Losing a baby, in poems

These first three poems are from 2006, when our first pregnancy ended in miscarriage. You can read the story at HoboMama.com.

Death of the Firstborn

"This Birth was hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death." — T.S. Eliot

They all look quite like you at that age,
          and dead like nothing at all,
          a clot of purple-gray, sticky and wrapped with strong, black ribbons.

Feeling you leave in a gush of pain and red,
          in the blackest and loneliest part of the night,
was a hard & bitter agony,
          like giving birth,
giving birth to death.

Why were we led all that way, and never to see your face?
How could I do this again?
Death of the firstborn,
          and God spares no one,
          because why should we be passed over?

---

End of the Bleeding

Who knew I’d feel this desperate
To hold on to the bleeding?

To realize I can trade in maxi for mini,
And I insist on the industrial-size.

A few more drops of liquid life,
And you’re gone, little one,
Gone,
Along with all that housed you.

My uterus is an empty rented house,
Scrubbed clean,
Waiting for the next inhabitant.

---

Robin

"I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies. Do you believe this?" — Jesus

Robin like the hope of spring
Robin like the blue of an egg, the peace of that blue filtering through me and healing

We buried you, Robin,
or maybe it was umbilical cord or placenta or blood (but let’s believe),
in the hardy mum that weathered
summer and winter, drought and flood,
one journey from East Coast to Midwest in the oppressive droopiness of summer,
and one from Midwest to West Coast in the blasting chills of winter,
and even my unmotherly indifference.
Will I one day be a Hardy Mum, Robin?
I feel more like a Bleeding Girl.

Robin, a unique mix of two people who loved you,
and we’ll never know if you had brown eyes or Irish green,
or if you skipped the odds entirely and went with your namesake blue,
like a daring surprise in a nondescript nest.
Would you inherit my chirping child’s always-singing voice,
your dad’s flights into the airy forgetfulness of thought,
my persistent hopefulness for a green thumb as I dig in the dirt?

Robin like a wish
Like a wish
Like a wish

---

And from this year, on Day 16 of the PAD Challenge, where the prompt was to write a death poem:

Mother after miscarriage

I hardly think of you anymore, Robin,
dear forgotten boy.
Tucked into the roots of the hardy mum,
just a few cells now dissolved,
nutrified, drawn into
the plant that sends out its blooms
early this year,
to remind me.

---

You can read more miscarriage and mothering poetry in Poetry of a Hobo Mama: The First Three Years,
available on Amazon and CreateSpace.

Robin egg photo courtesy Karen Barefoot on stock.xchng

April Poem-a-Day Challenge so far

I'm a little nervous to do this, but I thought I'd share a few of the poems I've written so far for Robert Lee Brewer's PAD Challenge at Poetic Asides.

Please be kind and remember these are first drafts. I (and you) have till May 5 to polish and submit up to five favorites from the month.

As I mentioned on Hobo Mama, I'm trying to write as many parenting-specific poems as I can this year. If all goes well, I thought it would be fun to compile my parenting poems from this and previous years into a poetry chapbook as one of my ideas for what to do with my CreateSpace proof. But I have so many ideas, who knows!

I'm nervous to share my parenting poems for many reasons. You might, for instance, think my poetry is bad. You might, for instance, think my parenting is bad. But I'm pretty happy with these poems, and they speak truth in their way, so I'll let that be what it is.

Without further introduction, here are a few of my parenting poems from this month, with a link to the prompt that inspired each:

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Day 15: For today's prompt, write a deadline poem. You can interpret what a deadline poem is however you wish. Maybe it's a poem that laments the idea of deadlines. Maybe it's a poem about someone intentionally missing them or who never has problems with them (I wish I were that person).

Deadline

People told me when you were due,
as if you were a term paper
and to turn in late would earn a failing grade.

We ignored them, didn't we?
Listening in the quiet days
for those first twinges to signal

you knew what time it was.

---

Day 4: For today's prompt, write a history poem. This could mean a poem about your country's history, the history of an event or a tool, or even your own personal history. Hey, you could even write about the history of a relationship. The history of everything is fair game. Have fun!

History

What can I learn in two years together
(almost three)?
What have you changed in me
except everything?

Did it start when they slid you up
onto my chest,
roughing you up with blankets
to remove the blood
my blood
our blood?

Or did it start when I felt your head
with my hand but also
with my whole body
my being concentrated
to one point,
the entrance
the exit
the start of our new history?

Or was it before
in the ache of my hips
in the slow creaking sinking of us
into the mattress
in the slow creaking walking of us
along the beach
your dancing bringing my hand to touch
a foot
a hand
a first hello?

I looked into your eyes
when they laid you on my chest
I cradled you the way they teach you
in postage stamps of Mary
and shadowed illustrations.
I became your mother
if I wasn't before.

The start of our story together,
your life expanding beyond
the gentle swimming and bobbing
no longer fed with blood.
You are dry now, with legs and hands
no longer wrinkled by fluids.
My life constricted, concentrated
upon this point,
upon you,
my breasts dripping milk
my spit cleaning your face
my palms accepting your chewed-up food.
I am wet
like seaweed
I am bound
like the tides
I wash ever closer to you
as you wash further away
to make your own history.

---

Day 3: For today's prompt, I want you to take the phrase "Partly (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make that the title of your poem, and then write the poem. For instance, your poem might be titled "Partly Cloudy," "Partly Crazy," "Partly Out of Touch," or whatever.

Partly resentful

It was my choice
(it's a child not a choice)
it was my choice, wasn't it?

to have you,
to reproduce,
to abandon myself

yet here my self resides,
partly resentful,
partly wistful
of those days

those days I could write poetry
and fly to London
and have sex on the bed
the blessed bed

the bed that brought you to me
that brought me here,
partly resentful

and wholly in love.

---

Day 7: For today's prompt, take the phrase "Until (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and write the poem. Possibilities include: "Until we meet again," "Until tomorrow," "Until monkeys fly out my butt," or even "Until blank" (why not?).

Until you move away

Pillow hog and space eater,
chubby legs kicking my thighs.
Starfish hands pushing my chest
and unh unh unh in the darkness
until I roll over and let you feed.
Dream interrupter, devourer of sleep,
you take while I wait
until you move away.

Lap hog and attention seeker,
sturdy body invading my space.
Starfish hand pulling my chin
to meet your gray-green eyes,
your chatter about octopi.
Poem interrupter, devourer of time,
you talk while I wait
until you move away.

Imagining a night with full sleep,
imagining a day with concentration,
uninterrupted, unrelenting,
unleavened.
Dreading the day
you move away.

---

Day 17: For today's prompt, write a science poem. Science encompasses a lot, so your poem doesn't have to be scientific to still be a science poem. For instance, you could have a poem titled something like "The Science of Love," and then examine a relationship. Voila! A science poem! Of course, it'll be interesting to see how many poets talk about volcanoes and single cell organisms, not to mention finding out how many "mad scientists" are out there.

Unchallenged theory

We quote the statistics
of lives saved and enhanced,

as we turn from the naysayers
in lab coats and with scalpels.

I scour Google Scholar
and laugh at the tagline.

"Stand on the shoulders of giants,"
I snicker, and click on my links.

I prove the way I parent is right
even as I know

I need no proof.

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I've posted a couple bonus poems at Hobo Mama, too, if you're in the mood for more on this fine #poettues.

If you're sharing some of your PAD Challenge poems, be sure to let me know where so I can go check them out!

Photo courtesy Chris Greene on stock.xchng

Poetry: Why and how?

In the airy heights of hubris, I thought I'd bring you a post on what makes poetry poetry.

I know, I know. Who am I to say? I will be the first to admit: Nobody. I am a big fat no one at all when it comes to poetry.

Yes, I had one poem professionally published … when I was 15 … in a Sunday school newsletter … for $5, I believe the payment was. (Woot!)

I self-published a book of my own poetry, which was a gratifying thing, but not exactly affirmation of my incredible poetic skills, you know? The reviews on it were really good … albeit from my mom and dad.

Have I tried to submit poetry and failed? No. I've been afraid. Very very afraid. Poetry is part of my soul work, and to have it rejected — I don't know if I could stand it.

So, most of what I know of good current poetry I have gleaned from two sources:

1. A girl I worked with on a literary journal in college.
2. Contemporary poetry that's generally acknowledged to be da bomb.

As for #1, I didn't even like that chick. She was kind of snooty and airy-fairy and artsy-fartsy and critical and way beyond her years in self-confidence and maturity, which completely intimidated me. I was supposed to be above her in paygrade, and I felt beneath her in every which way. All that was, naturally, not her fault, and she did an outstanding job being the poetry editor for the journal.

The really good thing about working with her was I got to read every comment she wrote on every poem that was submitted. She never failed to write something. And what was the most common thread? "Why is this poetry? Show — don't tell!"

As I've read some of #2 (not a lot — I feel guilty about this, but it is what it is), I see what she means.

Poets like Li-Young Lee; Billy Collins; Gwendolyn Brooks; Rita Dove; the poets linked to by Paige of Baby Dust Diaries like Sharlee Mullins Glenn (can't get enough of that one) or the beautiful poetry in Mothering like this from Cheryl Gardner — even older ones like W.H. Auden, T.S. Eliot — or even older still like Gerard Manley Hopkins or Emily Dickinson, poets with a modern sensibility ahead of their time — they all inspire and elucidate and help me see what sparks the current poetry reader's interest.

Because I love even older poets, too, but there is a definite fashion to poetry, and I've noticed what's acclaimed now is more along the lines of this:

1. Show; don't tell.
2. If you could say it the same in prose, why don't you?

Show; don't tell

Contemporary poetry has strong imagery. It likes to take visuals, tastes, sounds — often as comparisons — and present an experience to its readers.

Does contemporary poetry have a message? Oh, undoubtedly. But it doesn't just tell you the message. It hints at it. It shows you some clues. It lets you feel the message.

Take a look at Billy Collins' poem, which both talks about and demonstrates this precept:

Introduction To Poetry
by Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

The best poems make me sense something. They give me an emotional response that makes me go "Ahhh." Something in them makes sense, even if I don't have the time or inclination to dissect them line by line.

Take the lines "waterski / across the surface of a poem" — what does that even mean? Who cares! It gives you an idea, right? You get it, somewhere deep down. That's what good poetry does.

Some sniff at modern and/or contemporary poetry as being willfully obtuse. Maybe it is. Some say it's only for snobs who think they're so much smarter than everybody else. I don't know about that. I know poetry isn't everybody's cup of tea, and that's totally valid. But I think good contemporary poems are not trying to keep you from understanding them intellectually — they're just trying to bypass intellect altogether and go straight for the heart.

If you could say it the same in prose, why don't you?

In other words, why poetry? If you have an essay to write, write an essay. If you want to write a novel, write a novel. Don't make a poem carry more weight than it can. Don't try to cram every detail or fact into a poem. It's a fragile frame and easily weighed down. Poetry is more than prose with a lot of choppy line breaks. It's its own art form, and usually? It's pretty short.

Now, again — note that this is contemporary poetry I'm talking about. Homer, for instance, used poetry just like a novel. And there are plenty of more recent poets who've written long, epic verse.

It's just — well, it's not popular right now. It goes back to that in-fashion thing. Poems right now are considered best when they're brief. Take a look at magazines that (still) accept poetry submissions — they'll often have a line limit. Take a look at poetry competitions for buses (hey, I entered once) and see how short poetry must be when it's marketed to the masses (or mass transit).

If you have a definite point you just have to say — then say it. Maybe as an essay or a blog post. With poetry? You're going to have to allow a little leeway. Let the poem shape itself. Use your imagery; weave your metaphors; bring your theme back into itself. And let the message come through subtly in the framework.

Breaking the rules?

You don't like my guidelines? You won't be the first one. Do what you will, and see if you like what comes out. You absolutely might. Poetic styles are fluid and ever-changing, and maybe you're the voice of the next generation of poets.

But take it from this (mostly unpublished) poet: I like poetry that adheres to these rules. Poke around and see if you do, too. Then go try to write some.

Photo courtesy aurelio.asiain on flickr (cc)

Join me in the Poem-a-Day Challenge from Poetic Asides!

It's that time again!

April is National Poetry Month, which means...

Time for the Poem-a-Day Challenge at Poetic Asides!

Robert Lee Brewer posts a prompt every day, and you write a poem based on that prompt. It's very loose and fun, and everything is open to your interpretation, so don't let your poetic sensibilities get all in a twist.

And, remember, just like NaNoWriMo — the point is quantity, not quality! Just do it. Just write. Every day.

By the end of the month, you'll have 30 poems. Not all of them will be great. Probably quite a number will suck. But you'll be 30 poems richer.

And as I've heard before, you can't edit nothing. You have to have written to have something to polish and perfect, so...get poem-ing!

I'll see you at the starting line. Full rules and guidelines are here at Poetic Asides.

P.S. No, this is not an April Fool's joke. Start writing!

Photo courtesy surrealmuse on flickr (cc)