Unpolished tenderness

Reflections on my stumbling attempts to write a poem everyday. And four un-edited poems for you.

When it comes to motivation- I am a sprinter, not a marathoner.

I am either doing all the healthy things - going to bed on time, journaling, walking, meditating, not ordering an abundance of take out, etc.

Or none of the healthy things.

It’s cyclical. Neither stage lasts forever.

It used to really bug me that I couldn’t seem to always do all the things, but I’ve come to embrace that my tao seems to flow in bursts— equally valuing my high-energy seasons as well as my low-energy ones.

In typical January fashion, I’m in a sprint phase currently.

One of the things I do when I do all the things is write a daily poem.

Occasionally I’ll share one of my daily poems online. But that usually means editing, and I have a severe allergy to editing.

So mostly these poems are just for me. Their purpose is equal parts learning to notice life with poets’ eyes and the notation of my noticings.

My favorite definition of a poem comes from Irish poet Galway Kinnel when he said,

“Poetry is somebody standing up and saying with as little concealment as possible, what it is for him or her to be on earth at this moment.”

I like this definition because there is a distinct lack of requirements. To be a poem, it doesn’t have to be eloquent or meaningful or polished or profound.

It just has to be honest.

I like that very much.

My second favorite definition of a poem comes from Irish poet Galway Kinnel when he said,

“The secret title of every good poem is ‘tenderness.’”

I think those two definitions are related.

Somehow when we’re really honest, even harsh-ness comes out as tenderness.

Anyway, recently I read through one of my poetry notebooks and thought, “per chance someone would like to read what it meant for me to be on earth at that moment.”

Very glad that polishing is not required (see aforementioned allergy).

Here are four of my unpolished tendernesses:

Who am I?
Who am I
to be granted immortality

when all around me
the squirrels are dying,
the rhododendron bushes not returning?

Who am I
to be spared from imperfection

when the crooked pines on the bluff 
show what happens when you grow up 
without enough sunshine?

Who am I
to demand constant productivity

when the bears take the winters off, 
the purple tulip in my backyard
blooms but two weeks a year?

Who am I 
to run from pain and into anesthesia 

when at least five chickadee chicks
who are born and raised
in the hole in our wooden wall outside
die from hunger each summer
without so much as an Advil
to ease their struggle?

Who am I 
to demand only beauty from what life hands me

when the sky presents but a few select rainbows
over my house each decade?

Who am I
to reject
I am but a cosmic mirror-
beauty, pain, death, life?

Bittersweet-
the loss of the fantasy
that life is supposed to be
smooth and pretty,
easy and painless,
convenient and productive

full of life without death.

Baths, Belief and Trust
"Relax,"
I say
"Take a bath!
with candles!
and bubbles! 
and relaxing piano Spotify!"

But he doesn't want to take a bath.
I do.

"Pray,"
They say.
"Have faith!
Worship!
Read the scriptures!
Just choose to believe!"

But I don't want to believe.
They do.

"Just get the vaccine, please!"
We say.
"Stop the virus!
Trust the scientists!
Trust the government please!"

But they don't want to trust.
We do.

And it's just no use, is it?
Mistaking our desires for theirs.

The great incarnation
God once spoke to me
through his holy spirit
arriving via warm fuzzies,
warnings, protection,
mind and heart waves

meant for a disembodied 6th sense receptacle.

I think perhaps my other five sense got jealous

For now

Godhood speaks to me
through the taste of a fresh summer peach,
the feel of a hot bath,
the sight of my beloved pines on the bluff,
the smell of lavender from the diffuser Rich got me,
the sound of Hugo giggles.

God once visited me ephemerally.

Now, my body holds God
and notices the God-ness held 
in each of it's surroundings;
and feels the goodness
as their God-ness comes in contact
with mine.

God has become incarnate.

Live dammit!
I think I perhaps misunderstood the lesson of the prodigal son
as I often mistook the lesson of all stories
to be
obedience.

But the son was disobedient
and was celebrated with king's feast anyway.

I much prefer the lesson to be
the celebration of a life well-risked.

If a feast awaits us regardless of whether we live or hide,
then let us live dammit!

Lessons from the knobby pine
regal stands the knobby pine

well, more trunk than tree really

no leaves, one knotted branch jutting out like an upside down J

while lush blankets of ponderosas cover most of the bluff,
this knobby friend stands alone

something must have happened to his brothers and sisters-
fire maybe?

or perhaps this pine was a mistake, a ecological fluke-
who, when the soil said, "no, no I'm too tough, no roots for you" would hear none of it

when the sun said, "sorry, I can't reach you" made due with the ambient rays

who despite all of its obstacles, stubbornly kept growing anyway.

so much more interesting than the healthy, identical pines that live just beyond, before and across from this one

this one
who despite his lack of pine needles bares his naked branches to the world without apology

the knobby pine

Do you have daily practice you are stumbling through? Comment below and tell us what it is.