The essay I had in the works about creativity has been somewhat delayed by a busy and tiring week at work. I also figured no one really cares to read that much right after Christmas anyway. Since I’ve been thinking about creativity, I was realizing that often when we are starting out in creative ventures (and usually forever after) we compare ourselves to masters in their fields. I thought I’d pull my very first poem and my most recent poem out so you can hopefully feel more confident dipping your toe in the artistic waters. They were written about 13 months apart in November 2022 and December 2023, so I think by most realistic standards I am still a new poet.
My first poem was in response to the prompt: Where will I find my answer?
In the moonlit pond in the dark She gazed deep within and saw galaxies Orbiting around the warm hearth of her womb The mossy rock held her Secure as her mother's breast She petted her hair and said you will know when the time is ripe And you cannot know before then, so let go You cannot bludgeon your way to an answer The answer will come with the resonant pluck of the string The echo of the crane woman's call The whisper of the song of her ancestors on the wind How could the expression in her lover's eyes The juice of a peach The scent of rosemary Soft grass between her toes Ever be found in a book? That can only give someone else's answer What would it be to enter the cavern of dreams And trust the truth therein without question? Without doubt? To hear the songs of women around the fire And already know the dance steps Because they were written on her bones How many steps in that direction can she take in this lifetime?
During my vision fast, I was told that I am the Flood Bringer. I am still trying to explore what that means and how it plays out in real life, so I sat down to write a bit. This is what I found:
I walk up to the waters Feet squelching into the murk. My voice a low, rhythmic bellow as I call forth the waters with a power I have run from for many moons. The water rises, slowly at first, then rapidly, then overwhelming. The water, first at my ankles, now overtaking me, until I can barely tell up from down, the torrent so strong I can no longer stand with my feet in the muck, no longer breath, leaving me no other option, but to leave my feet, to swim, to gasp for air, to cling to flotsam. There is no way to know where I am going, nor do I have the power to change course. But I am not powerless, moving the very earth, shaping the river bank, as the bank shapes me. Washing away the old, the unrooted, the disconnected, those who refuse to adapt and those who refuse to acknowledge that flood plains flood. Rising and rising Rising and rising Rising and rising Battering and splattering with wind and rain until the wind and rain seem eternal. Until the solid ground you stood on before has thoroughly shifted. Until that small sunbeam peaks through. Slowly, slowly as the waters recede the impact, results, potency of the incantation appears before our eyes. Muck and purification Chaos and fertility Flexible branches and sturdy roots Those who have witnessed her power and rooted themselves or surrendered as she carried them where she would have stayed to receive her gifts. And those lacking that kind of strength were never meant to stay.
I hope this small then and now sampling inspires you to realize that perfection isn’t necessary and that you can start where you are today and make something beautiful, or pleasurable, or true, or simply necessary for your soul. Blessings to you all as the light returns to our world!