One Way to Write a Poem
A poem for the faint of heart
The professor
asked us to feel the bottom of our feet
on the ground.
Shoes between
the bareness of skin,
and the wooden floor of the hall we sat in,
three sides of a rectangle
at plastic folding tables.
A sudden memory of another exercise surfaced,
in which you imagine your feet,
soul going down through,
connecting to the center of the earth,
drawing yourself into it, rooted.
And I laughed,
because the last time I thought about that exercise,
I was sitting inside a plane,
seat belt securely fastened,
trying to relax,
while a lengthy stretch of turbulence shook us.
My first thought was,
I’d better not try that now,
I’ll do it when we land.
***
This poem is the result of a writing workshop I attended in June. It can also be found on Medium on my page, and in The Lark Publication.
Hope you enjoyed it! Natalie
About the Creator
Natalie Wilkinson
Writing. Woven and Printed Textile Design. Architectural Drafting. Learning Japanese. Gardening. Not necessarily in that order.
IG: @maisonette _textiles
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making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskar2 days ago in Feast
Comments (1)
Context is everything, is it not?! Enjoyed your writing. 🤩 Forgive me if I've mistaken your meaning, but can you confirm what you meant by "three sides of a rectangle"? Are you speaking of a table at which you were seated? Thanks for bearing with me.