Debating with myself
So, I've lately been debating with myself about whether or not to post poems I have written. On the one hand, forcing myself to have an audience for my poetry might be helpful. But on the other hand, I am resisting making public something which is not ready to be seen.
This makes me think about the writing process. I have learned, slowly but surely, that I need to protect my fledgling ideas. I am way too susceptible to a lukewarm reaction if I mention something specific. I don't mean talking generally about "someday" projects. But when I have a specific idea in mind, and it is starting to take shape, I try to keep it unseen and untold until I have proceeded through a certain number of drafts of the manuscript. It's the way I seem to work best. But that said, fairly early in the process, I show my manuscripts to people I trust who help guide me through the revision process.
But in spite of myself, I have decided to post this poem I wrote last night. I've taken liberties with details, but the essence of the sentiment is intact. Also, it's actually an epiphany poem, but looks back to Christmas. In our family, we celebrate all twelve days of Christmas, leaving up our decorations until Jan. 6, Epiphany.
I clear away the wreckage of boxes and wrapping paper,
fold new sweaters, shelving them in closets,
coil strands of sparkly lights, tucking them away,
vacuum pine needles from the carpet.
In the thick darkness of midwinter,
I am left
with the echo of a D-major chord ringing in the nave,
the whiff of frankincense,
words lingering in my ears
all was still and it was midnight
they were sore afraid
the great wonder she carried
The Word Became Flesh
I am left
with treasures rich as the magi's
as I step into Epiphany