I wanted to write you a postcard
From some exotic place.
From a window
Revealing glittering peaks.
From a park bench in
An urban amazon.
I wanted to pick out a
Small scrap of beauty from
A foreign field.
I wanted to smear the back with
Dirt form my adventure, with
Tears from holy moments, with
Water from salty waves.
I wanted you to see me
Carefree, whimsical.
I wanted you to miss me,
Wish me with you in some
Place more perfect, more
Picture postcard.
Instead I am in my living room.
Not Rome. Not London.
There are no tourists here.
Only me, my single self, my loneliness,
Silence, and a stamp.
There is always a fear that comes with the thought of writing. What will I write? How will I say what I mean? Will it be worth reading? Between fear and new obligations it has been easy to say "I'll write later". Later turns into never and I wake up in the night wanting to express myself and not knowing how. Feeling the echo of myself slowly closing the door on my poetry.
But poems never come out fully grown. They require frustration and nurturing.
Everything must begin somewhere. So I am starting again and I am using National Poetry month as my reason or motivation - I haven't figure out which.
For the month of April I will write a poem each day and post them here. I don't expect anyone to read them and I know I won't love many of them, but they will be mine and perhaps some of them will grow into real poems one day.
The poem above I wrote this morning. It is a warm up for the month ahead. It's also a short glimpse into my fascination with postcards, which is the theme of this blog. I think of each poem as a postcard I write to myself from some new place within my soul.
I'm looking forward to sharing my postcards with you.
Bss,
Marybeth
