Last night, before I could write this week’s newsletter, my city was set upon by wind and rain. My kids and I hid in the basement with the shriveled up centipedes who like to make their deathbeds there. We were there until the power went out, and then a little longer, until the tornado warning had passed. The storm raged on a little while longer, but disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived.
The hour following a storm is eerie. The sky has changed color, the trees look relieved to have ceased their flapping and waving in the wind. In yesterday’s case, the power was out, so I lit candles and used a lighter to ignite my gas stove so I could feed my family. Before I did that, I wrote a bit in my poetry journal, just sketching what I saw, giving a bit of verve to the images. Then I tucked it away and we gathered in the candlelight.
I am sharing this poetry journal entry like an artist might share a rough sketch. It isn’t a finished poem, but there is poetry in it.
My hollyhocks have fallen prostrate, their lovely purple faces to the gravel, as if they begged God before the wind took them. I say a silent prayer beneath a flicker of candlelight, mark my steps in the unlit room, seeing to my son, my daughter. The dark is new to them, this one without reprieve, this gray-green glow crawling lifelessly through our windows. I can hardly see, so I tip my head back and sing a nursery rhyme. My toddler sings along, my infant cries out, the candle flickers.
When I was younger, I always wanted to keep a sketchbook. Now that I am older and more serious about poetry, I’m trying to keep the equivalent but for poetry. I’ll share more of these as I have them. I hope you enjoyed reading!
Feel free to share snippets of your poetry sketchbook in the comments.
Unfinished???? Your poem slaps.
Beautiful. Hope after the storm—to sing, to compete with the wind’s destructive hum. I loved it.