I’m sorry I’m abandoning you all

All it takes is a wobble
of ankle or attention—
the other racers fly ahead
and I’ll never catch up.

This is a stupid way
to approach a cherry
blossom. With fear,
I mean. What if,

I ask my spouse, I waste
this gift of two weeks?
I will have betrayed
my family. Counting

games and recitals
at which I will not
cheer, mushrooms
I will not fry. This

week I helped my son
imagine how to draw rain.
I mailed my daughter’s
lopped ponytail to a cancer

charity. All that honey.
Now she runs light.
And I pack the car
with tea bags, soft clothes,

books about other books
because who knows what
a mother of teenagers
will do with solitude?

My spouse laughs.
His first gift to me,
a quarter century ago,
was news that my terror

is funny. We keep walking
past a drowned young
green snake, curled
in a spiral, along the brown

creek, all roiled up
by last night’s rackety
storms. Surprised, he admits,
I slept through the thunder.

My NaPoWriMo poem drafting frenzy continues. One of the most fun projects I’ve started is a collaboration with visual artist Carolyn Capps–she sent me an image, I wrote a poem by way of reply, she’s going to create another image and send it to me, and we’ll see where it goes from there. More on that later, I hope.

This morning’s poem, posted above, had several triggers. My daughter is now on the track team. I read an ominously beautiful poem by Jack Ridl in the new Poet Lore called “Within the Moment of Indefinite Suffering” that begins, “All it takes is a tick.” And, obviously, I took a walk with Chris. He’s just back from Pittsburgh, where he’s settling his mother into assisted living. I’m off tomorrow to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, where I’ll have a studio, three effortless meals a day, and woods to walk in while I think poetic thoughts. I’m obviously feeling guilty and panicked. I’m wondering if I’m the only person who’s dumb enough to approach the amazing privilege of a 2 week fellowship, no strings attached, with this level of fear, or whether this is a totally normal angsty writer way to siphon off the joy from an amazing spring adventure.

2 Comments on “I’m sorry I’m abandoning you all

  1. Nope, you are not alone. Fear paralyzes me when confronted with a blank calendar. Two weeks is a wonderful gift, and will not be wasted even if all you do is sleep, eat and read. It’s all fodder for the creative juices, in the end. HAVE A WONDERFUL TIME!!!!!!

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Madeline Ruth Walker

The work wants to be made

Colleen Anderson

Writing from both sides of the brain

Mary Carroll-Hackett: Poetry and Prose

"This work is unlike any other, in its range of rich, conjuring imagery and its dexterity, its smart voice. Carroll-Hackett doesn’t spare us—but doesn’t save us—she draws a blueprint of power and class with her unflinching pivot: matter-of-fact and tender." —Jan Beatty

NZ Poetry Shelf

a poetry page with reviews, interviews and other things

Hoarded Ordinaries

Mundane musings from a collector of the quotidian

Selena Chambers

I imbibe words and consume past minds. As a result, I often awake next to strange sentences and forgotten meanings.

Frank Hudson

The Parlando Project - Where Music and Words Meet

Erica Goss

Poet, Writer, Instructor

Spalding University School of Creative & Professional Writing

Low-Residency Graduate Programs – MFA, MA, Certificate

O Write: Marilynonaroll's Blog

Thoughts on writing and reading

The Great Fogginzo's Cobweb

poetry. observations. words. stuff.

Julie Mellor - poet

breathing through our bones

UnIambic

(The poetry blog of Grant Clauser)

Hosking's Blog

Into one's life a little poetry must fall

risa's pieces

Scribblings in awe of poetry, transitions, mutations and death

sisyphus

Rising towards the light...

Robert Charboneau.

Writer and Artist

%d bloggers like this: