To say I was frustrated because the demands of mothering prevented my being able to write would be an understatement. While I regret none of the sacrifices, I did at the time pen my angst in this poem as well as in the accompanying illustration. I recall it wound up being widely distributed from mother to mother/friend to friend at the time.
But it is good now to be here in the company of those who knew me and loved me before I knew or loved myself and even more wonderful to know my daughter will be watched over by those same true hearts. And while I cannot commit to writing a full post during this time, I can share a bit of what was once my reality. I don't doubt there are young mothers today pacing in those same shoes of sacrifice for their families. Perhaps they can relate and can take heart not to give up the dream even as they feel compelled to set it gently aside for a time.
The dilemma with my writing poetry these days
-apart from sporadic writing malaise
and trying to make sense of a life that does not;
translating a heart which I’ve long since forgot-
Is being prolific while wiping a nose
or changing a diaper....you know how it goes:
invaded by Gerbers and juvenile faces
my renegade soul mocks its domestic paces
foregoing the remnants of artistic ambit
to service a far more conventional gambit
And while I resemble whom I was before,
I reek now of pablum and wax from the floor
I’m still awake nightly, though not writing prose
but placating infants refusing to doze.
How does one remain a staid woman of letters
when one is surrounded by chronic bed-wetter’s?
So lost in dispassionate, suburban gloom
my most literate challenge is now GOODNIGHT MOON
While there ARE mightier tasks than with pen or with sapier
I’m still Auden at heart, but I’m Big Bird on paper.
