Sunday Speculations on Poetry, Fear and Death

Death will take us all 

Eventually 

Fear is a 

Form of 

Death 

Fear stops the poet from writing. Fear kills the muse. Fear is not something a poet or a writer can afford to remain in the mind. This thought has haunted my mind for the past several days. I have been writing poetry, short stories, and essays for some time and posting them on a writers website. I even do a fantasy newsletter on that website, but that is as far as I have gone. I have not attempted to submit anything in several years. Last week I realized why. 

A few weeks ago, I subscribed to Poets & Writers magazine. On Friday, April 22, I received the May/June issue. I immediately began looking through it to determine which article I wanted to read first. I came across some websites for submissions and I immediately began feeling stressed, nervous and fearful. I realized then that the only thing that has been stopping me from submitting my work is fear. 

I know that I have issues with some  technical aspects of writing, which can be dealt with by consulting grammar websites or books. I also have a bad habit of attempting to edit a story in a document instead of printing a copy off to edit. This is a habit that I can break by printing a copy off as soon as I finish writing. When I edit online, I miss obvious typos. All right, typos are as obvious when looking at a computer monitor as they are on a hard copy. The typos I usually encounter concern words that are spelled right but are not the words I intended to type. 

The Fog is Lifting

fog dissipating
from thoughts after Mama’s death
it’s a new normal

Mom died in the hospice on November 29, 2012. On November 30, we planned her funeral. I am still in shock; I do not think shock is the right word because of her health we expected this event. Perhaps numb is a better word because when I composed the December 1, 2012 entry for my writing.com blog last night I realize that I could not remember the date she died.

This morning, after putting a load of towels in the washer, I looked up the date on the papers we received from the mortuary. When my life finally gets back to normal, it will be a new normal. I will have to live the rest of my life without my mother. I will have to celebrate every birthday without her. I will be 66 years old on December 24 and this is the first birthday I will celebrate without my mother.

This is year, on December 24; my mother will not kiss me on the cheek and wish me a “Happy Birthday”. This year, I will have to eat my birthday dinner by myself. This year,... I am not sure I can go on with the list of things I will have to do by myself on my birthday.

The Process of Becoming

Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.

Anais Nin

In the process of becoming

loss occurs

at first it is little things

like a silver friendship ring

given in grade school,

which was dropped between the laughter

and the tears of growing up.



As we mature and age

larger items are lost in the process

a photo of an old lover,

a pet buried in the backyard garden

of a house in the Midwest;

a house once shared by parents and siblings.



Finally,

as one approaches the end

of physical life

the last things to go

are short-term memory,

the ability to see the beauty of a rose,

the ability to hear the cry of a grandchild,

and then the individual passes

into the next word.



Is the soul born into the next world

as the body was born into this world

naked and crying?