Passing the Bechdel Test
A voice from a blouse
A skirt of leaves
They have immolated their wicker man.
They talk of flowers and the physics of particles,
of vacuous clothing and sumptuous books.
Yet beneath brocade and bead work and sneaking mist
there is a want
but cannot remember.
Food is excellent,
almost smells necessary.
So does everything that possesses you
If only people could turn off the clock and wean themselves from his
You feel five feet wide and are at least 1.
On the counter,
chocolate in all his attractions. Do not listen to him.
Eat your salad.
This is hate.
Your teeth flicker on and off.
Your bones shrink in disgrace.
The bones of bones are my bones,
White and hard
In the heat of the heat.
We who forget God can drink together,
Listening to human harassment and murder outside
In dark darkness.
I want my life to be an example of creativity and beauty to my daughter. Being a mother has completed me in some inexplicable way. It is as though I was born her mother, and Angelica’s birth was just a stage in my life cycle. When she was born it was as if I was a butterfly emerging winged from a snow white cocoon.
Because she completes me, and she widens my world, she has deepened my poetry. Motherhood has also been good for my productivity. It gives me less time to write. That may seem counterintuitive, but it is true. By allowing me less time to write, motherhood makes me focus when I do have time to write. Sometimes having all the time in the world just makes one fritter away time. When you become a mother, you appreciate time. That said, I still need my husband’s support for my writing. He lets me have a wonderful babysitter twice a week and gives me time to myself in the evening to read and write. Reading is the life blood of writing. A mother without any support and many children may find creating great literature next to impossible. Woolf was right when she said a woman needs money and a room of her own to write. But given critical aid, motherhood can enhance poetry.
-Reinvigorates me and gets my creative juices flowing
-Enriches my life and gives me more to write about.
-Makes me make the most of my time. I am super productive because I know how limited my time is.
Before I met my husband I intended to go to an MFA program before starting a family. I thought two to three years with nothing to worry about but writing would be ideal. Now that life has taken me down a different path, I see that for me nothing is further from the truth. Motherhood and the awesome responsibility it entails gives me a purpose, something everyone who wants to write should have. If your whole existence is writing, you may find you have nothing to write about. See the proliferation of novels and short fiction about writers/MFA students by writers/ MFA students.
This is not to denigrate MFA programs, which can be wonderful. I am simply saying that motherhood has in many ways been a rigorous training ground for my poetry, and that the breadth of experience it provides me is nutritional for my fertile mind.
” When I met my husband, I liked him. As I spent time with him, I got to know him more and more. We talked and laughed and even cried together and I realized my like had turned into love, and I couldn’t get enough of him. When God surveys our love for Him I wonder what He sees. Does He find us being in “like” with Him only? Is He sorrowful for what He knows our relationship could be but isn’t because of the absence of time together? Is He sad when we talk and laugh and cry only with others? Does he weep when we let the fire of our love grow cold?” -Lynda Hunter Bjorklund
Reading this made a light bulb go off in my head. Isn’t it amazing that we have a God who cares? This is a reciprocal relationship. It isn’t just that we as human beings are concerned with drawing close to God and being loved by God, but God wants to draw close to us and He wants us to love Him. He loves us. The almighty creator of the universe cares about us and how we feel about Him. He wants to be in communion with us.
Do I give God enough love and attention? Do I laugh and cry with God? I do not. I pray to thank Him for my many blessings. I pray to Him to help people in need. But when is the last time I poured my heart out to God? Am I close to God?
If I want to be closer to him I need to talk to Him more, and listen to Him more.
What are the smallest of the names of the words?
How can I interpret cats?
Older endless books?
What a day,
low, soft, and warm as it pleases,
boasting of kittens.
My face is full of static
My eyes are absent grace.
What signal can my hands claw for
Beneath this sky scored by power lines?
I am a receiving blanket.
I am a receipt.
In the best houses I am not received.
Watch me decode messages buried in my doughy skin.
Lush lights linger lightly on my legs.
Excess ecstasy jerks in my finger tips.
I have too much of myself.
I am smoldering.
My old jeans make juice from jam.
I’m going to take my face off
and dance with the band.
Dark pink lyrics weave baskets beneath an umbrella.
What invisible hands,
What spacious choruses,
What softly glowing tendrils of words
fill the air,
swelling and shrinking like breath.
What can I put in those baskets?
Old ledger books of unceasing desire?
The sardonic cold of January?
How about a day,
soft with down and warm with good will,
chirping for a deft farmer?
Synthetic oceans tug at my private world,
The glorious ripping tides from two pink moons.
To ameliorate is pink.
What swims beside my boat,
Wheat colored, round toothed, bipedal –
That I cannot recognize as one of my own?