Thursday, April 9, 2015

Maternal Gravity

I'm in a poetry kind of mood, and for some reason, my inspiration arrived in the form of autumnal images. Maybe it's just wishful thinking, as the weather's been major Sucksville lately, and fall is my favorite season. Or maybe it's simply because when Trystan looks at me with those perfectly rounded, brownish green eyes of his, I can't help thinking about fall.

*Note: If you have no interest in reading about the "art" of poetry, feel free to scroll down to the actual poem. If you have no interest in poetry, period, feel free to scroll to the pictures at the end of the post. If you have no interest in adorable photos of adorable toddlers, feel free to close your browser and start working on a premature Christmas letter to Santa, requesting that he bring you a soul this December.

Poetry is something that I've enjoyed writing since third grade, when I had my first poem published in The Anthology of Poetry By Young Americans. It was an elementary rhyme about Halloween. Lot's of black cats, jack-o-lanterns, and wicked witches (so, in other words, not cliche at all--ha!). Since then, I've experimented with several different formats but have found myself consistently drawn to free verse, mainly because I prefer to work without metric or rhyming restriction, and I LOVE how changing a line break can add an entirely new dimension to your words. If you're at all interested in learning about the power of line endings, this article breaks it down really nicely. (I think the first example, analyzing Geoffrey Brock's poem, is particularly effective.)

Basically, sometimes if you look at a single line of verse as a standalone phrase (rather than in the context of the rest of the poem), it may have a different meaning or paint a different image. An example in the poem that follows is the line "wink back the light." In the context  of the poem, you'd likely interpret this as the subject's eyes reflecting back bits of sunlight. Reading the line alone, however, you might think it's implying that the eyes (of either the speaker or the subject) are squinting in the sun. 

I hope none of this comes off as condescending. I've heard a lot of people say they don't like poetry because they "just don't get it," and it's really not always as complicated as people think.

Okay, enough of the unsolicited English lessons.

Maternal Gravity

I see hazel,
that delicate harmony
between the tranquility
of olive green and

the comfort of chestnut.
A few stray flecks of gold
wink back the light
of honeyed sun-

rays that tiptoe
through locks
of feathered blonde, dancing
in the brisk, uplifting

breath of autumn.
Round and colored like caramel
apples, his eyes
strike the perfect

balance between
sweet and a little nutty.
They warm me
to my core. They are my own

eyes, mirrored in
a face supple with innocence
and wonder. I feel
the inescapable pull—

It is a law
of nature, the invisible
force that compels me,
drawing me forth

toward my son.

Oct 2013
March 2015

If you haven't yet checked out the poem I had published on Mamalode about my other goober, Oliver, please do so. I would hate to be accused of favoritism. I love my boys equally, i.e., infinitely.

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