Trusting in Enough

And that the next poem will come. (But what if it doesn't?)

Photo by Scott Gummerson on Unsplash

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ILL AT EASE


Of course, before dawn, when a new ache
pushes through sleep, or later in the day
when the expected message doesn’t come,
or some grim story shatters across the headlines –- 
then, of course. It’s understood.

Why, though, when there are leftovers
after dinner? Why should half a plate of penne
eat at me like a prayer unfinished,
a letter unanswered? Who in me believes
its flavor will be gone, after tonight?

And why, when some dear friend praises a work
of mine as “wonderful, as always”?
How long is always? How can there be wonder
in something always there? Who in me believes
“as always” means “I hoped for something more”?

And -– most! -– why, when I am finishing
a poem, reveling in its shape and flavor, plump
and glossy with completion, who in me believes,
exactly then, that this poem is the last,
the period to all craft, all song, all joy?

Enough. More than enough. More. Who in me
believes that these are traps, are stolen goods,
are gifts best pushed away unclaimed,
untrusted? Who in me believes
the ease of them foretells their loss? And why?

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[You can listen to an audio version of the poem — an especially heartfelt performance, gotta say — using the little widget above the photograph.]

Exactly a year ago, at the end of last January, I started a day-at-a-time journey into a regular writing practice. This didn’t involve learning how to write; I had been making poems and prose off and on for decades, I knew I had some skills. It didn’t involve budgeting time and energy for creative work around a full-time job; I’d been retired for three years already. What it did involve was claiming time each day for writing, and then, you know, sitting down to write.

What was I going to write? Poems, I was pretty sure. Poems about what? No freaking idea. Well, one idea for one poem, and maybe half an idea for another one. Okay, start there.

So I did … and lo and behold, each time I finished a poem I would look around at my neighborhood or the weather or my memories, or do some intensive fooling-around in my notebook, and in not very long at all an idea for another poem would show up.

Here’s the kicker, though: no matter how often that happened, I was damn near sure that each poem I finished was the last poem I’d ever write. It’s been the most amazing year of my life as a writer so far, and I kept expecting it to lurch to a halt any day … even as I kept showing up, day after day, on a new page in my notebook.

Yes, thanks, I have spent some time in therapy talking about Trust Issues and Self Esteem. And I’m grateful for that, and it’s helped, and you know what? Some people are hard-wired for certain kinds of anxiety, and some of those people are poets, and one of those poets is me. One unexpected benefit of being wired the way I am? The heady surge of relief, gratitude, and excitement each time a new idea for a poem brushes up against me, the absolute inability to take that for granted or get blasé about it.

So, I’ve just finished a year of (imperfect, lively) regular writing practice. Also I’ve … just about finished the newest poem I’ve been working on. And I’m grateful. And I’m anxious. And it’s today, and I have a date with a page in my notebook.