A Poem
I wrote this poem in one go and I’m just going to submit it to a bunch of places. Just to see what happens. It’s kind of like playing the lottery. I suggest you try it. You may experience an electric thrill. You may have been needing an electric thrill for some time now. So, sit. Write. Any poem. Any poem at all. Then submit it for publication. Just do it. Trust me, you’ll like it.
A Budding Artist at Home with her Eight-Month-Old Son
All I want to do is read and write.
Read and write.
Read and write.
Instead today:
I scrubbed the counter tops.
Started coffee.
Made breakfast for the baby.
Fed the baby.
Played with the baby.
Soothed the baby down for a nap.
Sipped on a cup of cold coffee.
Washed the laundry.
Cleaned the counter tops.
Loaded and unloaded the dish washer.
Showered.
Tried to blow dry my hair, but the noise woke the baby.
I packed a bag of diapers and ointments and toys and sippy cups and little pieces of organic banana.
We hiked three miles stopping to let the baby rub his fingers on the rough, fat bark of older trees, of the smooth, slick bark of young trees, and the thick, green leaves of Laurels.
I forgot to stop and breathe at my favorite spot next to the creek.
I drove home listening to the baby squeal because we stayed out past his lunch.
I made lunch for the baby.
Fed the baby,
Read The Belly Button Book and Panda in the Park with the baby.
Soothed the baby down for a nap.
Scrubbed the counter tops.
Made the bed.
Took out the trash.
Scrubbed the kitchen floor.
Scrubbed the counter tops again.
I started to vacuum.
But, the noise woke the baby.
I opened his door just a crack, whispered
“Hello? Waking up boy? Is that you?”
The baby laughed.
I changed the baby.
Took the baby down to the garden and sang to him as I hoed out the weeds, raked the paths clean, watered, and plucked the extra shoots from the tomato plants.
I made dinner for the baby.
Fed the baby.
Played hide and seek around the corners of his high chair.
Changed the baby into pajamas.
Soothed the baby to bed.
Scrubbed the counter tops.
Started dinner.
Became increasingly irritable.
Was forced outside by my husband.
A glass of bourbon appeared on the table.
Along with this computer and a copy of The Blue Jay’s Dance by Louise Erdrich.
Read, he said.
Write, he said.
Read and Write.
Read and Write.
June 4th, 2008 at 11:37 am
Wow. I actually cried at that one. It makes me want to write something. You’re so inspiring. Thanks!
June 4th, 2008 at 1:43 pm
No, “wow!” back at’ya! I definitely didn’t think the poem was strong enough to illicit tears. I’m very flattered. Now, go write a poem. Any poem…
June 4th, 2008 at 6:37 pm
this poem piqued my interest in sylvia plath. i’ve got to get my old books out and revisit her. i mean, i read the bell jar over and over in high school and early college. but i seem to remember some passionate motherhood poetry that perhaps i would appreciate or understand differently at this stage in my life. the strengths of the poem: it is cyclical, rhythmic, and honest.
June 4th, 2008 at 9:04 pm
i wouldn’t have thought plath. although, now that you mention her (and since i mentioned her in one of my last posts) i also feel like a plath revisit may be due. thanks for commenting on the strengths of the poem. i feel like it is thought-provoking but utterly without brilliance… as seems to be the case with all of my poetry. (although i have some in the works that i hope will prove otherwise. we’ll see…)
June 11th, 2008 at 9:22 pm
I liked it. I got a picture-sense of the everyday chores of love and life boiled down into the events of one day. A day that was full even though you might think it was just busy. The ending was great, too.