I have been horribly absent since last fall, and I am aiming to repopulate this space with posts over the coming year. I have resolved to finally show up to myself as a writer. For years, I have lamented the fact that I can’t seem to make space in my life for writing, and finally, I get it. I actually have to carve out time, create a project, make it a priority. No one else really cares if I show up and write. I am not getting paid, my job does not depend upon it, my friends nod and say encouraging things when I wring my hands about the stagnation in my writing life.
This is not a new year’s resolution, but is more related to the fact that it will soon be my birthday, and after this one, I turn forty. I suddenly thought, shit, it’s almost half over! I’m still saying the same things about how much writing matters to me, yet I can’t find the time for it. That’s bullshit, and I know it. I always have. Excuses are really convenient, comfortable, and easy. I know very well how to not be a writer, how to fear risking exposure so much that I don’t even send things out for publication most of the time. Well, that story is over. I am becoming a writer again this year. I am going to write a book this year if it kills me.
I read this article a few days ago called “25 Things Writers Should Stop Doing (Right Fucking Now),” which served its purpose to wake me up to the coping mechanisms that keep me from writing. One of the points, “stop playing it safe,” felt like it spoke my name. So, in the spirit of risk, I have decided to share my January project, which represents completely fresh poems that have only had a quick edit. I acknowledge already that some of them may be completely horrible. So be it. I’ll survive the shame.
My theme this month is water. All of the poems ruminate on the subject of water in some way. My hope is to create a book this year that is centered around the elements. These are the first six water poems, and hereafter, I will post one poem a day.
1.1.12
Contrast of light and shadow
melting, swelling against
the solubility of bark’s rough grooves–
drip wind swept drip
slow roll halting edge fall–
cast rooted aside to sink deep
absorb the sweat of ice,
the smell of slow decay–
1.2.12
Ice fishing season opens today with many
lakes too thin to support the weight
because of the warmest December on record.
Arctic air pushing south this week
will bring seasonable temperatures that may
allow ponds and lakes to freeze.
We are skating on thin ice this winter.
Child’s backyard rink full, ready for blades–
icing puddle on the road side–
1.3.12
Satisfying crunch under foot
counters the anticipated springing return
earth saturated now firm
the chill of January
sinks below green facades
1.4.12
The closer to water, the better,
she said smell of salt and fish
low tide moon shines on ice skids
drip of faucet, whir of dishwasher
kettle boiling to keep the chill
at bay Casco Bay shimmers
in the distance eyes full,
then empty memory of snow
1.5.12
made oatmeal, tea, tea
drank water, took shower
flushed toilet, washed hands
drank water, made tea and more tea
flushed toilet, washed hands
washed dishes, washed hands
made tea, flushed toilet, washed hands
cooked quinoa, rinsed kale
made tea, washed hands, made tea
washed dishes, made tea, flushed toilet
washed hands, washed face, brushed teeth
drank water
1.6.12
Slowly, I become aware
of this land locked mind — an identity
forged of ridge and valley, forest and field–
Here, you are a descendant of water–
Penobscot, Presumpscot, Kennebec,
Merrymeeting, Frenchman, Passamoquoddy–
possess knowledge of tides and the cries of loons–
This new country of thought
floods mountaintop views, fills me
with longing to trace blood lines
along the veins of rivers–
If I belong to water, my lineage
is the muck of a river
overflowing, the banks of the Conemaugh
too weak to hold back
the summer rains–
entire cities covered in orange clay,
hauling water digging out,
hoping for sun’s return–