Teachings from Writing Poetry Every Day for the month of April

Day 8
more haikus

I do mention my
mother who died in the spring
pebble far away

I have sat here long
enough to be alone with
the nest the crow built

I start reading her.
The lizards seem in a race.
Sun sets in my hair.

Day 9

The name of my favorite teacher comes up after I thought that I would take a break from writing for the day. Instead, I want to write a novel about her. Let’s start with a verse that I know will take me somewhere once I follow it.
Now that I am following that verse, it takes me deep into my memories and past. My past life even. I have so many past lives in my three decades on this Earth.
Usually when a poem is dedicated to someone, I address them directly. This time, however, I have no way of communicating with Iris. I wish I did and if persistent I could find a way. Would I dare to talk to her? Would she answer?

Poem For Iris

Day 10

I am deeply moved by Georgia O’Keeffe’s story. Apparently, one of Alfred Stieglitz’s nicknames was Mr. Crow Feather. A Navajo man called O’Keeffe Mrs. Crowfeather. I like the call of that. Even more in German: Frau Krähenfeder.

Day 11

Isn’t it ironic that we
pluck daisies from the meadow
and put them in vases
to have their beauty on the table?
Can’t we see that
by plucking them,
we steal their beauty
from the meadow and
bring demise to the table,
eventually?

Scribbles from another day this week, because I didn’t write anything else today.

Day 12

It’s time for Circle in the evening. After weeks and a day of feeling frustrated, I am blessed with being heard and seen by wise and caring women. Whenever we get together, we can share in a sacred space. Some flying on brooms may be involved, too.

I am grateful to be witnessed when I say that I feel insignificant with my writing. When I express my frustration that I have about doing something of great meaning to me without being seen for it. Writing poetry every day is a great way for self exploration, but be prepared to be stared back at by insecurity, too. After twelve days of doing this, I can pinpoint my finger on my main motives: my emotions, memories, the past, loss, birds, small details in nature. When compared to writers I admire, they seem to be so much more intelligent and brilliant. What significance do my emotions have compared to novels that grasp our society’s current issues?

I am reminded that we only see the glorious end products of other writers. Like the chiseled bodies of bodybuilders, shaped for the minutes of fame when they get to show their meticulously formed muscles. What we don’t see is the endless hours and hours of sitting and writing and editing, or going to the gym, respectively. With writing, there is no instant gratification.

I am gifted with the metaphor of being like a raw diamond with rough edges that make it hard to be in the world. And the recognition of my longing to shine bright. There is trusting in the fire and heat of life that is going to shape me in a way so that I can.

I am a diamond in the making.

Day 13

Sometimes, inspiration strikes at night with images and words so clear that you know you will be able to return to them in the morning. So you take them to bed with you and let them gestate a little. And then, in the morning, when you are rested and inspired, the writing comes easily.

Poem Two Eyes

Day 14

Sometimes, going to bed early, 8pm early, works like a charm. I woke up early today, rested and optimistic. And I got to see the sun rise, my favorite time of day, which I am not savoring often enough. The first bird I see is a swallow, high up in the sky. Because I am rested, I can write a little poem.

Poem Swift