Along with the fiery nature of Aries and the blossoming of spring comes April and National Poetry Month in the US.
One of my main inspirations has been the poetry of Jericho Brown and his new collection, The Tradition.
His essay about invention (titled “Invention”) and how writing poetry was how he confronted the panic of possible death has also inspired me to write every day. Poetry is a means of survival.
I’ve been trying to write at least some lines of poetry every day as a challenge to extract myself from the mini-depression I went through this winter.
Winter was dark, rainy, muddy. Even in March, depression clung to me, like sticky hands holding me down.
When the sticky webs started to feel like a cocoon, I understood on a more personal level TS Eliot’s opening lines in The Waste Land:
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers
To cope with the intense melancholy and anxiety, I started thinking of the time between winter solstice and spring equinox as a period of germination.
I was a seed in protective darkness, no need for the light, even if I did crave sunlight and walked my dog whenever the sun was out, no matter how cold.
Once the clocks changed and the days grew longer in March, I wasn’t ready to emerge from the safety of my protective shell, the haven of my bed, the soft armchair, the warm kitchen and the making of soups.
Even though I’ve taken the semester off from teaching, an unpaid sabbatical so to speak since I’m an adjunct professor, I haven’t been working on my manuscript about my travels in Spain.
The stickiness is still there, but the fire is returning. I’ve been writing new, unrelated poems to revitalize my creativity.
Jericho Brown’s “Duplex” series and the form he has invented (read them in his new book!) have opened up more pathways for me and others. He is a true bard, an oracular young poet who keeps astounding the world with his human songs.
I also realize that it’s somewhat problematic that I’m using Jericho Brown’s wholly original poetic form because I am a white woman. I’ve lived a protected life. As Brown says about his form,
What is a Jericho Brown sonnet? Though I may not be, I do feel like a bit of a mutt in the world. I feel like a person who is hard to understand, given our clichés and stereotypes about people. So I wanted a form that in my head was black and queer and Southern. Since I am carrying these truths in this body as one, how do I get a form that is many forms?
In his essay he goes on to describe his process, explaining that his duplex form carries traces of the ghazal, the sonnet, and the blues. That the couplets grew from lines he had written and saved from as long as fifteen years ago.
What I want to make clear is that I’m writing in Jericho Brown’s form because I find it beautiful and musical, but I won’t try to profit from his inventions in any way, such as trying to publish a duplex in a poetry journal.
Here are my two attempts at the duplex, written over the last two days:
I walk to where the creek water pools
To see the smooth darkness of its surface
To see the smooth darkness of its surface
Is to behold a circle with no circumference
This circle with no circumference contains
A benevolent silence, a suspension of time
This benevolent silence, this suspension of time
Is what I’m seeking when I’m alone on the trail.
When I’m alone on the trail, the dark water
Stills, impenetrable, until I peer over the bridge
Peering over the bridge, a carnation tree weeps
Its petals onto the glassy skin of the creek
The pink petals fracture the surface–a mosaic–
My reflection where the creek water pools
I See Hawks
This day is a glass fishing float
Suspended in a net of clouds
Suspended in a net of clouds,
mineral smells of the river
In the mineral smells of the river
A hawk appears again. I’m tired
Of hawk sightings. I’m tired
Of omens, of signs that point to what?
Harbingers that point to what
I won’t fathom. A poem should have words
To fathom this–this net that suspends
The world, this day floating in blue glass
Pathway Through Depression by Christine Swint