Begin by planting a garden. Find a spot -
Pick the holiest spot on Earth. Here’s a hint: it’s not The mountaintops Where God speaks. Abandon grandeur. Instead, seek the bottom of the fertile valley. Here, Eden lies. This is where you will grow your garden. In the valley, the lowest of low points, You will fall to your knees. The land will unhinge its powerful river jaws, A violent slip of the solid ground promise, It will consume your corpse, An apology for all the years you consumed it back- After all, it’s only fair To give generously, as has been given to you. This is how to till your garden. Dig your fingers Into the soil and sprinkle in The strawberry seeds of your life’s cumulative pain. And I don’t mean pain, like, Heartbreak and grief. No, God-Earth doesn’t want that. I sure don’t want that. Sacrifice, instead, the sacred somatic, The burdens that no one can bear but you, Offer up your aching knees and your throbbing lower back, Moan with migraines and nausea and sleepless nights, Listen to the ground groan in solidarity. Bury your sins in the body of a woman. Sing out the praises Of your grumbling stomach and vibrating bones; Musical instruments of the self. Recognize the interdependence between Body/mind/soul/spirit/dirt. This is how to fertilize your garden. Revel in the relief of an ephemeral body, Sob like there are needles under your skin And no one to run their fingers through your hair, Tears will draw the water of your words out from your blood And shrivel up your skin. Isn’t that ugly? Watch the irrigation crying-canals flood the fruit rows. This is how to water your garden. Now, write your poems in the same exact way. I learned as a child not to trust in my body, I’ve carried that burden through my life. None of my poems were ever mine first; I have never written anything original. This voice speaks the words Of those who came before me. I drink water from the wells Dug by the poets of generations prior, I feel their songs Wrap around my shoulders, Soothe my aching skeleton, Calm my shivering soul. Spring comes and the vines of the risen dead Crawl out from below the ground, Pull themselves up from a world below and Sprawl across the floodplains with Resurrection green and wedding white blooms. From this dainty, fragile flower, A strawberry is born. This is how to write a poem. Take your life and scramble it Until it makes sense to no one else but you. Call it “poetry.” Then read the poem out loud. Convince everyone else That you’re describing The universal human condition. Go to a place where people talk to God - Like a hospital, a cemetery, maybe even a church - And wait for inspiration to strike. Return home only when you’ve written a poem. Don’t tell anyone That home, for you, is not a house. It is the holiest of holy places - Home is Eden, At the bottom of the fertile valley, In the lowest of your low points, Where you grow your garden.
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About MeHi! I'm Andrea. I really like words. Categories
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September 2023
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