop and wondered if I would ever write a poem again. I hadn’t written, not really, not a poem, in nearly a year. It’s not just been a period of writer’s block. Not just fuzz or busyness or a yogurt-slick-hands’d toddler. It’s been something bony, a bit mean, some sort of under-the-skin expanse, a desert. It’s felt like the loss of something essential. A little twinge of death.

I don’t mean to be glum, I don’t. But the last year’s been hefty. My body is tired from carrying me through it, all my feelings. I’m not depressed, but I am more afraid in this world than I’ve ever been. I’m not sure I know how to be an American mother and be anything but. It is an act of unfathomable hope to bring something beautiful into this violent world.

And yet. The poem wants to be written. I find my body aching to write, even finding moments (brief though they are) I can squeeze out a few stubborn words before sitting curmudgeonly and fantasizing I’m throwing my pen across the room.

As I recently stumbled through some of Mary Oliver’s writings (as I grouchily read to avoid writing myself), my attention snagged on a moment from “Flare” (a poem that really ought to be read in its entirety, when you have a moment):

8.

The poem is not the world.
It isn't even the first page of the world.

But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.

It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.

The poem wants to be written, though I’m not sure what I mean sharing any of this. That’s an awkward truth. I don’t mean to play into anything secretly self-aggrandizing when I say such nonsense as I don’t have it all together—I mean I am quite literally a pile of bones trying to get through a day, trying to organize limbs and skin so I look like I make a bit of concrete sense as I stagger through what feels to me like a haze of American nightmare. Oh, I don’t mean to be glum. But then I’m not sure what else I’d mean to be!

For today, as I do when I’m wise, I suppose I will simply turn again to Mary:

12.

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

This is the dark bread of the poem.
This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.  

- t