Writers workshop~~Week 4 April 17th - Mothering Forums

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#1 of 16 Old 04-17-2006, 08:01 PM - Thread Starter
 
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Here are the prompts for week four...this doesn't have to only be about birthing a baby or becoming a parent (even though that is what the workshop is titled) Since this is creative writing, think outside of the box, draw all over the page...most of all, have fun

Flowering
Birthing
Empowerment
Rite of passage
Death
Transformation
Loss

                                Whatever will be, already is...
 
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#2 of 16 Old 04-19-2006, 05:11 PM
 
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I think this one turned out nicely. What do you think?

Birth is not beautiful. Who ever said that has never seen birth, has only known the ideal, the philosophy. Birth is straining and paining, and blood and sweat and tears.

Birth and Death are the Janus of life. Two faces on one entity covered with the stains of both, not each - both. Birth and Death are the same thing, delivering us through the physical door to this world. It's just a matter of whether you're coming or going.

Does that make you sad? Does it make you feel weak and helpless? The knowledge strikes me and I embrace my power.

I am akin to the Grim Reaper. I am an aspect of Death. I am the spiritual door, the gate into Hades. My thighs are as Cerberus and the throes of agony are the death rattle from another world.

I am as the Earth itself in springtime, and in winter. For the creation of life is followed by the barenness of the emptied womb. My cycles are in reverse, dear Mother. The constant reminder of my godhead will soon be replaced by a preview of my mother's empty nest. As with all of the creatures of this world, I must throw my young from the womb to soar into his own life.

What a wonder! The muses watch in jealousy as I enact the quintessential art, wherein the artist and the artwork are equally transformed by the act of creation! No song, no dance, no moulding of clay will ever produce such power in the world as a birth!

I laugh aloud and wait for the time when I will bleed, sweat, scream.

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I'm a witchy mama to DS ('06) and DD ('10) with DH, Stormie, a heathen homemaker daddy.

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#3 of 16 Old 04-19-2006, 05:22 PM - Thread Starter
 
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Sarah, I love it, it reminds me of my favorite goddess Kali....life, death, dancing, birth, protection of the children.

I like that you wrote of birth in a real way, birth is not always pretty or ecstatic (unless you embrace the pain and death aspect of it) Thank you for writing that. Good luck on your upcoming birth

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#4 of 16 Old 04-19-2006, 07:31 PM
 
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Quote:
Originally Posted by BelovedK
Sarah, I love it, it reminds me of my favorite goddess Kali....life, death, dancing, birth, protection of the children.

I like that you wrote of birth in a real way, birth is not always pretty or ecstatic (unless you embrace the pain and death aspect of it) Thank you for writing that. Good luck on your upcoming birth
That's funny, cause I've always had a big thing for Kali... She just plain appeals to me...

Thank you.

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#5 of 16 Old 04-19-2006, 10:29 PM
 
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This is a wonderful piece on birth Wolfcat. I especially love the line where the artist and the artwork are equally transformed by the act of creation.

Wow. It's amazing to me...so how i feel about birth. Makes me want to birth again! (don't tell my dh!)

Love and Light. Angela

chicken3.gifbelly.gifwow...i'm gonna have another one!!!
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#6 of 16 Old 04-20-2006, 07:29 AM - Thread Starter
 
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My username used to be Kalimom (a long time ago)

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#7 of 16 Old 04-22-2006, 10:23 PM
 
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feedback welcome

I hold my baby son in my arms, hardly able to believe I am somebody's mother, and I think of my own. She died ten years ago, in the middle of the night, leaving me with a hole in my heart filled with questions. I will never know the details of my birth, for example, so I wrote my son an 8-page long birth story. I will never know when I first smiled or rolled over, so I keep a detailed list of his milestones. I write to ward off grief, to grasp on to life's lovely, slippery moments.

I kiss the top of my son's head, and feel a tingle on my own scalp, where my mother once kissed me. The memory of her love warms the cold, fearful places in me, when I remember to summon it. I gaze at our picture, a mother-daughter moment of laughter, frozen in photo booth black-and-white. I always have my camera nearby. I take pictures so that my son will know how much he is loved, in the event of my untimely death.

I touch my son's impossibly soft cheek, and wish that she could know his silky warmth. At the same time, the image comes unbidden, of her corpse cold and graying in the ground. I wonder at how my heart can hold so much joy and grief, without breaking, without bursting.
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#8 of 16 Old 04-22-2006, 11:12 PM - Thread Starter
 
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Leah, first of all, I loved the piece...it brought up so much emotion for me since I was adopted and in a foster home until I was 3 months old. I can not imagine the death of my mother (my adoptive one)

I did have to read over your story twice though to get that it was your mother not your own child that died. When I read it carefully it was very clear though. I guess my feedback would be to make it more clear that it is your mother ('the woman who gave birth to me' for example) that died in the first paragraph. I am also left with the question of how your mother died...was it from an illness, or was it untimely? The piece is lovely though, it just seems unfinished.

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#9 of 16 Old 04-23-2006, 01:36 AM
 
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I move forward and backward
on a large gentle ball
Mind and body working
to bring my baby out.

Like climbing a mountain, each contraction,
the beginning a steady climb, and then
steeper and steeper I ascend the craggy mountain
in my mind's eye. I can do it.
There is the peak and then
I am over and descending into a brief relief
More mountains follow, endlessly steeper and
closer together.
Soon there is no relief, I ease downwards only to
climb up again with no rest.
Yet I know
I am one mountain closer,
one contraction closer
to meeting my baby.

I am pushing, swimming in a pool. Speckled flecks
of dust dance in shafts of filtered sunlight-
I fade into the rhythm of a million mothers
Primal and expanding, my throaty howls
mix with birds chirping outside and a curious labrador
seems to watch me from a neighboring balcony

Tired, lips chapped, I have to do this.
I cannot stop, squatting with hands supporting me
and the midwife and doula in unison cheer because
they see his head.
Finally, the relief of these words that seemed
would never come.

Curling into myself my screams vibrate inside of me
and out, the next wave and I push and feel
his head and then the next moment the slippery sliding relief
as his body follows.

He is in my arms, my body against his,
and already the pain is a washed out stain because
he is here and I know that I did it. I birthed him and he
birthed me-
I am a mother.

feedback welcome
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#10 of 16 Old 04-23-2006, 11:19 PM
 
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Quote:
Originally Posted by BelovedK
Leah, first of all, I loved the piece...it brought up so much emotion for me since I was adopted and in a foster home until I was 3 months old. I can not imagine the death of my mother (my adoptive one)

I did have to read over your story twice though to get that it was your mother not your own child that died. When I read it carefully it was very clear though. I guess my feedback would be to make it more clear that it is your mother ('the woman who gave birth to me' for example) that died in the first paragraph. I am also left with the question of how your mother died...was it from an illness, or was it untimely? The piece is lovely though, it just seems unfinished.
Thanks so much, Kelly. That is really helpful feedback. Yes, it is definitely unfinished. I have written a bit about my mother and her death, there is a piece that is way too long to post here, but I am trying to revise and submit to journals. Wish me luck!
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#11 of 16 Old 04-29-2006, 04:07 PM
 
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I lurk, therefore I am. This is my first posting here


When my babies finally slide out, finally stop slurping back up, taunting me, tempting me to scream and yell and invade their peace and demand they show themselves, I breathe and I see my man.

It's him first. I always look for him to see his eyes to tell him with mine that I am alive. That his beloved, the woman who he says saved his life and who he would devour whole, is alive.

This is how we complete our circle. Early on I stop worrying about myself. I am not me in this journey; I am the baby and for hours, days, I am only communicating inward. All I do, I do for the baby. I need the baby to live. My husband needs me to live. This is our circle.
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#12 of 16 Old 04-29-2006, 08:29 PM - Thread Starter
 
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Quote:
Originally Posted by nyveronica
I lurk, therefore I am. This is my first posting here
Welcome nyveronica, I hope this is not just a one time post...BTW, we don't usually give feedback in the workshops unless it is specifically asked for....I liked your piece though.

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#13 of 16 Old 04-29-2006, 09:53 PM
 
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oh, yes! feedback is always welcome. This is a small bit of a bigger thing I have cooking...

I like it here. It's peaceful. I'll be back
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#14 of 16 Old 05-03-2006, 10:52 PM
 
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hi, new here.... would appreciate feedback on previous post. and would love to read more from everybody.

hope you all are doing well.
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#15 of 16 Old 05-03-2006, 11:46 PM - Thread Starter
 
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Junto, When I reread your piece I saw the 'feedback welcome' in yellow...I didn't notice it before.

About your poem...Wow, I like the way the rhythm built up much as it does while birthing. I actually found myself reading faster and with more intensity at times. I think it has nice flow and I really like your attention to detail. I have no suggestions of what I would change...maybe someone else will, but I think the poem is perfect the way it is.

Anyone???

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#16 of 16 Old 05-12-2006, 11:09 PM
 
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thanks for the comment. that makes me feel good. i love writing but i haven't had much time for it and i've just started again. i hope to see more writing from others. i am enjoying reading.
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