Musings

Poetry Prompt: All that I have ever been. . .

/ Beth Weaver-Kreider / 2 Comments

“All that I have ever been compounded by what I am now.”  I woke this morning with this in my head.  It didn’t seem to be the fragment of a dream.  There seem to be no images attached, except that it came to me as though written on the page, so the image of the words themselves are there.  I do not even feel certain that it really means anything.  I keep wanting to re-write it, exchange that “by” for an “into.”  Perhaps I will.  Every time I woke in the wee hours, there it was in my head, waiting patiently like an old dog to be noticed.

It does feel connected to the word that I have chosen for the year: palimpsest.  My work right now seems to have something to do with bringing my past to bear on my present, letting the layers of time in my life overlap and weave into each other.

So that will be the poetry prompt for today: Begin a poem with the words “All that I have ever been. . .”  I suppose we could throw in an old dog as well, for extra credit.  Care to join me?

Palimpsest

/ Beth Weaver-Kreider / 1 Comment

Good Morning, 2013!  Such a fresh-looking number, that.  I love the movement into a new year, no matter how arbitrary the choice of day may actually be.  As my friend Carol said, Let each day be a new beginning, a chance to begin afresh.  Now, this moment, I am a new person.  And now, in this moment, too, I begin anew.  Always.  There’s that phrase again: Always we begin again.

I went to sleep last night asking for a Word to come to me, a word that would be my focus word for 2013.  What with all the restlessness of a recovering-from-flu six-year-old next to me, and the aches and pains in my own muscles, my sleep was disturbed enough that my dreams haven’t given me clarity on a word.  So I suppose I have to do some actual work on this one.  I think I am going to go with the word I chose for my journal last year.  Perhaps it was unofficially last year’s Word of the Year, but I want to bring in into this year with focus: Palimpsest.

It’s the term for an old manuscript or scroll (usually made of velum) in which the words have been scraped off so that it may be re-written again.  In many cases, remnants of the original documents show through.  I think it was Margaret Atwood who expanded the meaning when she described Canadian cities as palimpsests, new places in which hints and pieces of the older times could be seen.

So Palimpsest is my Word for 2013.  Writing the new chapters of me, I will also read the ways in which the past and memory continue to live in the present, becoming part of the current writing of my life.  Layers upon layers.

I had intended to avoid New Year’s Resolutions this year, but it feels appropriate to me, in conjunction with the word I have chosen, to continue to resolve to scrape away the bits of the story which I no longer need.  So I will continue to resolve, and strengthen my resolve, to de-clutter.  To clean up the spaces in my home and my head which hold the unnecessary bits.  But whatever I miss in my scraping away, instead of resenting, I will look at with wonder at the way it shines a light from the past into the present.

Oh–so Palimpsest will also become today’s poetry prompt.  Anyone care to join me on this one?  I’ll post before I go to bed tonight.

Gratitude List: Last of 2012

/ Beth Weaver-Kreider / Leave a comment

It’s been a few days.  We’ve been sick.  Still, there has been much to be grateful about.  Tomorrow, I plan to start a new Poem-a-Day process for the month of January.  I’ll have to come up with the prompts mostly on my own, so please don’t hesitate to throw some my way!

1.  A black crow flying above golden corn stubble sprinkled with white snow.
2.  Rosy dawn sun shining through gull wings.
3.  The way Wrightsville nestles into the hillside in the setting sun.
4.  Mom’s chicken corn noodle soup.
5.  Jon’s tireless care of the rest of us, through midnight wakefulness to morning retching.  That’s a good man.

May we walk in Beauty.

Look for the Helpers

/ Beth Weaver-Kreider / 1 Comment

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.” — Mister Rogers

Look for the helpers.
I cast a line from me to you.
You cast it outward to those you love.
Fill that web, that basket, that nest, that bowl
with our open wounded hearts,
our prayers, our stones,
our candles, our feathers,
the white hair of our grandmothers.
Something to hold the children,
the mothers, the fathers,
a bowl that will witness and hold the grief.
We will be the helpers.

I Keep Forgetting

/ Beth Weaver-Kreider / 3 Comments

It’s early (-ish) morning, my early-riser 3yo is up, the chickens have not been fed, and I am off to work in a couple of hours.  It’s been a few days since I have written a poem.  Maybe I’ll diddle something onto the page, just to keep up the energy of it.  I want to try another glosa soon, but that will take more time than I have at the moment.

These last few days I have been obsessively reading a book written by a dear friend.  She inspires me to not let it all go by without some work at capturing and interpreting it, making it my own, feeling out the meaning. 

If I have learned anything through the process of writing a poem-a-day last month, it is that often the moments when I think I am just tossing off a little bit of nothing into the air, often those moments are the ones when some little bit of magic happens.  Perhaps not the glossy, well-formed show-dog things, but I’m a fan of the open heart of the mutt myself.  (Though I am eager to train up a few of these little mutts from the past month and see how well they do in the ring.)

I feel a little lost without an external poetry prompt. . .

I keep forgetting to mention how your smile made my heart dance
on that grey day last winter
I keep forgetting to tell you how, when you said curtain,
I felt scales fall from my eyes
I keep forgetting my name
I keep forgetting the steps of the dance you showed me
I keep forgetting the words to that song
I keep forgetting whether or not I have already written this poem,
it has been so many days in my heart

Breathing Love Into the Wound

/ Beth Weaver-Kreider / 2 Comments

I will write today’s poem later.  Just now, I need to write this.

Recently, I have been working on keeping an open heart, trying to breathe through the ideas and events and stories that hurt and frighten and anger me.  Today, I am struggling with it as I contemplate the story of Israel and Gaza, and as I think about the killing that is being done in our name in Afghanistan and Pakistan. And then of course, I think about Congo, and. . .

I want to turn away, turn inward, create a shell, cover it with cynicism and rage and let the hopelessness ooze out all around.  There is a ringing in my ears.  I think I need to learn to live more in the layers, to breathe into the space of my everyday, and into that other enraged and frightened place in my heart.  To remember that I do not need to react.  I only need to hold it.  But is breathing love into the wound of the world enough?

Always We Begin Again

/ Beth Weaver-Kreider / 7 Comments

Over the years, I have developed a rather harsh and untenable internal critic, which has paralyzed my writing process. I’ve worked myself into a claustrophobic little writer’s strait-jacket, and writing has become anxious rather than fulfilling.

Recently, I have become aware that, on Facebook, I am writing something–obsessively–every day, and occasional little bits and bobs that satisfy me. I had a sudden revelation: I could use the energy of my Facebook addiction like the moon shot. The gravitational pull of the social medium can draw me into the discipline of writing every day.

I have been a sporadic journal-writer for years. I’ll start writing regularly and abandon the project after days or weeks or months. I wrote Morning Pages, a la The Artist’s Way, for a year or so, but couldn’t wade back through all the material to make it meaningful to me. I write poems and abandon the scraps of paper and the half-edited doodles.

We’ll just have to see how I do with this blog. I’m not making huge promises to myself, but I will begin with a set of ground rules. I am going to try to post something every day or two, whether it’s a long prose ramble, a scratched-together poem, or a gratitude list. I’ll give myself grace for occasional hiccups in that rhythm. I’m using Writer’s Digest’s 2012 November Poem-A-Day Chapbook Challenge to push myself to get the rhythm going. I have to put something down every day, even if I feel squirmy and uncomfortable with what I write. So be it.

My parents talk about incorporating rhythms into their life like the Benedictine monks–daily, hourly moments of spiritual focus and contemplative attention. One of the books they have studied is a little booklet that fits in the palm of the hand called Always We Begin Again. This is my mantra for the coming Writing Time in my life–no shame for past laziness, paralysis, purple writing. Just pick up again, write the next word, the next sentence, the next poem.

And that internal critic?  The one who eats me up from the inside?  I’m replacing her with the Mockingbird.  Rather a harsh name for a critic, I know.  But Mockingbird sits in the treeline and listens to me mutter while I harvest cauliflower or feed and water the chickens.  He tells me just to say whatever comes to mind.  If it doesn’t come out right the first time, repeat it endlessly until it does, say it in Swahili, Hindi, Chinese, Pig-Latin.  I’m going to start listening to him.