Today’s prompt comes from Bonita Jones Knott, a poet I met earlier this year in Colorado at a writing retreat.
Here’s Bonita’s prompt: Write a birth poem. Write a poem on the experience of giving birth or witnessing birth, or feeling reborn in anyway.
Robert’s attempt at a Birth Poem:
“Good morning”
Every morning, I find myself next to you
or thinking of how I want to find myself
next to you. Every morning, like a blessing,
I’m reborn into my love for you, knowing
there’s no one I’d rather find myself next
to in the morning and no one I’d rather
want to find myself next to in the morning.
Every morning, like magic, like hocus
pocus, I want to be the rabbit in your
magician’s hat, the one you grab by
the ears to hold in front of the audience,
or, like a science experiment, I want
to be your hypothesis, the one you
constantly test to draw your conclusion.
*****
Thank you, Bonita, for giving birth to this prompt! Click here to learn more about Bonita.
Click here to share your poems on the WD Forum.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
Brainstorm and Develop Awesome Story Ideas!
Blargh. I’m super late, but I’ve made it this far, so I may as well finish off the challenge, eh?
Advent (A Harrisham Rhyme)
The candle barely flickers, its flame
Enduring the service stalwartly.
God smiles down as we sing out His fame;
Drowning sorrows melodiously.
God’s grace will never be put to shame.
Saviour born for us, hear our hearts’ plea.
We were born siblings, but chose to become friends.
I was the baby, with a big sis and even older bro.
I never knew Mother’s first born girl
An accident claimed her before my arrival
Twice a week off to market we would go
Sold eggs, milk and cream from our overflow
We seldom had friends to share our play
My sister was my playmate day to day
Carefree days full of laughter and errands
We were born siblings, but chose to become friends.
YOU
and I’m missing you hard
and someone comes on the radio
reminding me of your voice, your laugh
and I see your smile
making the corners of my mouth
turn up
and for the moment
you are reborn.
Genesis
silver sky-spun wonder
sparkles everywhere,
limning,
illumining every branch,
sunset
bringing a painful radiance,
pure white light,
as if the world herself
might be reborn
Chaos Theory and Dancing Stars
“You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.” ~Friedrich Nietzsche
Bedlam, topsy-turvyness
and pandemonium do bless
my world. Normalcy, au revoir.
Look! Chaos reigns. A dancing star.
I ask myself, “Hey, what on earth
were you thinking when you gave birth?
Was inspiration très bizarre?
Look! Chaos reigns. A dancing star.
A boy, a girl. They’re each madcap.
I think I fell into a trap
that’s ‘off.’ A crazy cookie jar.
Look! Chaos reigns. A dancing star.
Despite the oddities, life’s stage
is colorful at any age.
So rock on, weird. It works, so far.
Look! Chaos reigns. A dancing star.
###
The Birth of the Brews
…And from a tub in a pub
By a beer-makers club…
Yeah, they steeped grains
As part of the brews
From a malt extract
With hops, in fact
They added some yeast
Pushed it to high heat
‘Til it was sweet
Sweet enough, at least
And then they nursed it, rehearsed it
And gave out the news*
That these brewers gave birth to the brews!
###
*With apologies to Ray Henderson and Buddy G. DaSilva
Not my own story, but one to which I was fortunate enough to bear witness in Wuhan, China:
Poem for Allie
I don’t know where you were born,
or when, or to whom. Did she weep
to see you were a girl child? Leaving you,
did she hide and watch to see
that someone found you, took you in?
Who first bathed you, dressed you,
sang lullabies? Who chose your name,
the color or the sunset sky?
My birth pains, my waiting for you
with only your single tiny picture,
lasted weeks, not hours, cutting
not your cord, but miles of red tape.
I was born that day, a mother at last,
reaching, taking you in my arms
as your wide eyes stared up,
into my awestruck face, my happy,
tear-filled eyes. You christened me
before the flight home, your voice
so small, catching me by surprise,
in that most universal of languages,
you called me Mama.
Beautiful.
Two for this prompt…thanks so much, Bonita!! Smiles to all and congrats for another November PAD!!!
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/30/glaciation/
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/30/birthing-place/
Thank you for the prompt… http://hopefuljo.wordpress.com/2012/11/29/365-creativity-project-day-325/
What i like about writing: when it takes you in a different direction than you thought you were going, and teaches you something that was in your brain all along.
CHOOSING
Accepting
that childhood spoke truth
of my life,
then leaving behind the
very craziness that defined it,
growing and learning
as I left it,
could I be reborn,
knowing new
living new?
Accepting
that adulthood speaks truth
of my life,
then opening eyes to
realize the tumultuous
ride that defines it,
growing and learning
as I see it,
can I be reborn,
knowing new
living new?
Life remaking itself
as people/hopes/dreams
die
and we move forward
riding the crazy ride,
growing and learning,
choosing to form it
into something new
with new hopes,
reborn.
So true, both your poem & sentiment about your brain teaching you something unexpected through writing. I feel the same way!
i know, right? Love that moment of realization.
At first, I just sat and stared at walls for hours, taking in the sunlight, feeling it tingle against my skin like some sort of tightly bristled brush itchy and comforting at the same time hot chocolate sat next to me I couldn’t remember when it was I made it but it sounded good at the time the heat from the my mug (the one with the picture of Twin Falls) radiated glowed even I could sense the air around it Purple and deep crimson the fancy marshmallows (the ones that are tinier than the tiny ones and don’t melt as fast) bobbed on the surface They reminded me of my first lovers tits PERFECT and WHITE and never sank down into the deep dark recesses where I wanted to take all her clothes off with my teeth.
that’s when the urge would rear up and bite my ankles knees hips jaw there was one thing only for me to do and that was smoehow getting it under my skin the way it gets into my head
she said she wanted to try it because I became Superman in his tight blue leotard and red cape flying around and rescuing damsels in distress from burning buildings while I was a burning building myself torn up in the flames and constantly inhaling ashes so I let her have some fun and she did.
She did.
She did
and she did
and she did
and she died.
It was a moment. It was the last little flicker of light that made her into more spirit than body, which was the goal of the stuff anyway. But I never did. I never got so close that the last breath I breathe would be the last breath I breathed.
So. I stopped. I had to. What other choice would there have been for me?
I know it won’t bring absolution. It won’t retrace the air into her lungs and stop the bleeding in her brain.
But at least, now, I can see the horizon with the sun on it and not think to myself that I could swallow it whole. The sun is warm this time of year.
WOW.
Since I skipped this one to write for Day 30 first, this haiku (or more accurately, senryu) may seem like a bit of a cop-out for its brevity, but it’s a sincere sentiment:
grandparents-to-be:
an old instinct stirs inside
soon to be reborn
Of a Partially Smeared Journal (April, 1995)
It isn’t just my womb
engorged with your soft flesh:
my spirit seems to cradle yours
like a mission statement
robed in a whisper.
Love counts on your arrival,
and holds the door open to
the tabernacle in my heart.
Your sisters are there, ensuring
every space bobs under the gleam
of a million candles only
they are able to light.
Today you kicked the dam
open, two hours before
the scheduled C-section.
Pain is a wild dog that jumped
a short fence to maul neighboring
bystanders. But you’ll be here soon;
your papa loves that the male
landscape will expand. Moreover,
he’s madly in love with the promise
of our personal sun.
Though I’ve been a participant
in the childbirth olympics,
meeting the challenge and greeting
7lbs 9oz of reward, reminds me
I cannot rely on laurels to shake
off that I’m ready to be birthed,
again.
There was a little girl
that every time she
would see one cat
atop another would
think they were fighting
and pour water upon
them. She never under-
stood why her parents
and sister were off in
the distance laughing.
She finally grew up
and knew about the
birthing process but
not for a long time.
So the myth of the
farm child understanding
sex from the beginning
is not always true, at
least it wasn’t in my case.
death
cold final
chilling, unwilling, ending
flames burst and burn; ashes remain
breathing, waking, rising
glorious, hopeful
reborn
Labour
water flowing
breathing, tightening, pushing
moments worth the pain
Birth
Depart
the darkness
head down pursuing
reach that distant light
Arrive.
Understanding’s Birth
Childlessness excludes
Experience of giving life,
Though to watch as coach
Produces understanding
For one who had none.
Pain always joins life
In its journey on Earth,
Growing pains, within
Wombs or without,
Flourishes through
Struggle and adversity.
To witness the birth
Of another is to see
The Hand of God at work.
Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 29
Write a birth poem
Twenty-two months of labor,
can you imagine? Mother
elephant is quiet, patiently
awaiting her baby at
the Portland Zoo. With all
the video of Mama
elephant’s pre-birth time,
including sonograms,
I hope they allow
precious private moments
for a personal birth.
Zookeepers and zoo-
goers are thrilled to be
part of this new sibling’s
birth, as they were
for brother Packy,
four years ago. I cannot
wait to visit, but for now,
I’ll keep my distance.
Gimme Gimmes
years of parents
more interested
in being liked by their kids,
in being their kids’ friends,
has led to a decline in discipline
and given birth to the Gimme Gimmes
Mucho posting issues today. A little like giving birth.
I’m here:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/29/renaissance/
final push
a single cry
we meet at last
Birth
Before I go
I hope to see you
Read your first book,
Then watch the wonder appear on the
Horizon of your sweet face as you journey on.
New
The wobbly dance
of a colt trying to stand;
The shiny glimmer
of wet butterfly wings;
The loud lungs
of a baby to be heard;
The closed eyes
of a puppy litter;
The closed bud
of a flower ready to bloom;
My eyes opened
to the world around me.
Day 29
Prompt: Birth or Rebirth
My mind’s all mixed up with rebirth
of my soul in Jesus
and the upcoming birth of my granddaughter.
Because I want her, her mom, and her dad
to walk the walk, the eternal one,
to know not just the flutter of new life
when a baby enters this world,
but the bursting chrysalis
when a person becomes a new creature in Christ.
Amen!
Fact
When it’s all done, you are wearing enormous mesh underwear
and a huge maxipad that’s also an icepack. The emptiness shakes you
for a while, and the sleep-nonsleep of the hospital begins while you’re
still looped on whatever hormones got you through, whatever made you
think of your grandmother and wolves, whatever put you in a tunnel so
you were totally alone, apart from speech, your own voice and others’,
completely out of range of any soothing words or hypnotic suggestions
or whatever it was you were supposed to learn in weeks and weeks of
classes that, as it turns out, were total bullshit, completely insufficient.
The good news, the great surprise, is that you were sufficient. Now
you are glad again that your husband is here, that the chair reclines
enough that he can drift beside you, pretend to sleep sitting up as
carts clatter in the hallway outside your pretend door with no lock,
as you pretend to sleep lying down on the pretend bed, amidst all
the pretend comforts of this pretend room. There is, somewhere,
your real baby, in your arms or in the plastic box. This is where
it all begins.
“completely out of range of any soothing words or hypnotic suggestions/or whatever it was you were supposed to learn” OH my GOODness, exactly!! The tempo so fits the experience too, well said.
Pop.
There is a person coming out of a
person! There is a tiny person now
emerging head-first from a larger one!
The little head is pointing one way—south—
while the big head aims north. There’s a single-
double creature, cell-splitting, human—wow!
She hollers, “Push my feet up!” The midwife
barks, “No! You push!” Holy moon-leaping cow!
The gate’s open! The creation of life!
Everything in the world is unity!
There is no such thing as a cutting knife!
All comes together, solid into space,
proto-husband in primordial wife,
all in that blooming, interlacing place.
There is the forehead! And there is the brow!
And there—here—a new being with a face!
Separating, rejoining in embrace.
Well said! LOL!!
Birth of a Sonnet
A miracle of birth; I saw that word,
“ring`ed”, appeared upon my pristine page.
Like angel sent, the ringing was unheard,
but she of settled wings, became my sage.
“I am not made of steel”, I heard her say.
“Your magic ring; it must be made of brass”.
My bonnet, it did tilt, and up I sway;
I’ll grab the ring of gold where bold be cast!
My horse, his nostrils flare; we gallop round.
Calliope , the tune, it turns and churns.
The twisted road before us now he bounds;
escapes my inner critic; churns and burns.
For love of line, some freedom must be torn.
So, from the heart, my little song be born.
Nov 29: write a birth poem
Blues of the Birth
You wake up in the morning, grab a mop, and start to clean.
Hubby glances at you, mumbles, “Hon, you’re off your bean.
Sit down and take it easy. You’ll be busy all too soon.”
You answer with the gotta-clean-now blues.
You’ve finished with the mopping, then you grab a rag and dust.
Hubby hops out of the shower. You are brimming full of lust.
Hubby’s grinning at you, and it makes you want to swoon,
thinking of your lovely honey blues.
You jump into the shower. Hubby’s heading off to work.
Something’s dripping down your leg. You’re suddenly berserk.
Your hubby’s with a client. He’ll return your call at noon,
but you yell you’ve got the baby coming blues.
You pace around the room and wonder how long you will wait.
Hubby’s coming home, but knowing him, he’ll pull in late.
You call upon your neighbor, tell her, “Sue, I need a boon.
I’m suffering from the want to push now blues.”
Susan grabs some towels, boiling water, cordless phone.
You heave a big old sigh just knowing you are not alone.
She settles you in bed and calls the medics. She’s attuned
to the baby’s coming now, not later, blues.
Margaret Fieland
Margaret Fieland
Once had a friend experience the joy and novelty of having young paramedics standing around her bedroom watching her give birth. she said “I was glad it was my 4th child and not my 1st.”
Bonita was having trouble sharing her own poem (raise your hand if you’ve had that problem), so I’m sharing for her:
You have been stirring around in my womb all day
I touch you and you kick my hand
Longing to stretch out
In syllables
And verses
And sometimes rhymes
My words
So full of life
Yet hidden
And
Composed
For such a time as now
I lay face up
And cry out
To announce your birth
First a letter
Then a phrase
Finally with one last push
You arrive
My beautiful eyeful of prose
I count your syllables
And marvel at the sound
Of your rhythm
I hold you close
Rehearsing the miracle of you
Over and over again
And then
With one last
Bit of strength
I hold you up
For all the world
To see
And in my eyes
You look just like me…
“Natural Birth” © Bonita Jones Knott
Bonita, I like your poem and your name. I haven’t seen you on here before. Welcome! ^^
Everyone is very friendly here! Nice Writing!
EXPECTANT
(a shadorma)
They waited
for the promised king
to save them;
many are
still waiting, not convinced He
came through virgin birth.
Afterbirth
She can still remember like
it was yesterday.
He stood behind her
holding her wrists crossed against her
chest, rocking them both
from side to side.
She can still remember the
malice of his threat,
pooling on her skin like acid.
The fact that he whispered it
in her ear made it all
the more terrifying.
The wound has healed,
mostly—and yet certain things
can still bring back the
pain—unbidden to her conscious thought.
All it takes is the smell
of a let cigar, or to overhear
a raised voice, or to feel
evil in a stranger’s glance.
The only thing that keeps her
from being dragged
completely under is
to remember that
he came into this world,
tied to a woman—just like
everyone else—just
so much afterbirth.
Ellen Knight
Shivers from this one. Amazingly told.
“Birth of Creativity”
(Cascade Poem)
Birth of creativity moves the soul
Sometimes all it takes is one simple nudge
And away toward fresh adventure we go
When time, space, or circumstance keep reigns tight
And it feels as if stress wins each battle
Birth of creativity moves the soul
Switch of scenery, new path to explore
Just invite the right brain over to play
Sometimes all it takes is one simple nudge
It starts: a flirt with words, art, or music
then surprises await freedom’s return
And away toward fresh adventure we go
i do love this…such a creative image of creativity!
What Is At Heart
We begin our journey here to see
where we shall spend eternity
a short time on this earthly plane
with love and hope for all good men
while human bonds render our start
we’ll only prove what is at heart
and lead us through the open door
so we may live forever more.
by Michael Grove
Sandy
They lived on a sandcastle
decorating heedlessly
as the sea snickered
and finally in unendurable
insult reclaimed her
rightful place
as their toys floated
away
Birth of A Mother
A yellow ducky pin
pushed hard
harder
until the babe
holds breath in
unexhaled pain
and she leaning
over hair brushing
his bare belly
feels the stick
and births a
mother in her
shivered gasp
RESERVOIR STREET
A one-way track dug into hillside. Here’s
an adit that dead-ends where someone
stashed a cushion, crossword puzzle;
someone slept here. Against rock wall
sheltered into cliff, a plastic bottle, pink
sandal, miscellaneous litter. But mountains
are massive in their wish to be born.
Just look how periwinkle’s gone wild
bandaging wounds. Tree-of-heaven thrusts
up from every pavement crack, taking life
by the root.
Nice!
I kept telling
myself that
the Queens of England
did this
as I lay on the table
under blazing lights
coming undone
the most
private places
in full view
of strangers,
And then, the doctor
said, “He’s going
to be smart.”
A nurse said,
“What a pretty
little face.”
It was like
the blessing
in a fairy tale,
especially when
eyes still blue
as heaven
cast their
virgin gaze
on me.
oh, so nice…”when eyes still blue as heaven”
My favorite line as well….
Laundry Day
“She had HOW many kids?
Nobody has nine kids!
I mean no one tries to look crazy.”
“But how did she manage?
I know they didn’t have
money for a nanny.”
“Now I’m sure you are making
this up. She did all that laundry
without a dryer?”
“What are you saying? They couldn’t
afford one? So how did she dry the
laundry in bad weather?”
“But, when she went shopping
with all of them in tow,
it must have looked like a sideshow!”
“Oh, I see. For her culture, that was
an average-sized family.
Birth control was simply not allowed.”
“But nine? Me, after the 36 hours of
labor, the epidurals, and stitches,
I ‘ll never have more than my Kyle.”
“You heard that her dad told
her that if the Good Lord had made
her deliveries anything more
than a big burp, maybe she wouldn’t
have had so many. Yeah, I guess that
pretty much explains it.”
Ellen Knight
Journaling
Every morning I awaken
with a notebook at hand.
I wonder if first thought
is the best thought
or if it will need revision
while I’m reborn another day.
Hopes and struggles linger,
and I hope to tackle
old themes in new ways.
THAT BREATH BETWEEN BIRTH AND DEATH
The tender trap.
Caught in this snare
and aware of all that
is required, for in every
synapse fired and
every heart beaten,
there is no retreating from this
confinement. The refinement
of what this state is giving
finds its proof in the living;
this day-to-day journey
to our singular destination.
Amid elation and despair,
we will find there all that
we need to feed our survival.
It is an age old revival that we
welcome and desire; an internal fire
that smolders from our first breath,
until our last gasp before death.
And in between, we occupy this scene.
We celebrate its every waking,
for in it the is joy and happiness
for the taking. Be in no hurry
to escape from this strife.
Squeeze every last drop from this life!
Having a problem posting comments
Ok seems to be working now. I took the unoriginal route and wrote about childbirth.
Thanks for the opportunity to share about one of my favorite memories. Makes me want to give my now 15 month old daughter a hug.
I don’t remember the pain
but I remember screaming,
And that final push, water, blood
and relief.
I closed my eyes.
And when I opened them
I was looking into your eyes.
Your father handed you to me.
But I don’t remember his hands,
just your face,
Brand new
and familiar
with my lips
and your father’s nose.
But your eyes were all your own
so blue
and wide open, looking into mine.
We knew each other.
And when I held you in my arms
everything else became blurry and muffled
like I was underwater.
As you had been only a moment ago.
To my newest great grandchild
A newborn – all the possibilities -
All the encumbrances of the genes
What blessings have been bestowed?
What curses?
Will he be like him or her?
His side or her side?
Neither for he is unique
A newly-minted person
Upon whom all the curses and blessings of
This world will be visited.
Be strong, new baby!
A little piece of all of us
Carried in you
Precious child entering
An indifferent world
Blessings on your soul.
PASSION REBORN
We bury our dead,
dearly loved and revered;
held to an esteem of a higher power.
And we sit minute after hour
wondering if we will ever find
within ourselves, the courage
and drive… the desire to open
ourselves to the throes of
feelings and emotions that
have found their way into
the covered tomb of despair.
But, the sun does rise again,
the sparrows flit through the
treetops and we awaken from
a sleep less troubled to find
that love never dies; love
is life-giving, your passions
resuscitated. You live to
love another day, reborn.
All Alike
We were all born, it’s how we’re the same
Regardless of race, status or creed
Before we came, or even had a name
We were all born, it’s how we’re the same
From basest hovel to home of acclaim
Our mothers all cried, they all had to bleed
We were all born, it’s how we’re the same
Regardless of race, status or creed
Duana Terrill Clark
The Birth of Hope
We hear barking from the pasture
by the creek, alarm, summons,
the old collie’s come quick call.
Funny how one species knows
when another is in trouble and
offers any help it can, even barking.
“It’s Connie calving,” Daddy says,
and we grab the kit and run,
through pear trees, past grape vines,
over a fence downhill at a trot
and we see her, down like a great
mound of Holstein, puffing clouds
into the chill of morning air, struggling,
the birth begun, but the calf turned,
caught. She’s been suffering.
“We may have lost this one,”
says Daddy, talking of the calf,
“but we can hope to save Connie.”
He presses and reaches within her
to find the head and move it,
the cow’s eyes huge and rolling,
a guttural moan in her throat.
Alice starts to cry, knowing
beginnings of life should be
more joyful, more optimistic.
Daddy sends her back home,
tells her to call the vet and explain.
He knows Mama will do the calling,
Alice the weeping. We have our strengths.
We stand Connie up, hoping the calf
will tumble down, knowing it cannot
have survived. We’re steeled for that.
Daddy is sweating now and cursing
nature, fate, and Republicans. We smile.
A small tug and Connie grunts in pain
and the calf is born, a bloody mess
with eyes, a black nose, his back legs twisted.
“Will we bury him now?” Jimmy asks.
“Not yet. Let her grieve, know he’s gone,
so she won’t search for him afterward.
She’s a mother, and has to do what
mothers do for him. But go ahead
and fetch a shovel from the shed.
We best be done with it .” I pet
Connie’s rump and witness her hope,
watching this hurting cow, lick and
nuzzle her babe, hum to him,
nudge his useless legs straight.
She cleans him like people wash the dead
for burial; we stand back and give
her that, even Daddy wiping at his nose
and turning his back to observe the orchard
for longer than it takes to see the pears
are almost ripe. Jimmy is walking
back toward us, in no hurry, wiping
his face on his sleeve, a grave digger
at twelve. Connie nudges and licks,
hums and pushes, urging her calf
to life, still believing, knowing what’s next.
I fetch her water, seeing her udder swollen
with milk, painful looking. I stay clear
of her hooves. An animal in pain
lashes out. Daddy has found a spot
nearby to dig, a place Connie can
visit, and starts to dig, when Jimmy
yells,” Daddy! He’s breathing!”
Daddy keeps digging, and we get
that the calf is crippled and won’t
be leaving this pasture. Now Jimmy
is working, helping Connie, talking
to the calf, calling him Little Buddy,
getting his legs under him for standing.
If he stands and walks, Daddy will stop
digging, he thinks. Connie softly moos
some kind of instruction, and the calf lurches,
staggering and falling, struggling up again,
weaving like a drunk, his legs spread out
like tent ropes, and he bellows like thunder.
Daddy stops digging and watches Connie
position herself for nursing, Jimmy staunching
the calf, calling him Drunkard, his new name.
The old dog yips and turns circles,
his one trick, and we cautiously rejoice in
even twisted life. Daddy laughs at last,
relieved, and says, “I’ll be damned!”
Jimmy fills in the empty hole, packs it,
and we wait to see.
This is astonishing! What a wonderful poem!!!!
Jane, this was so beautifully written. I felt like I was right there. A birth of hope, indeed.
Thanks, friends. Sorry it was so long, but it was so long
Thank you for sharing.
enjoyed this a lot. The story carried right through to the end – didn’t even notice the length
Agreed, it was well told, and kept me reading right to the end! Big difference between wild and domestic animals giving birth. I’m glad this wasn’t the first birth I saw!
Oh! i chuckled and teared right along with the story. i loved every bit of it.
I love it, Jane. I can so hear your voice too.
BORN UNDER A BAD SIGN
I was born in Aquarius, the guy that totes the brew.
The personality traits I have fits it through and through.
My time in ‘stir’ was uneventful, I bore my mother no ills.
She did escape the few odd pains without the need for pills.
The term of laying in gestation was not a day at the beach,
when I assumed a bad position and came out of it breech.
There was nothing I could do, my delivery was abrupt,
I only wish the doctor marked my mother, “This End Up”!
Reflection
A pool of water,
perfectly still.
An image in the water,
a mirrored reflection
of that wondrous
image, now the
pool still no longer.
Water in turmoil.
Reflection cracked
and wrinkled—
the image becomes
one with the water.
Difficult to tell which
is real.
Water calms, small
ripples, sighs.
The image has struggled
and won.
Once submerged—
now floats up,
breathes, walks,
departs.
The image, real
all along,
refreshed, reborn
alive.
Ellen Knight
NEWBORN
Two sleepy eyes
A button nose
Ten tiny fingers
Ten perfect toes
Eternally bound
To me, to mine
A treasure born
At Christmas time
Loved forever
From this day
Abandoned never
Come what may
Love unconditioned
Love without end
From this day
Forever my friend
A treasure found
Perfection defined
Delightfully small
And proudly mine
Baby in cover
One birthed by many parents
Hear proud poets coo
Strange, but true
Let’s Call You Mike
I know my fantasy-selves, Beautiful and Wealthy, from way back.
Old pals. Me, but cool. Imagination not straying far from the tree.
And, after all, by sixty-five, a woman
should have herself down pat, would have said “girl:
know thyself” enough to know herself and
not be startled by new, wriggling pink ideas,
blind and hairless and good for not-much. But.
Revelation can be parabolic mirrors throwing lights around the sky
or a laugh that snorts milk. Flaming bush, small quiet voice, same:
Revelation.
Yesterday, I saw you on the corner, by the bus stop at Eighth and Broad:
a young man
–long legs, blue stocking cap, skateboard head against your thigh
–like an old dog, ready, in the bright November to run with you
being a boy.
And I thought
–suddenly–
That’s what I want to be. A Boy.
Not you, all specific, with parents and problems, itches, whatever. No.
It was BOY, all whole and universal, like “Mountain” or “Joy” or
“Blue Tick Hound”. A grand Platonic concept, born
there at Eighth and Broad
in the bright November sunlight, died Eighth and McGavock.
OOPS! That’s all your days not you days!
Milly Marjorie
Ten pounds of freshly-baked baby
lays in my arms.
What has God planned for you, little one?
What are the deeds He has authored
for you to do?
All you days are written in His book
before you lived one of them.*
For us on this side of heaven,
we must wait to read,
one page at a time,
as we watch your life unfold
according to His glorious plan.
Live it well, my child,
live it well.
* Psalm 139: 16 “and in Thy book they were all written, the days that were ordained for me, when as yet there was not one of them” (NASB).
My grand-niece was born three days ago so this was the first thing that came to mind to the prompt “birth poem.”
Birth
not being into being
each moment
a star
the universe
all
blooming
I close my eyes
and they all
disappear
if only
I could open them
and see you
one
more
time
I taught Lamaze classes for about 18 years. They moved on, but they always stay with me.
Observer
You allowed, even invited me here,
present for the birth of your first child,
witness to the changing dynamics
of your family. Because I was your teacher–
the voice of calm as you two sat
with other pairs—husbands and wives,
lovers, partners , a scared young girl
with a friend, then alone, then her mom—
you brought me into that second most
intimate space, Labor and Delivery Rm. 3
at the County General Hospital.
I shared the back rubs, watched
as the monitor’s hieroglyphics printed
out proof of your pains. Face to face,
I breathed with you. I held your legs
and cheered as you pushed until,
at last, the wrinkled crown appeared,
a light fringe of dark hair moving
toward the light. Your guttural groans
bore evidence of your second wind,
and as he moved closer, I stepped back
toward the wall, out of intimate circle,
knowing my place, releasing you
from my care, watching new life
emerging through my joyful tears.
I was a birthing partner for women who didn’t have someone to be with and your poem just touches what I have never put into words…beautiful! Thank you!!
Thanks for sharing this. Reminds me that one of the benefits of being in a service profession especially health related – when people are at their most vulnerable and most honest selves you get to know them intimately and help them through the really big things in life – birth death – injury life changes and then learn to let it go and step back knowing your part is done. Amazing how unique and special and yet how similar families are everywhere
Guardian Angel
She held on to her pain
She taught it would never come again
It did in sharp sudden strikes
Her roars were loud her crys like screeching bikes
Will anybody hear me the taughts ran through her head
she lay herself on the end of her very large bed
her hands gripped the ends like a child holding sweets
her heart began to beat and race her head was full of heat
” Someone please help me”, she yelled out ?
But no one came or heard her the words and cries from her mouth
I cant stand this any longer as she felt a large gush
This is when she began to push and push
God love her she was all on her own the sheets were barely there
will someone please come to me ?
doesnt anyone really care ?
I need to call the doctor where is my phone ?
I dont want to deliver my baby all on my own
Just then the phone began to ring
she crawled to reach out for it
Then she heard a someone sing
PLEASE PLEASE HELP ME !
she called out ,then suddenly a figure appeared in front of her
As her baby came out , OH LORD GOD HELP YOU
the voice said to her , you poor poor woman
I will ring for help its okay now i will take care of you and baby
AS her babys eyes looked at her with a loving caring stare
she thanked god that night that the stranger did care
we will always remember what you did for us .
My baby will be told of the stranger who helped and we could trust
Moonrise
You must leave here now
with no thought of returning.
The moon is rising,
just let the tide wash in and
raise your head toward the light.
THE BIRTH OF LOVE
The evening star marked it,
seen from afar it beckoned
visitors and worshipers alike;
a chance to witness Love.
Born is a ramshackle barn
to two so different yet tossed
together for the sake of the world.
Their story, a beacon of truth
in a world sorely in need,
amidst human avarice and greed.
That seed of the heart started
to give us life the moment
Love died to be “reborn” again.
The story of this reason,
the reason lies in the birth of Love.
oh, wow….love this, Walt…
Oh, Walt! Another winner!!
BORN TO BE ALIVE
Looking at this face
in the mirror
every morning
saying
gorgeous
kind of doesn’t
do it
but adding,
this is the first day of the rest of my life,
really does
make me come alive
when thinking of the idiot who came up with this,
now having me
craving for coffee.
Some days, it is hard to get moving, thinking, functioning. This made me smile!
The Process
It starts with an exploration, of Truth or Beauty or Light.
And then the incipient spark of a magical tale that just feels right.
Then draft after draft it gets polished, till it’s seamless but gritty and real.
And then I take stock of whether the reader will feel what I meant them to feel.
To some it’s a waste of my time. To me I can only say maybe,
But I know, in the end, it’s as close as I’ll ever come to birthing a baby.
###
Ah, yes! That is a familiar struggle.
Into the Light
Laboring, struggling, on the verge
for what seemed like years
Struggling, on the verge, almost there
the first glimpse appears
On the verge, almost there, suddenly
where there once was nothing -
words form on the white sheet
a sentence is created – success!
By Yourself
There used to be a zoo
on the island, for the tourists.
They had baby lynx, fallow deer,
colobus monkeys. In the side
pasture were bison.
One spring, driving toward
the bridge, a female was
alone, back of the field.
I know nothing about bison,
barely anything of cows,
even. But she moved wrong,
moved in a way that made
me pull my car over to
the dusty side, stomach
clenched.
It took only minutes. She
arched and heaved, her
haunches buckled as something
large and dark slid to the dead
grass. She turned to lick her calf
alive. I sobbed and shook all
the long drive over the causeway.
Oh, Sonja! What a wonderful experience. Great poem!
Hmmm….wonderful wasn’t exactly what I was going for. I may need to work on this.
No I think wonderful describes it – full of wonder- – turned to lick her calf alive i assumed the calf was alive and sobbing on the long drive i assumed was from the intensity of the experience – but could it be from your comment the calf was dead or something else bad happened? just wondering – good descriptions
No, calf was alive. I was just very young, and had never witnessed a birth. It made me very aware of the unpredictability and danger inherent in birthing and being born, which had never before been real for me. I will keep thinking about how to convey that.
Have read a bit of your book, btw, and have really enjoyed some of the pieces!
Ah, now I understand why you didn’t think wonderful was the response you were looking for…While the experience touched you in this way, I think your poem conveyed, as Steven said, a wonder of how amazing birth is.
Blessings!
Thanks for mentioning my ebooks. Doesn’t get any better than someone taking the time to read your work and finding something worthwhile in there – thanks
BAILEY
A life in limbo
lingering, needing guidance.
Questioning existence
and a world that would be
better without. No doubt,
every other life would be less
becuase of such distress.
The only way out is to get
let back in for the second
chance life will give. Angel
wings and bell rings and a will
to live. Life is wonderful!