I struggled with this week’s poems, choosing the words, deciding the final line breaks, thinking of what it is that I really want them to say and feeling like they are communicating my intentions.
Often, after a week, I go back and look at the poems I’ve written and feel good about them, but this week was different. This week, nothing felt settled. Maybe that’s because I’m being unclear about something.
I noticed a funny thing a few days ago. I was recutting a stencil that I’ve been using a lot lately. It had filled in with paint and was changing shape. While cutting it out, I found myself feeling annoyed by the process, which is something that I usually enjoy.
For the past three years, I have been building up to the moment that is unfolding right now. Last month I had a month long exhibition and was busied by making extra art panels, stenciled bags, and clothes because people were actually buying the things that I had made.
During my exhibition, I was invited to participate in a one day pop event with other crafters and artisans. That event is this weekend. Now, I’m trying to get ready for it, and it’s exactly what I want to be doing, but what I’m realizing is that even doing the things we like to do can be hard work and requires discipline. Just because I would rather be doing this than any thing else doesn’t mean that I always want to be doing this, especially not in the early mornings or late nights while everyone else is sleeping.
Today, I stenciled tags onto all of my products. It was nice to see them completed and, looking around my studio room, which was a complete mess, full of scattered bags set out to dry, I felt really proud of what I saw.
And with that, without further ado, this week’s tiny poems.
explode upon the pavement;
these little pleasures.
our children are like stars,
shining from the past.
where I always stop and look.
That’s where it happened.
the complete stillness I feel
in all this motion?
an inconvenient tree
watching us patiently
I say these words every year,
but I never do.
on your back like a snail—
burdened by comfort.
