When I sit here
and pat the universe
in my belly
and catch myself wanting
to be the queen bee
I pay homage
to all the other worker bees
like me,
the wisdom-tenders
in their many seats,
galaxies of wonder
unnoticed and connected.
This couch potato
in such a small sphere
does not need Oprah
for proclaiming wonder,
does not need proclamations
to feel the heat,
to know that life is here,
to feel the way we are cooking
even as it looks like nothing moves.
Wonderful talks – I can’t wait to hear more of them from this year’s conference – and inspiring podcasts. For when you need the sisterhood. http://www.emergingwomen.com/
This voice sounding puzzled,
tasting old words
as if they have new flavours,
this is me
speaking as a poet;
transcribing real moments
into words
that hang together briefly.
They rise from ordinary things,
teakettles,
my gratitude for socks,
the toilet paper holder
loose on the wall
and needing attention
and when I pause to see,
the poem takes shape.
This is me also finding voice
as an innkeeper,
less practical
than my colleagues
but equally welcoming.
The innkeeper I rejected
as too small,
bound in too much tending.
The poet I rejected
for the opposite same,
a purposeless attention.
I have been a poet
since the first day
I discovered that words
could be cut
more easily than paper,
glued more easily
than the other crafts.
The core of my professing
is how this tending and welcoming
live here.
Is this the kind of mud
with no ripples,
the kind where a person
squats and gets stuck,
where the falling in
has no circles extending?
Happy in my own muck,
content to go no farther,
is this a wasted journey
or lotus rooting?