Hands

Hands

Once, I perched on sky-tipped roots, an old growth giant washed ashore by waves I cannot fathom. Time winged its thrumming stillness. I became the tree. Became the world. Or the world became me—until we shattered, broken apart by beating wings. A hawk had nearly perched atop my crown, then dropped his catch onto the sand—a catfish, its mouth wide and soundless. My mouth sounded startled delight, startled an eagle, just swooping in. I could have touched her wings.

Her wings are what I remember most, brown eternities stretching from a white center, but today I recall my arms, flightless, lowering me to the ground, where I lifted the catfish and carried it back to the sea. I’d like to pretend I’m an eagle or at least a hawk, but most days, I’m a bleeding fish—and I’m the pair of hands, gathering up my own gilled heart, returning it to water.  

The Prompt

The poem above is the second one I’ve written about nearly becoming a roosting spot for an eagle and a hawk. This experience happened in May 2023, when I was just a few months into my journey of writing poetry. I promptly wrote a poem about it. I still like that original poem well enough. It never occurred to me to rewrite it or to pen a second poem about the same experience until I read this reflection from Mark Nepo a few days ago: “Our very heart begs to unfold in the waters of our experience, and like [a] little fish, the soul is a tiny thing that brings us peace and joy when we let it swim.” These words took me back to that moment of encounter and prompted the poem above.

When we let our soul swim back to the waters of a past experience or a forgotten poem, we tend to experience them differently because we are new. We are always new.

If you’d like a prompt to play with today, I invite you to go back to a poem (or fragment of a poem) that you’ve written in the past. Let it conjure an old experience or insight or emotion. Feel the ever-evolving you that is now the observer of that experience/insight/emotion. How do you relate differently to all of this than you did when you originally wrote the poem?

I’m not asking you to edit your old poem. I’m inviting you to see it—or whatever prompted it in the first place—with new eyes and maybe a changed heart. And then ask yourself, what poem wants to be written today?

Two more things to consider: 1) Your new poem doesn’t need to be “better” than your old one. I’m not at all sure that mine is. The process of writing a new poem is its own magical thing—regardless of the product that emerges. 2) I think the fact that I decided to write my new poem as a prose poem helped me to start fresh, since my original poem was written with line breaks. If you want to make a fresh start but are finding it difficult, consider playing about with your form. Try something new. Make your long poem short or your short poem long. Try couplets or a prose poem or a haiku. Take a risk. We’re here to catch you!

Below you can read my original poem, as well as a quick housekeeping note about pledges and paid subscriptions.

That Time When Two Birds of Prey Almost Landed on My Head

I sat
perched between
the massive legs of a
driftwood giant, her head
half buried in sand, mine
halfway to the sky. 

I’d climbed
her roots like
branches. They didn’t snap or
sway, they held me fast, and I
held on fast, tucked into

her highest furrow, where
it seemed I was
crowning,
joining the world
for the first time.

Her womb, once dark
and damp, submerged in
soil, now splayed in
salt and sun. I leaned
my head against her
thigh, my face to
the shifting sand. 

There are many ways
to die and ways
to live again. 

A whoosh of air, a
wave of sound, I was
ripped from the womb. 
Hawk and Eagle
fought for a catch. Catfish
fought for her
breath,
beating like a wing
against the ground. 

Still I seemed part of 
the tree, the birth cord
not yet cut. Eagle rose
to perch, but I
was not a branch, I
was not a limb. He spread
his mighty wings and
turned into sky. 
Hawk and eagle,
Turning into sky. 

I climbed down. Lifted
the catfish between
two shells. She moved
her mouth, as if
to say—what? 
Hurry?
I did.

I lowered her to
the wave, and
I don’t know
from my drifting perch
whether she’s still 
living today or else—
living again. 

A Bit of Housekeeping

A handful of you lovelies have generously pledged to donate if/when I turn on the option for paid subscriptions. After some deliberation, I’ve decided that I’d like to go ahead and do so. If a paid subscription doesn’t feel like the right thing for you now, don’t fret! For the foreseeable future, all the features of this newsletter and community will remain available to all subscribers, regardless of whether you opt to pay for a subscription. If you do opt for a paid subscription ($6/month, $60/year, or $150/founding member) you’ll be helping to support me in furthering my education as a poet. My hope is to use that money to finance my participation in Maya C. Popa’s incredible Conscious Writers Collective. If my income from this newsletter exceeds what I need to cover that cost, then I will very gratefully spend the surplus on poetry books and groceries!

Thank you to each and every one of you for being here and for the ways in which you share your creativity and kindness! I look forward to reading your poems.