mother -
a unifying fact of humanity
mothering -
the glowing thread, leading out
of the forest
the present hour
our own destruction
two hands -
small presumptions of control
a mother held
is a child held
is a society held one day
in the future
the thread that glows
is many generations long
stray thoughts
It’s hard to know what to say sometimes (ahem, oftentimes).
For example, I often don’t know how to talk to my daughter (who is two). In hindsight, I always see a better way to have said a thing to her- to help it land or make sense or induce a smile instead of a scowl.
I don’t know what to say to a friend who just lost her father, but I butcher my way through for the sake of offering something instead of nothing, all the while hoping that an offer of a bed and a trip out might be a balm to a restless, grieving heart.
I shared a first draft of the poem above last week on Instagram (where I tend to share only first drafts these days). These weekly(ish) ‘journal’ entries, which I share with you here, have become a place for further inquiry, a small way I remain faithful to revision and my own unique process of birthing what is necessary.
The leaves are gloriously peaking here in Maine. Winter is not far away. I love winter for many reasons, but especially because it is a time when I revisit and revise. Do you notice seasonality or cyclical tendencies within your writing practice? I would love to know.
What of seasons as kindred spirits? I’m outlining a draft for a guidebook centered around the cyclicality of a writing practice. I’m particularly invested in fall at the moment, as the season out the window miraculously mirrors the season of writing I’m in.
I’ve been revisiting past work this month (in preparation for winter revision) and I have discovered that I am quite a different person than I was two years/months/weeks ago (#motherhood). Every poem I had in a folder destined for a chapbook is now in a ‘what the f*** were you thinking’ pile on the corner of my desk…
This is compost season. Slash and burn season. Take what was green and turn it red season. Falling away season. A time to take energy from here and allocate it to there. A season where, if I’m not careful- aware of my stores, keeping up with the daily tasks that see me through to spring - I might not make it to or through the revisions of winter.
It is time to gather, gather, then gather some more- fragments, old notes, past selves/former notebooks, letters and postcards past and present, centos and posts and lists and anything else that may provide warmth this winter. Bring in 10x more than I think I’ll need. Hope for the best but plan for cold.
What season of writing are you in? How do you mark it? What does it look/feel like?
Until next week,
yours in poetry,
Kat
(below, a photo of Maine today - 10.22.23 - taken with you in mind)
"...for the sake of offering something instead of nothing." I love this way of thinking about what it means to _do love_ for someone we care about, and why we stumble through the awkward actions and conversations we don't know how to do and to have. <3
My writing doesn't reliably cycle with the seasons in any way I can detect, but I do certainly find seasons to be active companions in my work, and often an organizing principle of it.