My March Poetry Challenge was successful on many levels. I completed 30 poems in 31 days. I started to see myself as a poet, not because my poetry is on par with someone like Mary Oliver (whose poetry I adore), but because I was seeing and experiencing poetry in my life and spirit and I was writing it down. I learned a bit more about self-discipline and perseverance when I wrote pieces even after I felt my creativity had already left me for the day. I shared my work with others via Facebook and this blog, letting my doubts and worries about what might be thought or said fly away to It-Matters-Not-Land. I connected with others and people connected with me, letting me glimpse a bit more of them through the poems that struck a chord inside themselves.
I had fun with my writing; seeing a poem start with a passing thought and a scribbled line, move through the scattered sentences and not-quite-right word choices, and end with something that clearly expresses my inner workings and ponderings was actually enjoyable and incredibly satisfying. I made a habit of writing a few creative sentences a day (and when I didn’t write creatively on April 1 or 2, I felt ill at ease). And the encouragement I received was more affirming than I can say. In short, it was a marvelous experience. I learned entirely too much about myself, my writing process, and my creative spirit than I can express in one short blog post. Suffice it to say, it was one of the best things I’ve ever challenged myself to do.
I leave you now with two of my favorite poems out of the last ones I wrote in March. Thank you for letting me into your life with my poetry.
Love Most Difficult
I have scars. Oh god, do I have scars,
where wounds as deep as my soul
left an indelible mark.
I ache. Oh man, do I ache,
for the losses and never-hads
that pockmark the road at my back.
I grieve. Hell yes, I grieve.
I give voice to the pain of more than my own broken heart
in sobs drowned out by the shower.
I see. At least I try to see:
brokenness begets brokenness and poison births poison.
The bruised need compassion. So, too, those who bruise.
I have learned. Or rather, I am learning,
healing does not come by inflicting suffering.
Wholeness cannot be found in shattering others.
Many days end with my thoughts turned toward tomorrow—
the day I will be the best me.
Tomorrow I will begin the day gracefully,
without grumbling at the cat for purring and pawing at me
before I am completely awake.
Tomorrow I will eat a wholesome breakfast
instead of pouring extra cream in my coffee,
subsisting on those calories
until a cottage cheese and crackers lunch.
Tomorrow I will cheerily start and finish
inside and outside chores
before sitting on the couch
wasting time on Internet nonsense.
Tomorrow there will be no time-wasting,
no Internet nonsense.
Tomorrow I will
return phone calls,
unclutter my inbox, my closet, my life,
read the books I’ve eagerly purchased only to leave them
neglected on a shelf I promise to dust,
clean and organize everything,
be a delight to all I encounter,
make plans that I will not back out on at a later date,
throw away all the rubbish that’s been seasoning on the counter for days,
enjoy a healthy dinner made by my own two hands
rather than the hands of complete strangers,
and write joyfully before noon
instead of waiting until late in the evening,
grumbling that my creativity left me and refuses to return until—
you guessed it—