Risky Business and Me Too

Last night I attended something called Gallery Night hosted by my church. I'm still at the early stages of getting involved and connected there, and attending events outside of Sunday morning is a big deal. I always get these emails about groups that are meeting and things that are happening, and I think, "Oh, that sounds so cool!" and then I chicken out and don't go. Am I the only one who does this?

Anyway, in the emails about Gallery Night, they asked for submissions from the community. They wanted submissions "from ordinary people at Exodus doing art, music, writing and anything else creative." And in a highly uncharacteristic move (seriously, I never do this), I emailed the organizer and told her I had some poems I wanted to contribute.

I love to read poetry. And yes, I occasionally write it myself. But aside from a creative writing class in high school where we were required to share our classwork, I have never let anyone else read my poems. Heck, I've never even told anyone I write poetry! Even typing the phrase "I write poetry" is ridiculous!!!!!!!

Hours could be spent psychoanalyzing my insecurities about writing. Who knows what possessed me to voluntarily contribute my poems for the Gallery Night. And then follow through by actually bringing them to the Gallery Night. And then stand around talking to people at the Gallery Night who might actually match up the name on the paper with my face! But I did. And the absolute best thing that could have happened in that whole scenario actually happened.

I met a new person in the mingling, and when I introduced myself, she asked me if I had submitted anything, because there were a few different Wendys who had brought pieces. I said yes, and identified the poems I brought. "Oh, that winter one..." she said.

"Yeah, when I showed it to my roommate she thought it was really sad."

"It was," she said, "but I definitely know the feeling."

The most comforting words a person can ever say are "Me too."

And, just for posterity, here's that poem:

I am glad

you broke my heart in winter.

I don't think I could bear

to see things growing

to hear birds chirping

to watch children playing in the sun.

Winter is cold

barren

desolate.

Frozen

like my heart.

Easter magic

by Leslie Leyland Fields

Had we crucified the rabbit--

yanked him from his fields of grass

and staked him out by paws and tender feet

to quiver, twitch and die in agony

of innocence,

and then, in three days' time,

had seen him hop up from the tomb

unscathed

but for the wounded paws and feet we felt--

then maybe now we'd talk of Christ,

pass his story down from child to child

and only faintly hint at silly myths of

wicker baskets,

chocolate eggs,

treasures hidden in the field

and some trick hare who died

then somehow disappeared.

National Poetry Month

I just read (via Twitter) that April is National Poetry month!  I love poetry but don't read it as much as I wished...  The same could be said of my reading, music, sports, etc...  

Anyway, since I now know that there is a whole month devoted to poetry lovers, I'm planning to make an effort to read more poems, at least for this month, and share them with you occasionally.  To start, here's one of my all-time favorites by Irish author Seamus Heaney.

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging.  I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner's bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper.  He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf.  Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I'll dig with it.