“the most amazing writers on the planet”

Hector_Laborde

Photo : Hector Laborde

Since early, I’ve been thinking: last day
of April, a month that brought snow
that killed the magnolias and a month
that brought poems that brought tulips
and leafy greens and jeans + a t-shirt,
a heartbeat steadier somehow, more
true than before in that way only poets
seem to be able to say well — and how
in moments like this of reflection, I think
I’m no poet but stand in awe of those
who can go to the depths and come back
with news, with eroded treasures, reports
of the disappeared, our shadow selves
who built whole cities in caves far beneath
the shimmering surface of things where
the sun deflects its own light, leaving us
standing there with hands shielding eyes,
looking to each other for confirmation
that yes: We were really here, together.

**

My first-ever “Dive Into Poetry” group concludes this weekend. I can honestly say it exceeded any expectations I might have had (I try not to have any, but you know, there’s always that little bit of human hope and fear mixed together, with each new thing I put out there).

Who joined in? People who didn’t know they were poets who are definitely poets. People who were intimidated by writing (and sharing) poetry and discovered the freedom of practice. A vibe of warmth, generosity, and discovery permeated the whole month.

Here are some snippets from participants over the past day or two, as we say our goodbyes till next time.

“allowed me to begin”
“nourished my life”
“helped me to break through”
“a privilege and pleasure”
“eloquent and sensitive feedback”
“wonderful, sacred space”
“surprisingly comfortable”
“enriched my life with such beauty”
“beautiful community”
“a gift”
“more than I ever hoped for”
“the most amazing writers on the planet”
“saved my life”
“best four consecutive weeks in a row, ever”

And because we couldn’t possibly wait a whole year for the next National Poetry Month, I decided to make “Dive Into Poetry” a quarterly thing.

The next month-long poetry party will go down this summer, still for just $28.

Details + registration.

Am I Lost in Your Eyes?

lostFaded red spray paint
on the railing of the small bridge
over Mill River where I’m walking
in circles during minors practice.
I read it first as love: I’m lost
in your eyes, lost as in found,
lost like everything else falls away,
and perspective is this word
I don’t, can’t, might never
understand or even begin grasping
except at times like this
when, lost in your eyes, in the love
there, I stop grasping and fall
willingly away from meaning.
But then I realized, it could be
that in your eyes, I’m lost. Lost
like she lost her 14th tooth, tossed
like yesterday’s leftovers, lost
as in cause, as in cause and effect
and untethered and I told you
I needed a heavier anchor
than a prayer or a whisper.
I needed a scream, to find
some ground where it’d be possible
to be angry at the very same god
I thank for your eyes, your steady
hands, your heart unflappable
for long enough periods of time
that you could play a CSI detective
on TV.  But I do see the flaps
and the airways and the openings
where tears get out and light gets in
and we can’t, don’t, won’t ever
escape each other because
this much is a choice. I’m not lost
at all, babe. I’m right here, in your eyes
somehow purer than I’ll ever know.