By Whitney Poole

Eight years. They’ve passed in a blur. They’ve flown. And yet they’ve crept.

I remember, in your first year, I felt, “Finally. I’ve found what I’m meant to do with my life.” And then I forgot that. I thought it meant raising babies, but now I think it meant nurturing. Creating. Sharing Joy. Living in the light of now.

I lost that, baby girl. I tried to filter life through someone else’s lens. I didn’t sit with my soul. I forgot to be in the quiet until I felt the answers. I looked to others and asked what their answers were.

I took those answers and made them my walls. That’s where I went wrong, my sweet girl.

Then, when I finally started listening to my soul, I didn’t know what to do with the answers. So I turned again to others, and I asked what they thought of my answers.

I let their opinions become my truth.

So, baby, don’t let anyone else tell you who you are. Not me, not your Daddy, not your friends. You learn to sit and listen to your soul. Because you’re brave, my sweet girl. You’re brave enough to hear the answers and trust the truths whispered, even when it’s hard.

If you will ask the questions, be honest enough to hear the answers and brave enough to trust what you hear, then you will not be led astray. You will not fall off your own path. You will not neglect your soul purpose.

I want for you more than I have ever wanted for myself.

So, I want to let you know that I am finding my way. And my way; my path back to my soul purpose, will cause you pain. And for that I am so very sorry. But I hope that my example of living a life of ‘less than’ and making my way back to my truest potential will someday be one that shows you how to be true to you.

And I hope you will find a way to always be the perfect being I know you to be. Perhaps I can be the reminder to you that the pain and the fear you must overcome to be your best self are so very worth it.

May every year between this and your last be spent in the light of who you are.

All my love for all of my lives,
Mama

©2015 Whitney Poole

Whitney Poole is a Virginia-based writer, though her poetry reflects her own deep Southern roots. Whitney has found her voice while writing her way through personal transformation, discovering that true beauty lies within the rubble. Her self-appointed task is to show this truth to others.

I’ve been a caged bird most of my life,

Creating a melody I’ve kept to myself,

But there comes a time in each life

When a choice must be made,

To confess the secrets that confine,

Or not.

 

I’d waited,

Wasted

Too many years,

Thinking a time would come

When the holder of the key would return to me,

Then, I’d sing my song.

 

But that isn’t how it happened.

The melody in my heart grew too loud in my chest.

I had to escape,

Find a way to the one my tune was for,

Say all the words I’d locked away

For another person.

 

I sang my song,

Loud and clear.

I sang my song.

I’d like to say I received the same in return,

But my reward was little more than silence,

Silence and freedom.

©2018 B.L. Stonaker

B.L. Stonaker is an American poet, writer and editor living in Illinois, USA.  She Studied English Literature and Political Science at The University of Arizona in Tucson, AZ.  Her book, Between Athens and God, was published in 2016.  She is currently working on her second publication.

@photo by Chris Riley

by Jenn Marr

It is hard not to be consumed by blemishes when we are taught to strive for perfection and nothing else. Again, it is difficult to not place your focus on feelings of being insubstantial and flimsy, and that everything around you is collapsing, when all you want is to simply feel good enough.
    All the time you hear and see people preaching their plastic positivity on how they have it under control and you can too! They say all you have to do is follow this very simple plan that everyone else does and get inside the box and everything will be okay.
    How do you come to terms with the fact that, maybe, not all of us can fit inside of one box?
    Perhaps, one size does not fit all? It seems incredibly unrealistic that in this vast world we are to be contained in one way and on one path. Yet this is often what we are told.
    Apparently happiness is attained by reaching landmarks and not actually by feeling and following your heart. Isn’t that confusing? All these beautiful humans born into happiness and worth right from the get-go, but then we are forced to come away from that into places of uncertainty and insecurity just to fit into the masses. No one is taught what happiness is, let alone how to maintain it. Instead you are presented with endless examples of how to let go of feelings and sight, and told to just put one foot in front on the other to simply make it through the day.
    It is time to learn to differentiate the different types of discomfort and pain. Just like you, these feelings do not deserve to be stuffed inside a box where they cannot be noticed or felt. Despite what you have been lead to believe, those parts of you are worthy of being recognized and heard.
    Remember growing pains when you were a kid? Your body was then shifting from the inside and allowing your outer physical body to change. Yes, it was uncomfortable but you trusted this discomfort because you knew and understood that this growth was necessary to move forward into the next version of yourself.
    Emotional discomfort? You are taught to bottle it and save it for later; hell maybe even never if you choose. You are told to just push it down deeper and deeper into a place where you can no longer hear the cries and tantrums of your past self-trying to escape.
    How’s that working for you?
    Are you tired yet? Exhausted from holding onto everything that you think you are pushing away, you are actuality pushing down and creating an anchor of emotional weight that gravitates somewhere deep and dark wherever you go. You don’t even realize that is happening because you blend in seamlessly with the crowd surrounding you.
    What they don’t tell you is that you’re going to drown soon if you don’t start to letting go.
    You have choices.
    You can choose the discomfort of feeling and dealing to lessen the load so you can make your way back up to the surface of light and understanding, or you can hold tight to everything you know and gasp for air until there’s nothing left.
    Let go or be dragged.
©2018 Jenn Marr

Jenn Marr is an instructor at Studio 26 Hot Yoga in Winnipeg.

Chris Riley is a photographer and filmmaker from Detroit currently in the midst of creating a documentary web series about her city’s neighbourhood rebirth. You can find more of her work at www.rileycreates.com

It’s not what you read, but what you see, that goes to the core of what you will believe.

I once read a quote where an eight-year-old described poetry as something “where they don’t use all the page” Over the past couple of days I’ve read quote upon quote, a few poetic philosophies, and an inane pseudo-essay including obviously misunderstood academic terms, explaining what poetry really means.

Nothing I have read is as accurate as the child’s description.

Poetry does, undeniably, require space to breathe on the page. Sometimes, when properly done, only a few words are required to present the poet’s wit, wisdom, or worth. Although it is not simple, poetry is involved and too many people are determined to make it complicated.

Truly, poetry is more than words on a page. The craft, art, and undertaking of poetry goes beyond language, and it does so with more accuracy than any other written form.

If words were simply words; love songs would sound like streetcar alerts, love letters would be as romantic as minutes from a board meeting, and a poem would read like ingredients on a cereal box.

Words, indeed, have a meaning (some words have more than one) but even the description of a word does not define the meaning of a poem. Each word has an essence, and a backbone, with sentiment, soul, emotion, and memory stuffed inside. A poem takes these words and gives them space to resonate.

Poetry can heal or poetry can hurt. We read the words and we respond.

Yet, there are people who look distractingly deeper at poetry and, most times, complicate the process. They study the metrics of the meter, confuse the cadence, look for implied imagery, and search for the metaphor instead of the meaning.

This practice shows little regard for the poet who has already taken sufficient time to work through the mechanics of language and the moral or message, taking into account catastrophe, context, and heartbreak, stanza size and line break, and the politics of the atmosphere.

By the time a poem is presented, the poet has already struggled with the format, whether it is an orderly sonnet or set out in a measured stanza. Even free-form involves an acceptable purpose.

Over and above the poet’s intentions, a poem speaks for itself. It just happens.

Poetry does not take words at face value, yet it does not beg for description, interpretation, or even attention. All it asks for is endeavored understanding.

Your understanding may not, or will not, be the same as the writer, or that of the person sitting beside you on the bus, or another soul halfway around the world.

That’s good. It’s more than good, it is right. Everything else on the planet is so set in its way (even as we evolve or disintegrate), that so much seems too consistent. Except poetry.

Poetry needs to be consistently unpredictable so that we can receive it in the mood or the moment. It should be comforting to know there are words waiting that will accept the way you see them, or feel them, or believe them.

As soon as you have to study a poem it becomes a chore instead of a charm. There is no is no risk/benefit analysis required of poetry, don’t go looking for it.

I read a lot of poetry; far more than I write. Each year I take a volume of a celebrated, “classic” dead poet and, for the entire year, devour the work one poem per day (and some days even more). Last year it was Wordsworth, this year Emily Dickinson.

I’ll absorb, I will react, I will reread and recite, but I dare not call it study. If I call it anything, it is appreciation; and it may not even be that. And my reading is not limited to only those volumes, nor is it limited to treasured bards of years gone by. I’m still cherishing the recent work of a woman who is very much alive, and there is always a book of a recent, or lesser known, poet in my day bag. It might even sound corny, but I breathe poetry. Inhale and exhale. It’s just what I do.

I’d encourage you to do the same. Armed with a poem, you’ll be better equipped to take on the world. By avoiding the news (fake or foolhardy) for 10 minutes a day, or stealing a few moments away from text books, bible study, or gossip pages on your mobile device, you will better understand the human condition.

Try it. A poem a day, every day. There’s even an app for that and it’s free, functional, and quite enjoyable.

Just read it. Leave the analysis to sales reports, tax returns, and political maneuvering, and instead be moved by the writing. Words are important.

Poetry matters; let it speak to you, and for you.

Today is World Poetry Day
Take a poem to lunch.

©2018 j.g. lewis

by Leslie I. Bolin

When I was a child, one of my parents would read my sisters and I a bedtime story. I looked forward to this magical part of the day, especially when my dad, who would have preferred being an actor instead of a draftsmen, read. I’m not certain what enthralled me most: hearing him skillfully use different dialects and voices to embody each character, or catching a brief glimpse of his inner world which he shamelessly revealed while he read. He was as delighted to read as I was to listen.

After the story ended and my parents left the room my sisters and I shared, we were often keyed up and giddy, so my sisters would ask me to tell them a story. I would ramble on, stringing whoppers together, the three of us in our flannel nightgowns giggling at the ridiculous predicaments of my invented characters. There was one story in particular that my sisters asked me to repeat.

“The shutters were open and the bright moon woke Lisa. The shadows of the plum tree looked like scary fingers, so she clutched her stuffed Bunya as she eased out of her bed. Warily, she peered out the window. She loved the moon, and that night it was enormous! It had a kindly, grandmotherly face, and seemed to float gently above the lilac bushes. She decided to call it ‘Madge.’”

I have always told, and enjoyed telling, stories. I have always loved the moon.

“Madge whispered for Lisa to come outside, into the yard. Lisa decided she could trust Madge, so she padded barefoot through the kitchen to the back door. Her cat Chutzpah followed her, but wanted none of this adventure nonsense and decided to clean his paws, instead. Lisa knew her parents would worry if they found her missing, so she quietly, gingerly eased the door open and raced outside.”

Good characters, like children, are often propelled by impulse and a power outside themselves, and struggle with powerful emotions: guilt, responsibility, regret. And chutzpah is a handy trait to have.

“Madge lowered herself onto the cool grass next to the swingset. Using craters as handholds, Lisa clambered aboard, giggling at Madge’s knobby, bald head.”

My mother was severely deficient in mothering instinct. She didn’t want to be bothered with caring for three girls’ hair every morning, so we all had very short pixie cuts. Most of the girls who I went to school with had long hair, and I wanted long hair, too. Stories allow us to get unpleasant memories, disappointment and pain out of the way.

“Madge told Lisa to look inside one of the shallow craters above her right eyebrow. ‘You’ll find a silver key—the kind you use to wind up a clock. Don’t lose it—the fate of the world depends on that key!’ Lisa nodded gravely. She picked up the key, surprised at how large it was and how heavy it felt. She stowed the key safely in the pocket of her nightgown.”

Storytelling allows the truth to be irrelevant. A storyteller has the power to shape the readers’ experiences. She also has license to negotiate her feelings, especially when she is a powerless child, by operating in fantasy.

“As Madge whirled through the air, Lisa saw claws reaching up from the ground and gasped. ‘Madge! Look out!’ There is something with claws down there trying to steal the key!” Madge chuckled gently. “Claws? That’s just a plum tree. You must be hungry! I’ll swing by slowly; grab yourself a plum or two. He won’t mind.” Lisa was relieved to realize she didn’t have to be afraid, and since she fed half of her disgusting tuna casserole to Chutzpah, she was hungry!”

Perceptions are funny things. They can be distorted. It can be hard to separate what happened from what you think happened.

“Madge whisked Lisa from her tidy neighborhood to the looming skyline of the city beyond. As they traveled toward downtown, Madge explained to Lisa that before the sun came up, she would have to use the key to wind up all of the buses and cars so that people could get to work on time. Lisa thought about how her Aunt Mary, when she last visited, had called her clumsy, and how her mom constantly needed to remind her to stop dawdling. What if she accidentally dropped the key, and it fell down one of those sewers in the city? What if she couldn’t crank up all of the vehicles fast enough, and ran out of time? How would people—how would her father—get to work?”

Most lessons are learned in the infinite space between losing and winning. Storytellers pay attention to their arch rivals; they’ve studied their opponents.

Are you discovering that our inner worlds are similar? Yes? Good. I’ll get out of the way and let you finish the story.

Risk delight.

©2018 Leslie I. Bolin

Leslie I. Bolin is a marketing, graphic design, and multimedia professional by day, and after hours, writes poetry and prose, weaves textiles, and designs historical costumes. She enjoys viewing the world through her polarized light microscope, and week-long loaded bicycle tours on Tomatillo Absinthe, her trusty two-wheeled steed. Visit Leslie at www.studiosouthpaw

Illustration by Leslie i. Bolin