first draft poem

[Jesse Michener]

Formerly titled Non-Birth Story Writing Goodness. Feel free to share your works in progress here!

Jesse

[Jesse Michener]

I'm working on an article about being "on the brink" and what we do as mothers to get through intense experiences. I'll also talk about the "supermom" theory and how sometimes being a supermom is about not repeating destruction behavior from the past (specifically breaking the cycle of violence).

Anyone want to share their on-the-brink mothering experiences and how you got through them? What makes you a supermom?

[Maltagirl]

Jesse, by "on the brink" and "intense experiences" do you mean discipline-related situations? Like, how we deal with those moments where we fight every instinct to freak out and instead talk ourselves down to a place of nurturing?

Or, do you just mean something extraordinary that came out of me because I am a mother? (Because I have a lot of those... )

[Jesse Michener]

nak

Hit me with what you got, baby.

~J

[violafemme]

I am always on the brink, always at risk of going backwards and repeating the past. I think that recovering from abuse is a bit like recovering from alcoholism; you are in a state of recovering or relapsing but never completely recovered. Somewhere the darkness is hovering, near or far it is hovering.

I step back from the brink every time I decide not to hit, not to yell, not to leave my dd to cry it out or blame her for my short comings and I step towards it every time I tell myself "well at least I didn't xyz, like my parents did". Everytime I compare myself and point out how I'm not as bad as they were (even though I'm not the best I could be) it's one step closer to the brink.

I remember my mother's brink; the line she said she's never cross. She swore she's never cross it because it's what her father did to her and she hated it. I remember when she crossed it and told me "Well I never thought you'd be so bad that I would have to do this". I remember the shock, the suprise, the sting. I remember something snapping. I wish I remembered our trips to the art museum or a teddy bear tea party, but I don't. I remember the brink and falling over it.

I wonder what it was really sent her over. I wonder because I am afraid of what could send me over, could send me scrambling back to the all too comfortable and familiar pattern. I think it was fear.

I think sometimes we are afraid that our parents didn't love us, that the hitting and the yelling, the conflict and the rage is an absence of love. We are so afraid that we visit the insanity on our children in an attempt to prove it isn't true. After all we know we love our children and if we can do these things to our children and still love them, maybe our parents really did love us. Sometimes I think it is darker than that; that we are jealous of our children's happiness and innocence, fear that they will have more than we do and we steal it from them.

I do not understand it because I am still filled with so much love for this child, so much joy that the darkness seems no more than a hideous dream. I imagine my mother must have felt the same at some point. When did it change? What pushed her past her brink? I need to know because my brink is there..............

got to come back later to finish

h

[Autumnschild]

"A wife must be under submission to her husband. Blessed are the meek, Love, honor, obey..." I hear the words of my mother echoing in my head. I reject these ideas as much now as I did then. Yet I see myself repeating her patterns now in my life, in my marriage, and I catch myself, ashamed that my daughters witness the same meekness that I witnessed from her. It sickens me. I try to look deeper, to understand why I tuck my tail and hide from confrontation. His anger frightens me, but what frightens me more is the potential for my own anger. Anger was never shown by the females in my mother's house. My step-father would yell and his raised voice would reduce me to tears. I am not that same child, afraid of a voice raised in anger. Or am I?

I am unsure of the boundaries that I am trying to set. Every time I resolve to set these new boundaries I feel that I am standing on the brink of an abyss. I look behind me and see the inquiring eyes of my little girls, always watching, always mimicking my every move. I must bridge the abyss to teach these malleable creatures that they have the power to control their own lives. They do not have to submit to a man unless they choose to do so. They have the right to be respected, to demand respect. To make choices. To be loved for everything they are. They have the right to be strong. To know that their feelings are valid. Even anger. Anger is valid.

Every time I sit perched at the edge of this abyss, I try again to change the outcome to something positive in which I can be proud. Often I fail. I sometimes fall victim to anger that turns to mindless ranting or frustrated weeping. Other times I slink away, tail tucked between my legs and swallowing my pride simply to avoid an argument. But there are the times that I stand tall and hold my calm stance, insisting on the point I am making, justified that my anger is just and deserved. And in those moments I find the strength to keep trying. For myself, but mostly for my little girls who pattern themselves after me, their mother.

[lavender]

I wrote this last week. It sort of forced it's way out of me while the kids were in class. It's not meant to be related to any particular subject; I just thought I'd share.


Stolen Words

We didn't know it at the time, but a stranger was downstairs opening the window, climbing over our kitchen table, walking through the darkened house holding my cute purple purse and my husband's laptop bag. We were all upstairs, asleep, except when I heard the bump I thought was one of the cats, which even in my half-awakened state I recognized as a very uncatlike sound. I was groggy and I am well-aware that I'm on the protective side when it comes to my house and my space, so I dismissed the noise as my usual semi-paranoia and went back to sleep.

It wasn't until ten o'clock, when I'd been up for three hours, that I realized someone had been there. And it wasn't till the policeman came to take the report that I knew how the burglar had gotten in.

The worst part is not losing the stuff, and I'm already beginning to get over the fact that someone was in our house while we were sleeping. We were safe; there had been no confrontation, no trauma, no heart-stopping fear. What bugs me right now is that my checkbook and my little notepad are “out there” with my words in them, words that I have written.

Someone could be examining my habits, where I've been shopping, training, eating. What I've ordered, where I've been, the things I was considering writing about, my observations of the people I know and love... My words, even just those little ones, are gone. That is a little bit of my energy, my identity, me, taken away, probably just thrown away. Damn! At least it was only the last few weeks of checks. It was a pretty new check register because I'd just ordered a new box of checks (again—damn!). Otherwise he (she?) would have even more of an idea of who I am, how often I eat out, what I wear, how much electricity my family uses, when I write neatly, when I scribble, how much my husband earns.

I have to admit, the idea of someone going through my checkbook is intriguing, the idea of taking a delicious nonjudgmental peek into the life of an unsuspecting person. What does it all add up to? What do those things say about me? How fun it could be to spy on someone, find out bits of what her lifestyle is like, what she likes to do on weekends and where she buys her bras.

The truth is, though, our burglar couldn't care less; he bought bus passes with my credit card and is most likely just looking for his next fix, the poor guy (or gal—I want to try to imagine a woman doing this for some weird reason). This is the work of a desperate uncreative person.

Often, a writer is a spy, absorbing seemingly useless information in order to learn about the human mind and soul for use later in building and taking care of her characters. But then, it is as a writer whose words have been stolen away in the night that I feel so terribly violated. More than as a homeowner, or as a woman with a purse, and at this moment more even than as a mother (though only because, thank heavens, my children were only several feet on either side of me at the time and are safe).

I wish I could have my driver's license and my newly purchased roll of stamps back, but I'd also enjoy it if this thief would mail me something written about her experience, perhaps a character study based on the information in my purse, or what it felt like when she looked at the laptop she had stolen and realized it was a piece of junk.

[BelovedK]

Sad poem about my son

I just wrote it after a particurly bad 'fit' that my son had (he's 10yo and has definate issues)

I call it MOTHER GUILT

Where does frustration lie?
Is it upstairs lying in his room,
or under my thick hair?

Where does regret lie?
does it lie on his bed, wishing to die,
or in my unspoken words?

Where does attonement lie?
does it continue telling untruths,
or do i lie to myself?

Where am i?
ami upstairs with him,
or downstairs in my seperate heart?

Our hearts used to beat inches apart
our blood mingled while he lived in my belly

now he is upstairs, contemplating leaving
while i sit down here writing

[zenfulmama]

strong mamas support group

jesse,
about your article...i just formed a support group with two mama friends. We're calling ourselves The Strong Mamas and are meeting tonight to discuss abuse, its triggers, its affect on us as mothers, etc. One of the ladies has a really good therapist and i'm sure she'll share some of her jewels of information with us. mostly, i believe that writing, journaling : has helped me transform out of the cycle; but not without pitfalls and hard lessons learned...everyday is an opportunity to heal...and uplift the next generation with whole selves.

[zenfulmama]

i think i can post this here...hmmm, because it's not really feed back, it's praise.
i enjoyed reading your poem, beloved k, if you want feedback, i'll give you some in the feedback forum.

[BelovedK]

Yes, i'd love feedback, i'm hoping for it...i want to improve , did it make sense to you?

[BelovedK]

Can i post more poetry here?? :

[zenfulmama]

Mother Woe

I always have to pee
when I sit down to write.
Something else calls
besides words in flight
Ever elusive,
they go so fast,
fleeting thoughts
left to pass.
Strengthening muscles
in order to contain
my mother woe.
Left in shame
growing up through misery,
but learning nonetheless
how to cultivate peace and grace
in a chaotic flow.
My offspring flourish
in joy and laughter,
not screechy screams
which lead to disaster.
Ever watching ever present every peaceful,
until something breaks…
We fall.
We mend.
We grow
again.

[BelovedK]

zenfulmama, For some reason my feedback didn't 'take'

I love this poem, i relate to much of it, as i'm sure all mama writers do.

The only feedback i have is in the formatting of the poem. It would be easier to read if there were spaces between stanzas, also, there is a part in the middle that doesn't have the same rhthym or rhyme.

Growing up in misery ,
but learning nonetheless
how to cultivate peace and grace
in a chaotic flow.

That part needs to be included, the way it was in the middle didn't flow for me though, maybe at the end as a statement or ???. Anyway, i love this poem, that's the only thing

[BelovedK]

TRANSITION

The skin, soft as the petal of a rose, calmed at her gentle stroke.

The face, once red with screaming indignation, drifted to the starry skies.

The eyes, wise as the grandmother knitting a tale, closed as if ending a chapter.

The mother, floating like the moon hangs in the sky, opens her sad heart and cries.

[zenfulmama]

Leave that dog gone bone alone…

Leave that dog gone bone alone…

Hey Bobby Jones leave that dog alone!
She likes her bone--leave that bone alone.

The dog will play
If you stay away
From her bone

But, The dog will go,
(as I told you so)
if you try to play
with the bone


We don’t care
That she won’t share
Her bone

It’s her bone alone
With her own slobber
That we won’t bother

It’s slick and spitty
And it would be a pity
If her big tooth slipped
And nicked you

You would cry
So would I
And the dog-gone dog would be gone

But, if we leave her bone alone
Later she will bury it away
And come and play!

Obviously (i hope) this is a children's book i'm working on. I would appreciate feedback. Thank you.

[indiegirl]

Originally Posted by zenfulmama

jesse,
about your article...i just formed a support group with two mama friends. We're calling ourselves The Strong Mamas and are meeting tonight to discuss abuse, its triggers, its affect on us as mothers, etc. One of the ladies has a really good therapist and i'm sure she'll share some of her jewels of information with us. mostly, i believe that writing, journaling : has helped me transform out of the cycle; but not without pitfalls and hard lessons learned...everyday is an opportunity to heal...and uplift the next generation with whole selves.

Oh man. I wish I could participate! How did it go?

Jesse

[zenfulmama]

it went well...we came up with the idea of posting affirmations (like some of us did with our birth art i.e. "Breathe..") I posted one of the LLL philosophies on my wall about loving guidance--Children need lovng guidance, which reflects acceptance of their capabilities and sensitivity to their feelings. it helps to talk about this muck--this sludgy emotional grime that stress and anger put us in...

[quaz]

This board is dead,
This board is slow,
We need some writers
To make this board go.

So here's what I'll say
So here's what I'll do
I'll write something dopey
and maybe you too

Then at the least
We'll have a few words
To get this board going
Even if they're t*rds.

;-)


Had to write something.
Anybody out there.
Hello, Hello, Hello??
Echo, Echo, Echo.....

I'll try to write something, anything real over the next week.

Tammy

[BelovedK]

Please do, I promise i'll post my latest venture (assignment) I'm working on it now....Let's get these boards going, I'm itching for something new ;-0
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