This is hard; as I was waking up I had a whole statement in my head, perfectly worded, for this blog post. Knowing myself, I should have immediately sat up, found a pen, and took to paper. This is part of my writing problem these days, I cease to remember incredible lines or paragraphs that were floating through my mind only moments before. After having the babe, and even while pregnant, I feel as though the writer in me has been locked away in some cell and I cannot for the life of me find the key. Over the year I have, in my opinion, written some hauntingly, beautiful poems; since becoming pregnant my muse, or well, or whatever it may be, has been slowly drying up. It's enough to even try to keep this blog up-to-date; but, I am forcing myself, so I do not lose that creative, unique, passionate part of me. I look back on some of these blogs and think how banal. All they are is a rehashing of my day, with maybe one lyrical embellishment that appears out of nowhere and seems out of place, lame, and reaching. I am screaming on the inside for the poet to return. I have, maybe, written 4-5 poems since the birth of our baby, when in the past it would take less than an hour to grab hold of the words and spill them across a crisp, white page. What is wrong with me? Is it lack of time, is it pregnancy or motherhood brain, or have I lost the spark? I am terrified it is the last and I will never find that piece of me again. I will never again feel the current run through me, from heart to fingertips, as some emotional prose or poetry spreads out in black behind the flowing curve of the ballpoint pen. Am I lost?
This is the last poem I wrote, around May of this year, and it was rejected (along with three others) by Poetry Magazine:
A Hollow Space Left
Those broken eyes
Sad, lonely light to live with
Candle wicks now fading
Heart stolen with the evening wind
A broken plate rests on the dark walnut floors
Shattered pieces, disconnected memories
An empty seat, impression in the cushion of something that should have lasted longer than a spark.
A dangerous silence
Calloused hands wrap around empty promises
Cold food that would have been
Could have been a beginning mid-book
Tabletop filled with nothingness, desolate with tattered chords of maybes, then with a hollow aching goodbye. Longer than the slow motion swaying of a walk to and out the door.
The click the only sound left, deafening
I am tired of being helpless. I am going to send out a short story to a writing magazine in our area, and a children's book to a possible publisher. Wish me luck that my fickle muse will once again sit within the hollow, between my shoulder and my neck, to whisper sweet nothings until I spill them from my hands.
This blog is about being a stay-at-home mom. Includes photos, meals, crafts, thoughts, and tons of other fun stuff!
Blogs I love:
Living, Loving, and Laughing in the Loo
A Baked Creation
The Party Wagon
Fia Lotta Jansson
Dinner With Julie
How About Orange