I've so enjoyed the experience of writing poetry over the last five weeks; it's hard to believe the month of April has gone already! This week brought so many experiences and changes to our lives - overwhelming at times, and yet, I still found the time to sit and write; I think that says something good about poetry. Having not written poetry before, I found it challenging and frustrating, and yet - satisfying in its simplicity, and so I hope to continue - even without the gentle push of a weekly goal. Thank you Lauren for hosting, and thank you - anyone - for reading along.

This week's poetry theme was Enjoy. As there is nothing I so enjoy as time outdoors with my children, it seemed only natural that experience would inspire my final week's poem.

Gardening  

Afternoon Spring sun warms our shoulders as we crouch, hunched over our hardened-off sprouts.

Searching for the heartiest amidst curved shoots, wilted leaves; small fingers examining each stem, you are engrossed.

A swallow - darting,  just inches from the sun-warmed top of your head; you are undeterred.

This one looks strong.

And I agree. I haven't taught you this; selection is innate.

Each one you gently separate, place, settle down into fertile soil.

Dirt in your hair, fingernails, in the scrapes on your knees.

And wonder in your eyes - perhaps imagining a future filled with fruit and vegetables.    

Until - suddenly - concern crosses your countenance, interrupting your calm:  

The water is knocking him over.

It's okay, I say, Time will make him stronger.

You nod, returning to your work.

The swallow darts again, and we smile.

There were many inspiring prompts this week, but life got in the way of writing a bit, as life is wont to do. I felt the strongest spark from "Why: What big questions from your children have you been terrified and privileged to answer?" as I find so many of the questions my children ask to be formidable to answer - less in the mechanics of answering and more so in the self-examination they command. And so, this week's Parenting Poetry Workshop entry:

Teaching

Knowing more than we see

You sense before you have words to tell us

Feelings

Intentions

I struggle to define death yet you already understand

In the young speech you have, explaining more than I've described

I am humbled, struck  by your awareness

Otherworldly

Makes me wonder how much I am teaching you

When really - should you be teaching me?

I read a book with my son last night, Anh's Anger (written by Gail Silver; illustrated by Christiane Kromer), that was absolutely wonderful.  It's about a young boy, Anh, who is stacking blocks when his grandfather tells him it's time for dinner. As many young boys who are in the middle of playing, he didn't want to stop playing. He gets very angry, and knocks down his tower, which makes him even more angry (anyone ever experience this with young boys? Yes, I thought so) . His grandfather acknowledges that he's upset, then gently requests that he sit with his anger, then rejoin him when he's calm. While on his own, Anh meets his anger in the form of a big red snaggle-toothed monster. They bang around a bit, vocalize, dance, and then sit and breathe. And as they sit and breathe, anger gets smaller, and Anh gets calmer. They talk about who anger is and why he's there, and how they can help each other. And once Anh is calm, he and his grandfather reconcile, and life continues on.

Sit with your anger.

What amazingly simple, perfect advice. Something that I don't typically do; I'd venture that's true MOST people. I'd say more often than not, we act on our anger right away - which can result in doing or saying things we wouldn't have otherwise done or said, and consequently, feeling badly afterwards. When you can acknowledge your anger, work with it creatively, and try to understand it, it's far less scary. You can become an observer, analyzing, considering, and then releasing.

(image credit: amazon.com)

So what does sit with your anger mean to a child?

In our post-reading conversation, my nearly 6 year old was able to recognize Anh's monster was not a "real" thing, but rather a representation of the feelings we get when we are angry. He understood the message was that it's okay to FEEL angry, but that you shouldn't act out in anger towards someone or something else - even when you felt like it. He said that it was okay to express your anger in ways that didn't hurt anyone (even yourself) until you were calm enough to think a bit about it; in other words, to have a conversation with your monster. And then, once you've had the conversation, to breathe in, breathe out, calm, and come back to being yourself. He really enjoyed the book as we were going through it, and it inspired some fantastic post-read discussion as well.

(image credit: gailsilverbooks.com)

The illustrations are bright & simple - charcoal, paint, and collage elements. At ~30 pages (of words & illustrations), I found it just the right length for a bedtime story (and plenty of conversation afterwards).

We all struggle at times with our anger - and our children, who are so new in this world, can often find anger frightening and overwhelming. Heck, so can adults. This book is the perfect springboard for talking with your kids about creative expression of anger - without shame, without punishment - you just might find yourself examining your own ways of dealing with anger. And that can only be a good thing for everyone.

Peace to you.

This week's poetry theme was Hope. As in: what you hope for as your child grows; what you hope for yourself as a parent. I found this week particularly challenging; though… I'm not certain whether it stemmed more from the theme or from the newness of the poetry medium. It's a struggle to go from, say, the gentle stream of writing dialog, to the push-pull abruptness of poetry. Poems seem to come tearing out; then screech to a sudden stop; whereas writing is more of a tidal flow. An oil painting vs. a charcoal gesture sketch. Facebook vs. Twitter. Oh, I didn't just make that comparison. Strike that. I hope in spite of poor analogies, I hope you still enjoy. ;)

This poem was written as part of Lauren Wayne's Weekly Parenting Poetry Workshop for the month of April.
My entry from last week. And the week before.
Please join in!

Hope

What I hope for you:

Freedom

Space to breathe, create - yourself

Unbound by guilt, expectations

Defined Only

By your own crafted moments and experiences

Confidence

And for myself also:

Freedom

From the rough edges of my own childhood

Release from regret and

Fears of mistakes not yet realized

Fortitude

Throughout April, I'm taking part in Lauren Wayne's Weekly Parenting Poetry Workshop. This week's theme is "Emerge", and within this theme, the first prompt: "Labor: Each minute in labor is suspended animation. Describe your labor in a poem." Last week's poem's theme was "Prepare".

Please do join me in writing! (Obviously) you don't need to be a poet to participate; you need only have a bit of courage to put words to paper (and then hit publish.) :)

Birth

The stream hit my back and time stopped. Suddenly the pain - deep, endless, unforgiving - abated. No longer knocked sideways off my feet with each backstabbing impact, I rocked on the stool, riding the waves. Alone with the water, despite a periodic invading scope, I was alone --- with your heartbeat. My hope.

I was unafraid.

Hours? Blissful.

Then, too soon, I was torn out of my own watery womb and back into the bright lights. Pain like an abyss. And the accursed beeping.

And hands and eyes and words: asking, prodding, suggestions thrown; but I'm mute.

Fear crept in nauseating swells up my neck and belly. Fast friends with hurt.

Hours pass. Fretful.

Fear: a stealthy, strong enemy. And doubt.

"You can't do this," doubt whispers with malice, climbing wretchedly up my arm to rest - cold - on my shoulder.

I agree, I succumb, and I go under screaming.

And still the beeping - terrifying, reassuring; my connection to you, my baby. Arresting sleep, yet keeping me from panic. I drift.

The tears, my pain, and I lie legless, helpless.

Numb.

Oh blessed curse, painkiller. Physical agony gone briefly, I'm weakened by sickening gratitude.

Pain usurped by guilt.

This wasn't in the plan.

And yet still you came to me, from me, through me. Oh perfect baby, wrenched from my pelvis where you'd wedged yourself.

Birthed through a clean slice, vibrantly belting out your disapproval, voice urgent: I AM HERE!

Your immense strength nourished my own.

My daughter, my heart; you made me a mother.