House of the Setting Sun

We’ll be heading for the woods soon, where I can sit on the front deck and watch the setting sun. My words float in the leaves there and then fall into my head so easily, I have to take long walks with the dog to catch them all and sort them out. Summer words are so much lighter, too. They laugh easier, stay around longer, don’t prick my fingers when they finally make their way to this laptop. My pencils are sharpened. Batteries are working in my hand held recorder. And I know my favorite trees are there waiting for me to come back and read my latest words to them as Rupert and I stroll by or stop to sit beneath one of them and enjoy the comfort of the day. I’m ready, ready, ready.

If Ever I Would Read You

I often have difficulty selecting poems to read aloud when asked to do a reading, mostly because my work is so personal. When something is troubling me, I write about it. I encourage other writer friends to do the same and the work of others I read certainly tells me I am not alone in doing this. Yesterday while sitting in the sun on the front porch I read poetry by Billy Collins, a favorite of mine. His “Ballistic” collection contained poems that made me laugh out loud and then choke back tears; if he has not just gone through a divorce himself, he certainly has been close to someone who has. His poetry in this book tells the story of it. I wonder if he can read those poems aloud without tears. Some of my poems I can’t read in public because I still can’t get through them without breaking down.

This week I had the extreme pleasure of listening to Seamus Heaney give a reading. His wealth of words is often what I turn to for inspiration, comfort, and support. Three of his poems would be on my list of my top ten favorites and I was in awe when he read two of them that evening. I will never read them again myself without hearing his Irish brogue.

One of my favorites, one with an ending that tugs at your heart – a style I’ve tried to copy in my work, never hitting the same chord as Mr. Heaney – is “Mid-Term Break”. He recited this from memory, on his 71st birthday, to a full house in Hendricks Chapel on the Syracuse University campus. It’s a chilling poem, so well crafted it sometimes makes me wonder why anyone ever would write another poem. What I did not know until that night was that it was written about a personal experience. I’m not sure why this surprised me, because I write about what happens to me, as do most other poets I know. He recited it so well, the words are so deliciously arranged, the emotions so crisp and raw…..and as one of his very early poems, I simply never imagined it had such personal meaning to him. How he can read it with dry eyes, I do not know, yet he handled it masterfully.

Although Seamus Heaney was inspiring on several levels and I will long remember sitting in those pews with my poet friend Mary Ellen enthralled by the Irish accent and the rhythm of his magical poetry, I will also try to read the poems I’ve written that are personal, because these end up being the most honest, the most real.

Also, I will keep these words of his in mind always now as I write: “Write through your grief for the pure joy of writing.”

My Baby Brought Me A Letter

When the white envelopes arrive in the mailbox, I expect them to be there. Those self-addressed, stamped envelopes I toss into larger envelopes that contain manuscripts I’ve slaved over before submitting to various places hoping someone finds my work worthy always return home sooner or later. I’ve gone quite a stretch recently without any landing on the doorstep. At least a dozen are floating around out there. I wonder what that might mean, when I dare to think about it. What I anticipate is opening the mailbox one day soon and having a dozen of these envelopes fall at my feet, slapping the porch with such force it will almost sound like someone whispering “I told you none of your stuff is any good!”

So when my husband handed me a white envelope the other day, I simply shrugged. At first glance I did not notice that there was a return address hand-written on the back. Instead I wondered why someone had written my name and address on the front of the envelope. Where had the address label that I always use gone? Had it fallen off? Had I made a mistake and forgotten to put it on? The postage stamp was the kind I use, the envelope identical. Someone had taken the time to hand address a rejection letter to me? Oh! Maybe they wrote me a note then to tell me why they didn’t find my work suitable for their publication. I ripped it open.

And read the letter enclosed twice before realizing that my poem had been selected as an “Honorable Mention” entry in a contest. I’d forgotten about entering the contest, one I’ve entered often and had some success with. Last year I’d won first prize. I had hesitated to submit this year, imagining that they would certainly pass on my work and give someone new a chance. What a pleasant surprise to be selected again!

Wonders never cease.

I Shot the Poet

At least that’s what it feels like.

There must be a wound somewhere, though as many times as I search, there’s no blood seeping through my t-shirt, no gash on my brow, no gaping hole in my thigh. I can’t find my pulse, can barely feel the contraction of my lungs as I gasp. Even the glorious spring sunshine flooding my room and such welcome warmer temperatures haven’t stirred words to the surface. When I open my mouth, silence dribbles out. My fingers feel frostbit, unable to peck out sentences that bring sense to anything I’m twirling through.

I’m trying to decide on a second mangled line to my song…..maybe it will be as simple as “I shot the poet, but I did not shoot the knitter.”

This reminds me of a quote I recently read, a thought Dame Edith Sitwell shared regarding Virginia Woolf: I enjoyed talking to her, but thought nothing of her writing. I considered her a beautiful little knitter.

I Wanna Hold Your Pen

May I borrow your pen?

Maybe then I could write a better poem, a happy poem full of sunlight and memories of days spent on the beach with summer wind blowing through our hair, no cares in the world.

Today all I write is fear, grey and dull, pulling me down into the void where even voices cut me into a dozen pieces I can’t fit back together.

We Can Write It Out

Whenever I’m faced with one of many difficulties life tosses my way, I tell myself to simply write it out. While not everything I write is purely autobiographical, issues I’ve dealt with do find their way into poems, stories and novels eventually. And if it’s not something I’ve dealt with directly, I’m not above stealing from the lives of my friends. A cousin once read something I wrote and then spent weeks stewing about it, feeling I had stolen a little too much of her life for others to read.

However, isn’t this how we often cope? I got through a horrible first marriage by reading fiction about others who got through horrible first marriages. The librarian in the small town I lived in then saved books for me after becoming familiar with the theme I seemed to select. I didn’t even realize that she eventually selected books for me about women who found their ways out of horrible marriages. I should have thanked her.

It helps to write it out. There are some things we never make sense of, such as the death of a loved one before we’ve had time to say all we wanted to say or do all we’d planned to do. Still, writing about it dulls the pain momentarily, or connects us for a second with someone else who remembers what that felt like, making us feel not so alone in our grief.

I read for pleasure and escape and also searching for connection. Instead of focusing on the differences between me and my neighbors, especially at first glance, I long to know what experiences we may have shared. Reading helps me learn about others who feared walking into a first grade classroom as the new kid in town or being a young mother afraid she’d end up screaming right along with her howling infant if someone didn’t lend her a hand or being that wife trapped in a marriage that seemed impossible to escape.

That’s why I write, too. If I can write it out, write what I’ve gone through, what I might have learned along the way, what I’m still trying to figure out, maybe I’ll connect with someone who can find their own answers through my words. Maybe I can help someone else write it out for themselves. We can work it out, if we write it out. Honestly.

Tiptoe Through the Daisies