Category — Poetry

A mother lives her life in bursts, or as the book I’m reading aptly puts it, “Between Interruptions.”

I write in between the time Madeleine dozes off and starts rooting around for her next meal. These moments are few, and enormously treasured. 

Madeleine and my first foray into the world was to Starbucks. It was on Day 9. A bright shining day. I read the newspaper for the first time since her birth. This past week she hit the three week milestone and we went to see the Midwife. She clocked in at 11 lb 3 oz. On the way there I filed my nails as Daddy drove. This weekend we embarked on our first adventure, to Victoria, in the safe company of Michael’s parents and the welcoming arms of Island friends. On the ferry deck, as Madeleine slept nestled in a carrier on my chest, I penned these lines:

Forest underfoot, out of sight
ribbons of saltwater taffy
streaming like a
blanket
closing in over
newborn skin.
winds dance over orcas backs
a dozen lazy dominos
waltzing like stars.

Your face is an orbit. Pursed lips, supple skin. Bright eyes, like moons. A constellation.

You are a little ship, a face like an ocean cresting. Raven hair and blue eyes the size of boulders. 

I swim in your sea from day’s break to day’s end. You are my life’s greatest treasure. Lying beside you these first days has felt like a rebirth. Your soul, your face, every inch of you speaks pure. Your loveliness outshines the rainbow that nestled itself outside our window yesterday. I would spend the rest of my days gazing at your face if the world, the Lord, would allow. Instead I will take my moments, store them in my heart like gold, and watch you grow, grow, grow up into heaven, out into the world.

Softly now, you’re breaking my heart…

Grafton Bay, Bowen Island, last Friday evening 

Staring at items
on the table.
Which shall I move?
What’s the plan of attack?

One… two… ten… eighteen…
staring back at me.

There are too many!
Where do they live?
Finally, after too many minutes of consideration,
I declare to a single item:

“YOU: tape dispenser!
I am moving you to the office! Now.”

One item at a time.
Back and forth.
My multitasking brain now
mush.

Help. me. please. 

Image from Life in Motion Photography

My dear friend and doula, Avital, sent me a link to the most beautiful birth video I’ve ever seen. It’s a montage of black and white photos chronicling a home birth, and the most convincing ‘literature’ I’ve come across to encourage natural birth.

I encourage you to watch it.  

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Expect the next installment of Expecting: Poetry Monday morning.

I am a female version of Gumby.
My hands like Jello.
Standing, clearing the table
a new ceramic bowl, now,
a thousand pieces
strewn across the floor.

At Jen’s request, I’m sharing another pregnancy poem. Much less funny but just as honest, I hope:

You, my child.

My darling child,
your hands, as webs,
reach out to touch my insides.
“Mommy, I am here.”
You knit my womb and heart
together with strings.
Your smile already my companion.

My angel,
you speak to me through your
rumblings,
coursing blood, water, tears
out from my fingertips.
I imagine your steps,
giant, small
and wonder at your nature.

I crawl, small, into my Father’s hands,
whispering thanks,
gasping for all the Love
in the world there is to give,
because you deserve it
my darling.

I imagine your face wrinkled, calm.
swimming through your
childhood, already begun.
I marvel at your daring heart,
already,
wishing nothing but hope and
promise and life -
lovely things, lovely things
for you.

You wake now, with passion
stirring like earth quakes,
as I pray.
your voice calling out
“amens”.
I can hear you saying your
yeses. saying yes to the world.

“Yes world, I am coming.”
 
i love you.  
- mama

The innie remains an innie (so far) although I am encountering depths of my belly button I’ve never seen before, my feet are swollen beyond belief, and I officially stopped wearing my wedding band as of yesterday when my mother-in-law had to wrench the piece of metal over my knuckle with dish soap and a lever made of dental floss. 

On the pregnancy note, I bring you this poem (of sorts) written in month three:

I am eating convulsively, though I find it repulsive.
It’s all I can do to sleep.
My boobs keep growing
and my nipples are SO sensitive
I scream in the shower
cowering in the corner –
hiding my chest away from
the faucet.

Yes. I am pregnant.

Calling all poets: a poetry competition from our friends at Comment magazine.

Comment magazine (www.cardus.ca/comment) invites poets to submit contributions in the form of a rondeau suitable for publication in our September print issue. This will be our fourth annual “Making the Most of College” issue, and the submitted poems should in some way be connected with that theme, or with the beginning of the school year. Our poetry judges will select three of the submitted rondeaux for publication and offer pre-publication editorial advice to the poets. One of the selected rondeaux will be published on the first page of the September issue, and its poet awarded a prize of CDN $50. Two other winners will be published elsewhere in the magazine. Email submissions or questions to dpostma@cardus.ca by June 15, 2009.

K-os says it best: http://www.cbc.ca/thehour/videos.html?id=1130063130 (I encourage you to watch the entire interview.) 

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For the past number of weeks I have been questioning my own honesty. Asking the question, what is my first responsibility: to be real or to be understood? 

I am a believer that “the Truth shall set you free.” (John 8:32) While this verse from the Bible is speaking of Jesus, I also believe it is speaking of every truth — every bit of honesty.

The truth shall set us free. 

Honesty / truthfulness are our first responsibility: to ourselves, to each other and to God. Nothing else will do. 

To k-os, an artist I have long loved and admired, honesty is the best poetry. I couldn’t agree with him more.