I Needed a Reminder Anyway

So, I'm a day late on my third week on the job. Yesterday wound up being grocery and feel-like-you're-going-to-collapse-in-a-heap-on-the-floor day. It's been one of those weeks. Today I woke up, glanced at my phone and found that my word of the day was "poetaster" a word which means a terrible, amateur poet. So I decided maybe I should try to share someone else's poetry instead. Unfortunately, I don't know of many mom poets (Something I'll need to rectify. Perhaps a visit to my local library is in order.). Frankly most of them are men, most in my repertoire are Irish for whatever reason, and the ones who aren't tend to be spinsters. I had one poet as a teacher in college who was a woman with one daughter, but when she read a poem of mine on embarking on motherhood (the lost one mentioned in my first entry) she completely misinterpreted it. There was a bit about, "Someday, my parents say, I'll run away from there. When my womb runs dry and my heart runs cold and I can't bear to think of a meatloaf...." She left out the "my parents say" bit and told me she hoped I wouldn't wait that long. As in, run girl! Run while you still can! There I was, pregnant for the first time, scared out of my wits, not having even finished college (the only goal I'd ever had in my short life), my parents, as in the poem, not being the most supportive they've ever been, and here's one more old woman as much as telling me she's been there and it is awful.

Anyway, I started flipping through one of my books, Tony Curtis' The Well in the Rain, and after a breakfast skimming came to the conclusion that he's probably one of those men who can't stand to look at a pregnant woman without feeling personally guilty for what men have done to her beauty. He writes about Eve, the morning after Eden, and about "The Shifting of Stones" comparing an old woman to an old shipyard. Here, it's short, perhaps I'll get nailed for copyright infringement, but I don't know how to explain someone else's poetry without quoting it and I hate to quote short poetry in part. A poem is a whole. With a short poem, lines rarely stand alone without losing their meaning. Not to mention the fact that the book was special ordered for a class and the price tag on the back is in pounds. I don't even know that if you looked for this book you'd be able to find it stateside.

The Shifting Stones
by Tony Curtis

Old Shipyards
like old women
wither and die;
too much water
in their bones

Yet, when they
were young, their
still, quiet waters
offered safe harbour;
homes for weary bones.

The song and dance
of a salty sailor charmed
my mother. The sea rocked
against her sides,
calm until the storms.

Now the stones
have shifted,
the gantries rusted.
The blessing of ships
has not been heard for years.

When I first read this poem I wrote in the margin, "What are the stones?" Now I don't know if that was my note or the question of a professor and on first re-reading my first thought is that a stone is a unit of weight. To this poem I say, shut up Tony. The world has gotten it into its head that motherhood is an ugly thing; that it, paired with age, transforms pretty young girls into ugly, fat, gossiping old women. That it's one of many tortures inflicted on poor, defenseless women by awful, abusive men. I'll let you in on some secrets: motherhood does change a woman, but only the one's who were utterly ditzy to start with will come out the other end just as frivolous. It deepens our experience of sacrifice and love and humanity. How could it not? What you're doing is witnessing a human life, one you can't help but take the deepest interest in, from the ground up. And second, some women actually like men. Scandalous, I know.

Your body will wither with age no matter how you live. That's a fact of life if you live it. If the physical is all you care for in a woman then you have no business with her any more than you would with a book if all you cared about was the feel of its cover and the scent of its pages. I've never known anyone who loves books who doesn't also love these things. While the satisfaction of breaking in a fresh spine is a pleasure, and one with a certain sadness to it, there are few things better than a book that's been well read and still holds all its pages. The dog ears, the notes, the softening of the paper, the pages that fall open.... Sorry, can you tell I was raised by a librarian? Maybe not, I'm talking about writing in books which is a habit I only picked up after leaving home. My point is that a lover is not a lover until she is well loved.

Reworking Some Things

How can you write when there's nothing in your head but the mundane? I've been asking myself this for a few days, trying to come up with a new idea for a post. Nothing has struck me as noteworthy. I'm worried about potty training my soon to be 3-year-old who shows no interest, but 3 kids in diapers... potty training with a newborn in the house... sigh. I'm worried about a lot of things frankly and I have no idea how much of that boils down to fact and how much boils down to being massively, obnoxiously, pregnant. It's hard to think when your clothes don't fit you.

I know I need to rework that last entry (probably several times) just to make it presentable really. It's nice to see it in development though sometimes, so I suppose I'll take another crack at it. First, I think I'll rework the language and take out anything superfluous or clunky. There, that's a step in the right direction. Time for a diaper changing break. Now, meter... how's that looking? A little tweeking here and there. Nothing strict, a few anomalies... I think that works for now. All in all, I think that's a fair bit improved. Still not my best work, but a step up from what it was.

To Be the Mother
u    /    u     /   u   u    /     u  /    u  /   u  /   u    u   /
To be the mother I can't recall ever aspiring to be,
u   /   u     /    u   u    /   u    /     u
I left the rest of my life behind me.

 u       /      u    u      /     u  u      /    u       /        u      /
My daughter was born on a Christmas break that now
  u    /     u  / u  u  /   u   /    u
Extends indefinitely before me.

  u      /   u     /     u   / u  /    /     u    /   u   u    /   u   /
While I prepare the ritual sandwiches of the day I feel
 u     /   u      /    u    u      /         /     u     u     /      u     /    u
An Aisling nuzzling my knee, scritching her nose, behind me.

 u   u    / u   u  /    u      /    u    u     /
If you ever invite me out with the kids,
     u      /  u    u   u     /     u    /     u
You'll probably be there before me.

  u       /    u    u   /    u    /  u  u       /          u       u      /
The madness of life has only increased, though they say
 u      /       /     u    u    /     u
My wild days are behind me.

 u   u     /    u   /  u  u   /   u   u   /   u    u    /  u  /u u     u    /  u  u     /
If you can, imagine a life of unending responsibility, spontaneous joy,
     /    u    /    u    u    /     u       /   u         u     u     /     u    u
Crippling worry, unfathomed beauty... please do that, for me.

Better? Worse? Thoughts? Sorry if my meter marks don't line up exactly. It publishes in a different font than I compose in. So much for that.

Now, I'm working on planning my son's 3rd birthday celebration, so I suppose I'll get back to that and maybe write more on it next week.

Losses and Gains, Welcome to Momplaining

If you want to know what we give up to be moms, just look here:

.

That is a signed copy of George R. R. Martin's The Ice Dragon, a children's novel he wrote a while back. Unfortunately for me, it's signed by my daughter, she's now 5-years-old but this was done many years ago, as well as the author. So yes, you give up a lot, including most of your previous interests and hobbies, your ability to control most situations, your ability to keep a tidy home (OK, I was never terribly good at that to begin with.)... your heart, your soul, your life. If you're reading this though, I'm guessing you knew that already. I could try to sum up what you gain in images, but it would take about a thousand and you'd get bored looking at my family photos. 

I wrote a poem before the birth of my first little one, I have four now and one due this September. If my memory isn't too clouded by time and personal partiality, it wasn't bad. It was funny, sad, touching, optimistic... (I have to say, it's nice being able to say all this because you'll never see it now that it's gone. For all you know it was total tripe!) but I've lost that too apparently. Probably after my computer geek husband spilled anti-freeze on our then liquid cooled system, or else just with the standard loss of a hard drive. I only just discovered this loss upon embarking upon this post. And that's life, whether you're a mom or just naturally disorganized or simply a computer owner who doesn't back things up in triplicate. So, as I had intended to post that poem in my inaugural effort here, I'll substitute a ghazal (pronounced more like guzzle but with a "g" coming from somewhere in your throat we English speakers rarely dare to tread unless we have the flu) written on the spot. A ghazal, as near as I can tell, is a poetic form of Arabic origins consisting of couplets which seems to revel in a sort of arbitrary and organized disunity. The first two lines must rhyme, and your second line provides an ending for each subsequent second line. Each couplet stands alone. Meter is usually strictly adhered to, but as Arabic meter doesn't really translate into English at all, for an English poem this is not a serious requirement. There should be at least five couplets in such a poem, but there is no set upper limit.

For the record, this was the first poetic form I stumbled upon while flipping through a book of such things. It seemed rather appropriate for the occasion and for the subject of motherhood. Here's a Wikipedia article on the form if you like: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghazal.

Ghazal #1

To be the mother I can't recall ever aspiring to be,

I left the rest of my life a thousand miles behind me.

My daughter was born over a Christmas break

that's extended now indefinitely before me.

While I prepare the ritual sandwiches of the day I feel

An Aisling nuzzling my leg, scratching her nose, behind me.

If you ever invite me out with the kids,

I guarantee you'll be there before me.

The madness and unpredictability of life has only increased,

Though they tell me my "wild and free" youth is behind me.

If you can, imagine a life of unending responsibility, spontaneous joy, 

Crippling worry, unfathomed beauty... please do that, for me.

Ok, wow. That was a lot harder than I thought it would be and I don't particularly think I did it that well. It's the first time I've tried anything like that in years. I'm rusty.... See if you can do better, ok? I'm sure there's a comments section around here somewhere.