Sometimes there comes a tale so intricate so large a person has to put aside their puzzles their television schedules their devices and read simply in a chair by the fire or on a bed near the warm body of a dog. Sometimes there comes a tale that can expand a room lifting the ceiling into a tall night where cold might descend or lights from a remarkable continuum or songs from the throats of a whole humanity willing itself to survive. And when such a tale arrives, the poet puts down her pen, the music makers lift their instruments from their bodies and hang them on the wall and the painter washes her brushes. For space is required as such a story takes form and the belly of time swells in a way that all else is left to wait until the final page is turned.
We’re writing a poem-a-day this month in honour of National Novel Writing Month. We do this on The Waters Poetry Workshop, an online space where poets gather and share their stuff. No harsh critiques allowed! But truth, when you’re writing a poem a day, you’re not striving for perfection. Your sitting down last thing in the day casting a line, hoping something bites. And when it does, you don’t worry if it’s a bullhead or a trout, you’re just happy you can put your pen down and sleep!
I won’t be sharing a lot of the poems from this month, they’ll all need editing. But I wanted to share this one - it makes me feel good to read it. If you follow me on GoodReads, you’ll find out what ‘tale’ I’m referring to -