January Gill O’Neill
poem
WATERLINE
By Ocean Vuong
If I should wake & the Ark
the Ark already
gone
If there was one shivering thing
at my side
If the snow in his hair
was all that was left
of the fire
If we ran through the orchard
with our mouths
wide open
& still too small
for amen
If I nationed myself
in the shadow
of a colossal wave
If only to hold on
by opening—
by kingdom come
give me this one
eighth day
let me enter
this nearly-gone yes
the way death enters
anything fully
without a trace
Taken from Emergence Magazine
Learning Vulnerability
Tell us about your first day at something — school, work, as a parent, etc.
After Krista O’Reilly-Davi-Digui
Learning to move from head to heart,
moving into greater vulnerability,
everyday feels like the first day.
There is the risk of doing or saying
the wrong thing. Hurting others
as I learn to express myself,
what I want, what I need
makes those close uncomfortable.
And yet,
as I step deeper into fugitivity,
linger in the edges, skin prickly
with expansion. I trust.
Take self-authority and do not hide
from this becoming, this vulnerability.
Offering myself and others grace
and compassion, I walk on, slow,
with heart in hand.
Poem – An Act of Faith
Isn’t that what a poem is?
Elizabeth Acevedo
A lantern glowing in the dark.
Just as dusk is falling, I walk. Affected by the elements,
head in pain from the wind, I force myself out into the dim light,
believing moving my legs will strengthen my heart.
Motherly care, higher forces in radio silence. Walk
The moon pale blue and silent. But still there. Always.
Like the ancestors, guiding. Allowing me to find my own way. Tonight.
To falter, make mistakes and loop back. Remaining open.
Trusting these windows of silence as still inspiration.
Hope holds optimism. Optimism holds joy.
The touch of joy, fine-grained dark jasper, I search for along the path.
This spiritual path of putting pen to page, again and again.
Like one foot in front of another. An act of faith.
Confessional POetry Course
(Speaking about Robert Lowell’s poetry) “Lowell removes the mask. His speaker is unequivocally himself, and it is hard not to think of Life Studies as a series of personal confidences, rather shameful, that one is honor-bound not to reveal.”
M. L. Rosenthal’s article “Poetry as Confession.”
I’m taking a four week confessional poetry course with midnight & indigo. Founded in 2018, midnight & indigo is a small publisher and literary journal that provides a space for Black women writers to share their narratives with the world.
Tw weeks in and I’m loving the course, Tell Me Something Real: How to Write Confessional Poetry. Not only is the tutor, Schyler Butler knowledgeable, and thorough providing great examples for poetry within this genre all from Black women, but the group of writers signed up for the course bring it every week with their insight and feelings around each poem we read and discuss.
And then we get to trial out what we’ve learnt through these close writings within our own writing, as the sessions finishes with time to write a first draft of a poem and then share it with the group. I’m enjoying what I’m coming up with after being inspired. Because in all honesty, from time I’ve been a confessional poet but have never smashed the term on it.
Confessional poetry in essence can be distilled to 4 main components.
- Be of an intimate subject matter.
- Use the first person.
- Be autobiographical or seen/ appear to be.
- Use skilled craftsmanship.
I’m working on a new body of work now. So still in the draft stage but I’ll share a poem from time here, as evidence of my appreciation and dance with this form of poetry.
White Women
Within my family, there are white women.
White women who married black men. I forget,
neglect the fact that their blood flows through mine.
Trace the past, a sea of faceless white is mine.
The black men forefront, a mist of women
behind. Their names, I don’t know or forget.
They are the enigma, shadows. Forget
the cleaning and cooking, their duty and mine,
they went against the grain, steadfast women.
In the corner of the frame, you white women
are not forgotten. Your spirit is mine.
Family Album, 2011
May (Blossom) Poetry – Empathising with Blossom
I see you, white blossom.
I feel your softness and gentle caress-petals.
Hanging, heavy bell-like clusters of white,
delicate to the touch as well as to the nose.
I taste your thirst for life, to cling on,
as your prime is short-lived, ephemeral
but no less spectacular. Thank you,
sweet one, for blazing white-bright
in my line of sight, that my heartswells
with awe and wonder and love. For you.
For this world. For we share this glory
through our true nature.
All of Nature is Connected
In case you’re a kid who doesn’t have the right equipment,
and just in case you’re growing too big for your bones and
have to walk around in second-feet shoes,
take a moment to nestle in the autumn chilled grass,
lean in close, breathe in the slack conker smell and squint.
You might not have a magnifying glass but you can still
recognise kin. Ladybirds, beetles and ants.
Creatures of the earth. Overlooked and taken for granted,
caretake as you learn to nurture yourself into bloom.
Living Wild Studios 